Page 13 of Through Quick and Quinn
As I walked towards the door of my new history classroom, I could see a plain poster displayed right above the door’s window. Nearly at eye level and bold in its black background with white text, it was simply screaming to be read. “Live inspired.” I was taken aback by it, not because of its profound message that resonated so deeply with me, but because it was so unexpected. I even questioned if I was entering the correct classroom, sincerely doubting that this could be the resounding message that the teacher of AP United States History was clearly prioritizing.
I entered with dubious hesitation and read the confirmation on the whiteboard that I was indeed in the correct room with the correct teacher, Mr. Jason Erickson. I took a seat in the back of the room and spent the entire transition time in observation mode. His classroom walls were nearly bare and without adornment, and his minimalistic decor immediately helped to slow my breathing and heart rate. Mr. Erickson chose to have a clutter-free desk and bookshelf, ones that weren’t covered in glass apples and bizarre bobbleheads that for some odd reason most teachers tended to collect. It was clear that every particular thing in his classroom was intentionally selected, making each one of those items that much more meaningful and significant. Aside from the typical classroom inclusions such as textbooks and pencil sharpeners, from where I was seated, I could only see two pieces of decor: one figurine of an eagle holding an American flag and one poster on the wall.
“Live inspired” was not Mr. Erickson’s only message of choice. To the left of the whiteboard at the front of the room was another poster, which by all appearances was handmade. It was not a printed or laminated sign, but rather the type of thick chart paper one could purchase at a local general store. The penmanship that scripted “Mr. Jason Erickson - AP U.S. History” on the white board was clearly the same one that was used to craft the sign. I tried to picture this grown man creating the decoration, utilizing a ruler to best center and level the words, slowly and carefully tracing pencil marks with a wide, red marker.
“Don’t be burdened with conformity.”
I couldn’t help but stare at the simple, yet profound quote on the hand-drawn poster, my unblinking eyes brimming with liquid appreciation. The statement struck me to my core like a bolt of lightning, electrifying something within. I felt deeply legitimized in that moment, instinctively recognizing that this poster hollered the perfect combination of words to summarize my entire existence. Words of affirmation, words that yielded a deluge of validation, words that I didn’t even realize I needed to internalize.
That is, until I did.
This teacher was different. We had yet to make eye contact, let alone have a conversation, but I already felt so understood by him.
Mr. Erickson was of tall stature with thin, graying hair and large, tired eyes behind his glasses. He wore an untucked plaid shirt with dark blue jeans and lace-less sneakers, which in my mind sent a message of either being casual or being fatigued. I figured I would be able to discern soon enough.
The bell rang and I looked around to see all of the seats filled. Mr. Erickson cleared his throat to begin, and I inherently understood and instantaneously appreciated that this was truly the first day of my education. Certainly, I had successfully completed over a decade of schooling and of course had learned a multitude of facts, but this class was going to be educational. I was on the brink of learning huge things, I could just feel it, and I could not wait to dive in. As he was taking attendance by calling out our last names, I was praying I was right about him, that his class would be unlike the others and that we would be encouraged to think outside of the box for once.
I was not wrong.
“Welcome to APUSH. I’m Mr. Erickson but you can call me Mr. E. We’ve got quite the full class, huh? I’m glad. The more of you there are, the better the discussions we will have!” Mr. Erickson finished his introduction with an awkward giggle that ended in a small snort. I saw some of my peers roll their eyes and one girl mouth the word “cringe” to her friend across the aisle, but I felt the polar opposite. I was thrilled. I already knew that Mr. Erickson was going to be the best part of my junior year, if not my entire high school career.
“Allow me to start with a question. What do you believe my job is as a teacher? I would like for you to ponder the question for a moment before I ask you to discuss it with the people around you. Please consider the question deeply. Don’t just respond with the first thing that comes to your head. Deal?” He posed the task with such enthusiasm, I could feel his infectious energy from the back of the room. After a couple seconds of silence and then a minute or so of mumbles and sounds of agreement amongst us, Mr. Erickson brought our attention to the whiteboard. He tossed markers to eight random students, six of whom caught them, one of whom let it land on the desk in front of him, and one girl who screamed and put her hands in front of her face. He then invited them to the whiteboard to write down what they believed to be the best answer to the question.
