Having been an Inmate in the House of Correction (a.k.a. an English teacher) for 28 years, I'm biased of course. To George Bernard Shaw's mean sneer: "He who can, does. He who cannot, teaches" I would oppose Lee Iacocca's "In a truly rational world, the best of us would be teachers, and the rest of us would do something else." I truly believe that teachers deserve the nice things people say about them:
St. Peter hears a knocking at the Gates of Heaven and calls out, "Who's there?"
"It is I," a voice responds.
"Oh no, not another English teacher," sighs St. Peter.
St. Peter welcomes the teacher into heaven and says he will show her to where she will spend eternity.
The first neighborhood is lovely. People stroll park lawns, socialize, and play golf on a beautiful course. Everyone is having a great time. The teacher asks if this is where she will live, but St. Peter says it's just for doctors. The teacher rolls her eyes and sighs.
They walk on, and the teacher sees another neighborhood that is just as beautiful -- exquisite mansions, gorgeous grounds and lavish facilities. Again she inquires if this is where she will live, but St. Peter says it's for lawyers.
On through the clouds they walk and soon come to a third neighborhood. It too is lovely, with shining mansions, parks, pools and the like. St. Peter tells the teacher this will be her new home in Heaven. The teacher is thrilled, but she notices that no one is around, and all the mansions seem to be empty. She asks St. Peter where everyone is. Didn't many teachers make it to Heaven?
St. Peter announces that yes, there are lots of teachers in Heaven, and they won't return until the next day. They are all in Hell attending an in-service training session.
My favorite of all teacher stories concerns one of the best-selling writers of the 20th century:
James Michener, author of Hawaii and The Source, declined a dinner invitation at the White House during the Eisenhower administration, but his explanatory letter to the president made full amends. "Dear Mr. President," wrote Michener, "I received your invitation three days after I had agreed to speak a few words at a dinner honoring the wonderful high school teacher who taught me how to write. I know you will not miss me at your dinner, but she might at hers."
Commented the understanding Ike, "In his lifetime a man lives under 15 or 16 presidents, but a really fine teacher comes into his life but rarely."
Blessed be the teachers. Amalgams of scholars, mentors, counselors, coaches, traffic controls, and baby-sitters, they march in the company of secular saints. May their tribe thrive and multiply.
This article elicited a number of passionate responses, two of which I share here with you:
Dear Mr. Lederer:
I want to thank you for your beautiful article "Dedicated Teachers Can Change Lives."
I graduated from Hingham [MA] High School this past June, and I've learned that lesson several times over. I've had several inspirational teachers -- men and women I admire hope to someday imitate. You see, because of these dedicated teachers my life has changed.
In the middle of my junior year, under the guidance of Mrs. Silva and Ms. Worrell -- I swear they're some of the best teachers in the world! -- I decided I wanted to be a high school English teacher, too. High school was a great experience for me, and I want to make it great for other students.
After I had made my decision, I was surprised to see the lack of support my friends gave me. Even my father doubted that his daughter, an honors student, had made the right choice. But I've always known that I did, and your article helped affirm it. And you know what? My father cut it out for me to read. So thank you for your words.
In four days I leave to attend U. Mass., Amherst, as an English major and future teacher. And I will bring a copy of your article and keep it throughout my life, to remind me why I made the decisions I did. Thanks again.
-- Anastasia Dubrovsky
Dear Mr. Lederer:
Being a long time fan of your fractured English, I was delighted to see your serious complimentary article about dedicated teachers. Our son is a middle school teacher in Berkely CA, after attending law school. Anyone can prepare a contract, only the special few can prepare a person. "Those who can teach; those who can't,do." One of our greatest moments of pride was when he showed us a letter written to him by a student which read, "Mr. Cohen, you are the first person who ever loved me." Thank
you for recognizing these special people.
-- Gerda B. Cohen, Delray Beach, FL
Dear Mr. Lederer:
The September 3 issue of the Concord [NH] Monitor contained your article on great teachers. Before I begin, let me say that I have made 50 copies that I plan to give to other colleagues in my department, and I will be sending the other copies to friends of mine who teach all over the globe.
Four years ago I left Corporate America (after 17 years) to do something different with my life. I am now a high school English teacher in Massachusetts. If I had known that I had chosen a profession that would be subjected to almost daily criticism in the media, I would have run away as fast as I could. Teaching has changed in the past 20 years.
Twenty years ago I never would have criticized a teacher for wearing the same sweater two days in a given week (on a Monday and Friday). I never would have told a teacher that she needed a hair cut. (I might have thought it, but I would never say anything.). I would not have criticized her choice of jewelry, the car she drove or where she lived. My parents would never have told a teacher that she was stupid, or that there was nothing wrong with their son or daughter, so it must be the teacher's fault.
I love teaching, and the other teachers I work with put in very long hours to be good teachers. Last year I was given all writing classes to teach, and there was never a school night that I wasn't up until midnight trying to read and comment on work done in class, or plan for classes to take place in the days ahead. My television collected dust until the Christmas holiday vacation.
