Inspired by “Clamorous to Learn” by Eudora Welty

Mr. Fennell, a wrinkly yet spirited man, is the type of teacher who gave us a bicycle but never taught us how to ride it. You could call him a very… observant teacher. His proud grey hairs outlined a mullet he used to have in his early years, but make no mistake: his age was not a restriction to his abilities. On the first day of school when he carelessly lit a fire on the lab table, I knew this old man was not to mess with. He was the first teacher I knew who was a meticulous listener rather than a teacher. He’d slowly graze across the room listening to everyone’s conversation and observing everyone’s movements. You would be talking to your lab partner and he’d be right next to you, listening to you speak and pretending like he wasn’t even there. 

What got to people the most was his stare. His stare penetrated right to your soul and aimed right for your sensitive heart. Some watched in amusement, others in terror as we saw our classmates turn the brightest pink, waiting for the impact of what was to come. We’d never ask him to repeat a lesson or any questions we had in his class because he wouldn’t even answer them. We came to understand this on our first lab project. 

“How are we supposed to graph this?” my lab partner, Sam, innocently asked Mr. Fennell. Daggering eyes went to Sam as he was the first one brave enough to ask for help.

“You tell me,” he responded putting his fisted hand up to his chin, “How are you supposed to graph this?”

“But I don’t know which variable goes on which axis?” Sam replied in frustration.

“Me neither, that’s quite confusing isn’t it,” he calmly said, “you know I didn’t just put you at this table. Now, what’s it called when there are more than two people at a science table?”

“A group?”

“Ah, smart boy! Maybe ask your group first, they might have an answer,” he stated as he patted Sam's back and walked away. The silence of our class turned into murmurs as we all came to a conclusion that day: Mr. Fennell was not the person to go to for help. No one understood why he wouldn’t answer our questions I mean shouldn’t he want us to understand the material? Instead, we would ask our lab partners, other lap groups, and even Google, but Mr. Fennell would never be the first person to go to.  

Along with his hawk-like eyes cam his hawk-like ears. He could hear everything. From the faintest conversation in the back of the classroom to a single mechanical pencil falling to the ground. The advantage of his skills is being able to hear anyone chewing gum. Just like the fire detector can spot any signs of fire, Mr. Fennell can spot anyone chewing gum. He said it plain and simple: don’t chew gum in his classroom. Sadly, a lot of people in our class could not grasp this concept. He’d be strolling around when he’d suddenly hear or see a culprit, give them the famous death stare, and sternly ask “Are you chewing gum in my classroom?”. When he did find a victim,  he’d yell “TAKE THE WALK OF SHAME!” and everyone would boo our classmate until they reached the trash can to spit their delicious piece of gum. Some found this hilarious, others found it scarier than seeing an F on TeacherEase. The voices of my classmates booing each other will forever be in my ears whenever I chew a piece of gum in a classroom. 

I too feared the Fennell stare and hated that way he wouldn’t help us, but I cannot say I haven’t learned from him. Mr. Fennell made me understand how much I’m capable of doing on my own. I never would’ve learned how far I can go if Mr. Fennell answered every question I asked him. Without any guidance, I was able to learn how to ride the bike on my own. Maybe his observant character was his way of watching how far we could go without the training wheels.