The energy in the room was starting to buzz, and I noticed that more and more students were engaging in the activity. We watched as the eight students wrote their responses in random spots on the whiteboard, and by the time they were done, we were all quietly attending to Mr. Erickson’s first lesson of the year.
“Who wrote this one?” he inquired, as he pointed to the response written in blue. A timid girl in the back of the room raised her hand reluctantly, and he shot her a smile. “Nailed it.” he declared. “My job as a teacher is to help you master the skill of learning how to think. Not what to think, but how. That is my personal philosophy regarding teaching. I hope you’re up for the challenge.” Heads nodded in agreement, and I even heard one student near me mutter, “This dude seems based.” I grinned from ear to ear, partially in response to the comment but mostly because I knew in my bones that my first impression of this teacher was spot on.
Mr. Erickson spent the majority of that first day talking about his basic philosophies behind not just teaching, but teaching history in particular. He jumped right into the deep end and stunned us with his forward nature, ripping off the outer layers of idealism and setting the tone for a class that he avowed would quickly become controversial.
He began by talking about how all nations, including ours, have stained pasts full of shameful mistakes, but that many have tried to redeem themselves over the years. He suggested that perhaps we should not be so quick to judge such nations by their mistakes, given that the vast majority of decisions were made by an elite few rather than the masses. Unabashedly, he also admitted that morning that he periodically struggled with his decision to teach history because he was not certain how much of it was the actual truth. “History is simply the story of the victor, agreed upon by the relevant parties. Surely the truest stories have been corrupted along the way.” His words were lined with sadness when he vocalized this, something that each and every one of us noticed. He paused, took a deep breath, and summoned his enthusiasm once again.
Class continued with conversation about history repeating itself, and Mr. Erickson shared with us his belief that it does so because people fail to notice patterns, and that people fail to notice patterns because we as a society are losing our ability to think. His unmistakable passion for helping youth to hone their critical thinking skills was quite admirable, and as we were about to discover, it was the inspiration for our initial assignment.
“Ready to jump into our first project? Don’t worry. You’ll love it!” he exclaimed. “So, tell me, what are no-no topics?”
An uncomfortable silence permeated the room. I had a strong feeling that Mr. Erickson was fully expecting that to occur, as evidenced by his choice to take a seat and wait patiently until someone broke the ice about three minutes later.
“Politics.” The student who couldn’t care to even attempt to catch the green marker earlier was now the bravest to be first to participate.
“Religion,” a peppy girl in the front row chimed in.
“Sex,” a deep voice from the back corner muttered. Laughter ensued, of course, but even over the high-pitched giggles and the macho chuckles, we could all hear the next utterance that came from the boy sitting next to the window.
“You know, it doesn’t make any sense to me. We were all raised to avoid conversations about politics and religion. We are literally told not to discuss either topic during holiday dinners and stuff. I don’t get that. Now we don’t know the first thing about either topic, and even less about how to have hard conversations. It’s stupid. Wouldn’t it be better to learn, practice, and master the art of discourse? Shouldn’t we be able to have respectful conversations about hard things?”
Mr. Erickson was clearly dumbfounded, and his facial expression demonstrated a mixture of disbelief, glee, and pride. “What is your name, son?” he asked, with wide eyes and a curious tone.
“Williams.”
Mr. Erickson then requested the boy’s first name, but he didn’t seem to want to share. I assumed at the time that he thought he was about to get in trouble, but I later learned that was not at all the case.
“He goes by ‘Quick’ I think,” the peppy girl announced, a little too eagerly.
“Well, who here agrees with Quick? I, for one, could not have said it better myself! As a matter of fact, I want to write it down.” He rushed over to a writing pad on his desk. “Learn, practice, and master the art of discourse. Genius. Absolutely genius,” he murmured to himself.
I wanted to tell him he could make a poster of the quote, but it sounded too facetious in my head, and the last thing I wanted was for this new icon in my life to have a poor first impression of me.
“Wow, Quick. Thank you for that sentiment.” Mr. Erickson genuinely appreciated the comment and in doing so, I felt like he proved to the entire class how safe a space his room really was.