I'm not complaining, but those who aren't teachers only see half of the big picture. When I was in the corporate world, lunch was at least an hour, maybe more if a client was in town. Lunch in school is about 10 minutes (if that), but usually spent returning calls to parents or making copies of handouts. In the corporate world, I always had secretaries who did that for me. I now do my own collating and stapling because we don't have a machine to do it for us.
I won't continue rambling, but I do thank you for a wonderful article. It is the first thing that has made me feel good and right about my decision since returning to school last week.
Victoria Scott
© Richard Lederer
"Well, sure," I agree, as I peel myself off the ceiling while still managing to clutch the telephone. "I'll be happy to be interviewed by Oprah. But I'm wondering. You've apparently been reading bloopers from my two earlier Anguished English books, but are you aware that a third book of fluffs and flubs, Fractured English, is just about to be published?"
"No, Mr. Lederer. We didn't know that, but we'll be happy to feature your current book on the show."
My heart leaps up when I behold a life-altering, career-changing chance like this. A producer calls on behalf of the woman who has the hottest finger on the hottest button in the book publishing industry. And she phones up at the very moment -- October, 1996 -- when the presses are about to give the world the only kind of book I write that can actually be a national best seller. It's simply the grandest opportunity to publicize my books that I can ever have -- worth more than all the other serendipitous chances that can ever enter my life.
Literary Market Place has called Oprah Winfrey "the most powerful book marketer in the world." When your book appears on her show, you are practically assured bestsellerdom. Even a Nobel Prize for Literature couldn't get Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon into the pantheon of best sellers, but exposure from Oprah caused the golden doors to fly open.
We live in a country in which, in a given year, the average family does not buy a single book -- not even a cookbook or a cat book -- and 65% of writers don't make a dime. But if Oprah Winfrey -- Oprah, who stays home day after day poring over book after book -- says something is a good book, then the least we can do is stampede the book stores. Seems a little loopy to me, but, what the hey, I'm flexible. As a midlist author, I'll be delighted to accept Oprah's knowledgeable endorsement of my words about words.
"Here's the plan, Mr. Lederer," Jane explains. "For the taping that will lead into our studio taping, we're going to have some elementary school kids in Chicago act out and illustrate some of your bloopers."
And I'm thinking, Kids that young? How can they relate to my bloopers? Smacks of the screwy to me, but what the hey, these Oprah folks are professionals and they know best. "Sounds like a terrific idea, Jane."
"On the show itself," continues Jane, "we're going to flash up on the screen some of your headline bloopers, and Oprah will banter about them with you. Then she'll ask you your favorite headline blooper. [I can do that!] Next you'll give examples of other kinds of bloopers. [I can do that!] Oprah will then tell the audience how they can send you their best bloopers. [Wow, that means that the sequel, Compound Fractured English, will almost write itself on the spot!] And finally, she'll ask you to recite parts of your essay "The World According to Student Bloopers." [I sure can do that! In fact, I've probably declaimed that fractured chronicle of the human race 500 times in public, beginning with "The Egyptians lived in the Sarah Dessert, and they all wrote in hydraulics."]
"Jane," I ask. "That's a lot of stuff. How much time are we talking about on the program?"
"Seven to ten minutes."
"Is that with or without the lead-in taping?"
"Without."
By all the gods of writing. Seven to ten minutes in conversation with Oprah Winfrey. "O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" I chortle in my joy.
I call my editors and publicists, and they practically leap through the phone wires. "Congratulations, Richard! Let us know immediately how the taping goes. If your segment gets aired, we'll start by printing 100,000 additional copies of Fractured English, and we'll be ready to run off a lot more instantly. You're going to be a best seller!"
So, on Tuesday, November 5, I fly out to Chicago. A fellow named Rudolph, pale from his sunless existence, meets and greets me at O'Hare and walks me across the airport to the stretch limo. I am whisked to the Omni Hotel, where I stay, sup, and breakfast courtesy of The Oprah Winfrey Show. The next day, another stretch limo takes me to Harpo Studios for the taping.
Jane Johnson greets me and escorts me to the green room to wait to be on the show. Hardly have I arrived when she, now ashen faced, tells me, "Mr. Lederer. We're terribly sorry, but we won't be able to use the lead-in tape that we made. I thought the tape was so cute, Mr. Lederer, but the senior producers say that the segment makes it look as though the children themselves have perpetrated the bloopers, and they're concerned about parental reaction."
"But don't worry," says Jane, through a pasted-on smile. "This is just a taping, so we'll reshoot the lead-in for the actual airing and be just fine."
Woe is I, I think. Now we've lost the chance for the content of the lead-in tape to energize Oprah and the studio audience. Human nature and the media grind being what they are, the tendency is going to be to shrug, "We messed up. Get thee behind me Lederer, you aberrant blip on our computer screen." Not good, not good.
