PROLOGUE
As a rule, I don't like prologues.
They're either lazy or dishonest—a sign that the writer hasn't worked hard enough to decide where to start the story or that they're about to cheat you in some way.
Ordinarily, I would find a much more artful way to do this.
But I'm under a tight deadline to get this book finished, and before I let you read the rest of it, there are some things you need to know about me.
I am a teacher—sorry, was a teacher. And in that role, I always tried to maintain a delicate balance.
F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote, "The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function."
For me, Idea One was that in teaching, as in life, relationships are paramount.
I've long understood I couldn't just stride into a classroom, turn on the knowledge firehose, and expect children to gulp down whatever I pumped out. Before I could reach students as learners, I had to first demonstrate that I cared for and respected them as human beings.
That was especially true for adolescents, who are naturally preoccupied with their rapidly emerging identities—all those messy who am I, what am I becoming, how do I fit into the world questions.
Part of my job as an educator was to facilitate that process of self-discovery. The end goal was that my students grew into empathetic, compassionate humans who were capable of caring about someone other than themselves.
I taught English and creative writing. Particularly in the latter, I needed to foster a psychologically safe space where students could open up to me and others—through their compositions—about things they may have never been able to admit to anyone, even to themselves.
There was no way I could do that without first establishing a nurturing, supportive relationship. It was the terra firma upon which mountains could be built.
But this leads me to the tension between Idea One and Idea Two in the F. Scott Fitzgerald challenge: it is equally important to maintain proper boundaries.
I was friendly with my students; but I was not Charles Bliss, their friend.
I was Charles Bliss, their teacher.
Full stop.
That's why I began every class—from the first day of school to the last—in the same manner. I stood at the door, looked each student square in the eye as they entered, shook their hand, and said, "Hi, I'm Mr. Bliss."
Always Mr. Bliss.
They were expected to then introduce themselves with their chosen honorific and last name.
This may strike you as stuffy, if not cloyingly pedantic, but I adopted this ritual for at least three reasons.
The first was just a pet peeve. In this high-five, fist-bump world of ours, kids need more practice with proper handshaking.
The second was symbolic. I wanted every student to know that they were starting each day with a blank slate. Past deeds—be they feats or foibles—no longer mattered.
The third? It was a subtle but effective way of maintaining boundaries.
I never wanted kids to become excessively familiar.
That could be a challenge at a place like Carrington Academy; and not because it was rigorously competitive—average SAT score: 1420; or because it was exorbitantly expensive—annual tuition: $72,400; or because, as a Carrington alum myself, I felt additional pressure to distance myself from my students.
