Mr. Wright was my Spanish teacher in high school. He had a basement classroom that sat at the corner of the school. It was actually a nice classroom from a teacher’s standpoint, with windows on all sides and a nice view of the lawn at school; the lawn being at eye level when one sat at a desk. This detail will be important a few sentences down. The classroom was situated in the older part of the school with wood floors and antique woodwork. I didn’t appreciate it then, but I can look back and see that it was a pretty choice place to have one’s classroom.

We had Spanish class in there during our freshman year.  It was the first class I had with upperclassmen, so there was a lot of hard work going in to looking cool around those older than us. Much of that mentality caused us to act disrespectful and rude, I’m sure.

I have thought about the goings on in that particular classroom. It seems a lot of “wrong” things went on in Mr. Wright’s classroom. It wasn’t his fault: he was one of the best teachers I had in high school. He was strict, and not at all a teacher who would fit into the warm-fuzzy era of politically correct teachers. If you were messing up, he bawled you out. If you didn’t have your work, you were punished. He did what he was supposed to do. But I always thought Mr. Wright was knowledgeable and had a talent for explaining things.

This is vital, especially when teaching a foreign language.

Spanish class was always interesting. All of us had Spanish names. Mine, the boring “Marco,” was simply a variation of my real name. There were many of my classmates who did not have names that lent themselves to the language very well, so I envied other people who had Spanish names that sounded mysterious and cool.

We were often taught completely in Spanish, even in that first year. Mr. Wright, a very dramatic teacher, would ask a question in Spanish and then loudly bark our Spanish name to call on us. We would try our best to answer the phrase correctly and there were times when our response would cause the class to erupt in fits of giggles. I even remember Mr. Wright being amused. A lot of wrong pronunciations in Mr. Wright’s classroom.

I have a dear friend from high school who is enormously talented. She is witty and probably one of the funniest people I ever met. I credit her friendship with helping me to be more relaxed in front of others. I also think she helped me learn to have more fun and not be so uptight. Anytime we were around one another, we were having a good time.

In school, my friend’s talent and humor often got her into a little trouble. She was and is the type of person you just can’t help laughing at. Very clever.  She was the class clown.

Mr. Wright’s first name was Ralph. For some reason, my friend decided to stand outside near his classroom and say his name over and over. However, she said it with the whiny voice and nasally tone of Audrey Meadows; you know, Jackie Gleason’s wife from “The Honeymooners.” Remember her?  Remember when she would constantly nag Jackie Gleason’s character? “Ralph!” With a captive audience inside and outside the classroom, my friend kept it up. “Ralph! Ralph!” (you must imitate Audrey Meadows or it won’t be funny).

My friend’s creativity was appreciated by the smart-alecks in the room and in the hallway (I was one of them, I’ll admit).  We laughed and had a big time.  Mr. Wright, not amused at all, burst into the hallway and escorted my friend to the principal. It seems she had been doing her Audrey Meadows impersonation at other times and this was the last straw. I don’t remember if she was punished or not, I just remember a very “wrong” response.

Even though I have the utmost respect for Mr. Wright now, I still look back and laugh at her “Ralph!”

There would be another chance to experience Mr. Wright’s classroom. I had him for English the next year, and it was a different environment.  Most of my class was made up of sophomores. Most were people I already knew. I felt as though Mr. Wright liked us more that year. Maybe we were more mature and less aggravating.

As I said, Mr. Wright was a good teacher. We dug into sentence structure and all kinds of grammar skills. We had quizzes and you were expected to study and listen.

One day, I was ill-prepared for a quiz we had. If my memory is correct, it was a vocabulary quiz of sorts. I don’t think I studied at all.

So, I sat down that day knowing I was doomed. I got my paper, slowly put my name on it, and tried to put off the inevitable.

Suddenly, as I searched around the room for the answers to be floating in the air, I discovered something wonderful: the answers were written on the chalkboard. I kid you not.  There they were. All of them.  The terms were right there.

In disbelief, I sheepishly searched around the room to see if anyone had made this discovery. There wasn’t a peep. No one was looking around. For a split second, I wondered if I should inform Mr. Wright. If I did, I faced the wrath of my classmates. Plus, I had a chance to get a decent grade on a quiz I had not prepared for.

The temptation was too great. I remained a dirty, stinkin’ cheater. I chose the wrong way to go. But, I got a good grade. So did everyone else, I’m sure. I never did figure out why the answers were on the board, but as a teacher, I know things get overlooked.

Maybe Mr. Wright did it on purpose.

Perhaps one of the most wrong things that happened in that classroom was also the most memorable. It happened on a warm day. Usually, on those days, the windows were open in our classrooms. By the mid-1980s, the neat old several-paned windows had been replaced with high-efficiency windows. These windows were much smaller, much better, yet lacked the charm of those old paned windows we used to prop open.

For whatever reason, I was sitting with my back to one of those windows. That particular window wasn’t open, and I’m sure that was a good thing at the time.

South of the high school and across the railroad tracks was the place where farmers unloaded grain.

Apparently, a farmer had some animals with him that day, and one particular bull decided to take a tour of our high school campus.  I don’t know how he got out. By the time he made it to the lawn of the high school, there was   a crowd following him.

But inside, we students were oblivious. I don’t know if it was the beginning of class or the end of class, but I do know a girl in front of me was turned around in her seat talking to me, my back to the closed (thankfully) window. Suddenly, as she was talking to me, her eyes widened and her face went white. I turned around and had one of those moments when you think you will pass out with fear: there was the gigantic face of that bull peering in the window, his breath clouding up the window.

For a moment, I was paralyzed. Others, noticing too, were either screaming or yelling. The bull was trying to get in to escape the crowd. Chaos reigned for a few moments.  Then, the bull ran off. My pulse eventually returned. I think the bull was stunned or maybe even destroyed, but it had made its way down the street before that happened.

I don’t know why, but so many “wrong” things come to mind when I think of attending class in Mr. Wright’s classroom.

I hope he doesn’t mind.