When troubles come, they come not singly but in legions. Next Jane informs me that on that morning Oprah's stepmother, the central woman in her childhood, died. Of all the days I could have been called to be on the show of all shows, I have to appear on the very day that the unfortunate woman slipped her mortal coil. For perfectly understandable reasons, Oprah is tired and flat that morning. And -- the horror! the horror! -- the first two segments go overtime!
"Don't worry," says the producer with the pasted-on smile. "Your segment is not thematically tied to the others. We'll put your interview on another show, just as long as Oprah is wearing a red dress for that one."
Finally, the time arrives, and I enter stage left and I sit down. Out strides Oprah, and here is the first sentence I hear her speak to her staff:
"What! We've got another segment. I gotta get outta here to the funeral!"
I understand her having to rush off to her stepmother's funeral, but what does "What we've got another segment?" mean? Does she know anything about my work? Is she prepared?
Here is the second sentence I hear Oprah speak:
"Okay. So we're doing a feature with Richard Lederer." The problem is that she pronounces it Leed-er-er, rather than Led-er-er.
Hoo boy. Oprah Winfrey, Queen of Talk Show Queens, doesn't know how to say my last name! Could it be that she hasn't been briefed? That giant sucking sound I bgegin to hear is what could have been my career going down the you know what. Oprah, I grieve for your loss, but you make more than $50 million a year. You're here on the set, so please, please give me five minutes, and you will change my life and you will get my books of language fun into the hands of a gazillion readers.
Mind you, I would have gladly changed my name to Leederer and instructed all my progeny and their progeny to do the same if that would have helped the distribution of my books. But, in the name of truth, I rise up and correct her: "Excuse me, Oprah. It's Lederer!"
Now some of my headline howlers are flashed on to the screen:
FRIED CHICKEN COOKED
IN MICROWAVE WINS TRIPFLAMING TOILET SEAT CAUSES
EVACUATION AT HIGH SCHOOL
Oprah and I banter a bit about those howlers. I wait for her first question: "So Richard, what is your favorite headline blooper?"
But no question forthcomes. All is silence.
I fill the dying air with "Yes, Oprah, I love capturing two-headed headlines, and my favorite is one that led off a golfing story: GRANDMOTHER OF EIGHT MAKES HOLE IN ONE!"
A burst of laughter from the audience. Some energy flows back into the room. I wait for the next question: "So Richard, give us examples of other kinds of bloopers that you collect."
But Oprah doesn't have any questions, and all the air a solemn stillness holds.
"Well, Oprah. I collect all kinds of goofs and gaffes," I chirp. "A parent once wrote this excuse note to school: 'My son is under the doctor's care and should not take P.E. today. Please execute him.' And my most famous student blooper may be 'Sir Francis Drake circumcised the world with a hundred-foot clipper.'"
More chuckles, followed once again by the echoing well of silence. Oprah closes the casket lid on the interview, which has been slowly suffocating. It expires in two-and-a-half minutes.
"Fabulous, Mr. Lederer!" jubilates the producer with the pasted-on smile. "You did great. We'll call you within two weeks, by November 20, to let you know when in December we'll air your interview."
I depart Harpo Studios, feeling that I've just been ensnared in the ultimate blooper.
A week goes by, and it's November 13. Nothing from The Oprah Winfrey Show. No news is good news. If the staff had thought that my interview was listless and useless, surely they would have called right away.
Then the November 20 deadline, arrives. No word from The Oprah Winfrey Show. The rest of November crawls by, and then December (punctuated by a signed form letter: "Thank you for being on The Oprah Winfrey Show") -- and then January. No news is bad news.
Finally, I call my publicist at Pocket Books. "Cheryl (not her real name), can't you call Oprah's staff and ask for a definitive answer?" I ask. "Tell them that we're quite aware that they make choices about what to use and what to discard. But for reasons beyond anyone's control, they were completely unprepared, and I had no chance to generate a lively tape. Ask them to do the right thing and fly me back so that we can conduct the interview fairly."
"Richard, Richard. I can't do that," explains Cheryl. "We're talking about The Oprah Winfrey Show here. We're talking the biggest. We wouldn't want to jeopardize any future opportunities for our other authors. You do understand, don't you?"
And of course I do. Who could blame her?
Well, it's been more than a year since that fateful day in Chicago, and I have never been informed of any decision. My two-and-a-half minutes of aborted fame are sealed tight somewhere out there in videotape limbo. Call me crazy, but some eerie feeling deep inside my being whispers to me that this poor player's hour upon the Oprah stage will ne'er be heard.
So how do I feel about the experience? Sad that my work will not receive an endorsement from the face that launched a thousand scripts. Glad that I did my very best and came so close to feeding on honey dew and drinking the milk of authorial paradise.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. Oprah, if you happen to be taking a little time off from reading all those books that are piled around your library and night table and you chance to see this article, please know that I forgive your staff for throwing me overboard in an emergency. All you have to do is give me a call, and I'll fly back to Chicago, without benefit of airplane. You're a great woman, Oprah. But please remember that the name is Lederer.
© Richard Lederer
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