The smell of butane gas wafted through the classroom. Then I heard a click, a scrolling click, like a cheap lighter you can buy at the gas station. I walked down the isle of the third row of my tenth grade geometry class. Eric, the largest and widest boy in my class, actually looked stunned when I held out my hand. The class stared at our struggle for power. “What?” he said, striking one more flame on the lighter. As I strolled back to my desk, I sensed the battle was won but war had just begun.

For six weeks, I maintained control, peace, and a general level of interest in the study of tenth grade geometry. The course was required, so without it they wouldn’t graduate. The lack of motivation often interrupted class in small spurts like a dog barking down the road at the occasional passerby. I never believed Eric wanted to set us on fire, but I recognized the need for a little attention and possibly some direction.

A few weeks went by. Eric remained calm. In fact, the entire class seemed more focused and a little more alive. Hands went up and homework was turned in on time. Until one day.

Eric had been missing for a few days in a row. As I covered the volume of a cube on the projector, Eric could care less. He caught the attention of anyone who’d look. His large feet began tapping the long steel rungs of the desk. He popped his gum. Others began to giggle. I gave “that look” and pressed on. The diligent students continued to look my way, but the others couldn’t resist. I was loosing ground. I sensed a mutiny and in a moment my tranquil group of eager youth would be transformed into an unruly bunch of hooligans.

I glared at Eric and now the others. They looked away but the giggles continued, bubbling like a popcorn popper just warming up. If I didn’t do something fast, the top was going to blow. I stared at this group. What did they all want: Math? Cones? Formulas? At this moment, all the formal education I had stuffed in my backpack wouldn’t help me. It was me or them. This equation was about trust. They’d come here with the hope (though if polled no one would admit it) that I could lead them through one hour of their day with love and respect. This was bigger than one plus one.

As a paper wad flew across the room, the image of Mr. Singer, my high school math teacher appeared at the back of the classroom in his over-starched white shirt and red tie. “O.k. people!” he’d shout as our class got too loud. With that, he’d wave a yard stick above his head and slowly began whacking it along the side of his metal desk. “K.I.S.S.!” He’d say with each stroke. “Keep it simple stupid!” The talking stopped as if we’d all just been relocated back into our bodies. He’d then go on to explain the concept we’d failed to grasp. What would Singer do?

The armpits of my new dress were soaked. I pushed the chair away from my desk. Careful not to split my pantyhose, I put one knee up on the desk, then the other. With the text book in hand, I lifted myself up. Now, three feet taller, I loomed over the class. All eyes stared at me, and with a voice that Singer would be proud of, I began chanting forth some sort of poignant thought, possibly brilliant prose. Though I don’t remember a word I said. I remember the faces. I can still see those eyes today. In that moment, we – all thirty students and I – came to an agreement. We were in this together. If I was willing to expose my soul and leave my ego at the chalkboard, they could certainly listen to what I had to say. And in the back of row three, Eric cracked the smallest of smiles.

(This is a true story!)