“Listen up, class!” The ninth-grade teacher is using her powerful, no-nonsense voice. “Eyes up front! I want everyone to hush and give Mister Dietrich your full attention.”
It is a weekday afternoon. I am staring into my computer webcam. I am a thousand miles away from their classroom, on a video conference call with Mrs. Barry’s ninth-graders.
I see my face on the computer monitor. I resemble a doe staring into the highbeams of an oncoming Peterbilt semi.
“Hi,” I say.
I am greeted with mumbles. I don’t know what it is about ninth-graders, but they are expert mumblers.
Mrs. Barry is unsatisfied with this communal muttering. “I couldn’t hear you, class.”
The class repeats the greeting, and they sound like grim robots. “Hello, Mister Dietrich.”
I don’t like it when they call me Mister Dietrich. I have spoken in many schools over the years, teachers always insist on students using this salutation. “Mister Dietrich” makes me sound like the defendant.
I can tell the kids are bored. I briefly consider whipping up some “technical difficulties” on my end
and signing off. But a deal is a deal. And I promised to speak to Mrs. Barry’s class of remedial students, most of whom are falling behind in their studies.
We are supposed to be talking about English. The students have prepared written questions, which they will recite from index cards, addressing the giant head on the projector screen.
My giant head.
A boy stands. He reads his question. “I like your story about church potlucks. What’s your favorite casserole?” He sits.
I clear my throat like a guy under oath. “Chicken divan casserole.”
The class gives no response. Crickets. I am dying.
So I expound upon the finer points of the finest chicken-curry casserole to ever be perpetuated by the fundamentalist women of my childhood, then I invite more questions.
A girl stands. “How long did it take to grow…