“Do you know why I am calling?”

“No sir, I do not.”

“There’s been a complaint.”

“A complaint?”

“Yes, and while it isn’t a formal complaint, I just need to follow up to make sure our classrooms are. . .um. . .um. . .safe.”

“Safe?”

My first conversation with the English department chair went forty-five minutes. A parent had called the Vice President of the college and demanded to know “what sort of Commonwealth institution would hire one of these liberals—a Kleinman, no less—who speaks of ‘alternative lifestyles’ like there’s nothing wrong being homosexual!?”

I had been a teacher for six days.

The first day of Freshman Comp, with my chest, head, and stomach squealing a chord of pain, I stutteringly explained who I was, why I didn’t have a syllabus, why I hadn’t read either of the textbooks, why there were stains running from my armpits down the creases of the shirt I had obviously just bought at JC Penny, and why Charles Bukowski and Philip K. Dick are the two greatest writers ever.

They looked at me as if I had just given them a detailed explanation of every rash I had ever had.

I glanced down at my notebook. Two words were written: introduction, discussion. I’ll just go in there and wing it, I had thought. I continued, unsure, “Does anyone know who Hunter S. Thompson was? No? No? Well, he was another important writer, still is, though he took his own life a couple years back. He wrote a lot about politics, and one of the best ideas he had was this: ‘All politicians are liars.’ It is my belief you cannot understand politics without this precept. That said, George W. Bush is the worst president of my lifetime.”

Ah, ha, this would get a rise out of them. They would shake their fists in fury and spout ready-made talking points they heard at the dinner table each night. A few would storm out, their comfort zones blown to Shinola by my free-thinking. A couple of students raised their hands.

“Yeah, I don’t really know why we are in Iraq, and he doesn’t seemed to have done anything he promised to.” The class nodded their heads in agreement. Their eyes, semi-bright for a second, once again glazed over. What? Every single one of my neighbors still had a W: He’s the President bumper sticker. I had almost come to fisticuffs with a guy in a bar over women’s rights. My friends thought I was a Communist because I voted for Obama in the Illinois senate race. Virginia sure seemed like Bush country in the five months I had been living there. Why didn’t my students care?

I stumbled. I stalled. I despaired. Each face worked on its version of bored senseless. The day before I had learned it was best to not talk about music unless I wanted to hear Jay Z lyrics spouted by a redneck wearing a camouflage hat tilted to the side.

It's not like our writer was trying to get his students to kiss...

Then it came to me, the golden goose of controversy: “I also think homosexuals should have the right to marry.” Did somebody order a ton of bricks for English 111? They sat up. They squirmed. They fidgeted. Their chairs squeaked and peeped. I embraced their outrage: “I don’t see what business it is of mine what other people do in their bedroom. It’s either a free country, or it isn’t.  You can’t decide it’s free for some people and not for others.” Twenty-five eighteen-year-olds exasperated collectively.

“Homosexuality is a sin, a disgusting sin. It’s wrong, just wrong.”

I found it difficult to not call them bigots, but we were having a lively discussion. Their thoughts were typical, but this felt good.  I was moderating. I was facilitating. I was teaching! I was doing what so many of my teachers had failed to do. I was making class interesting.

The rest of the hour ran smooth. We were almost out of time, and some points were being made about the social stigma of being seen with homosexual parents, when a heretofore silent young man raised his hand. “I don’t know, when I’m out to dinner or at the movies with my two moms, it’s no big deal. I’d rather be with them then my dad. He’s an embarrassment. He’s always drunk.”

The wind fled the room. It was hard to hide my grin. “OK, for next class, I want all of you to write an essay in support of gay marriage.” Shock, awe, and horror registered beneath the baseball caps and scrunchies.

“You are dismissed.”

When they returned for the next class, seemingly excited about what was going to come now, my anxiety faded. We spent the hour discussing Free Speech. I have them write another, yes, another essay presenting the point of view that all speech not in line with church and government doctrine should be censored.

The student whose father called the Vice President of the college writes the best paper each time, but with a disclaimer on the first that reads “This paper was written as an exercise in argument and does not represent the views of its author.”

She earns an “A,” and takes another class from me in the spring.

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