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My last, best semester

It matters to me

By Elizabeth Sharp

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Elizabeth Sharp

The last semester of high school is supposed to be one of the happiest times in a person’s life. I say “supposed to be” because my last semester had all of the hard work — a steady stream of papers and projects and AP tests — and almost none of the moments that make all the work worthwhile.

I’d been ready to graduate since about halfway through freshman year, when a skinnier and significantly zittier version of myself realized that playing the cello and hanging out with the theater kids was a surefire way to exclude myself from the more popular ranks in my class.

Don’t get me wrong: High school was a good time for me. Academically, I had nothing to worry about, and I’m proud to say I chose friendships and interests that satisfied me rather than my peers. But the last semester of senior year, I’d had it.

So when I signed up for an introductory psychology class on a whim, I had no idea it’d be one of the best decisions of my high school career.

The first time I entered Mr. Kickham’s classroom, I was fully prepared for five months of sheer boredom. I’d already gotten into college. I didn’t need this class to graduate; I needed it to fill a gap in my schedule. It was also the first class I’d ever taken that didn’t have “advanced,” “honors” or “AP” in the name. And not only were none of my friends in there, the majority of my fellow fledgling psychologists were sophomores and juniors.

If I got an A, I’d get one science credit through a local college, but it seemed like a small consolation for what I thought I was about to endure.

I came into the room and saw something I’d never seen before: Whoever this guy was had already written, in a clear, concise hand, all of the day’s notes on the board. I was a little surprised, but not nearly as much as when the bell rang and Mr. Kickham himself appeared. He greeted us with cheer and enthusiasm, which I’d been told to expect, and began giving us a brief overview of what we were about to learn. When some of my bolder classmates attempted to talk through his opening speech, he didn’t just ignore it. A disappointed look and a few stern words from him made it clear that he wouldn’t put up with any distractions or disrespect on his watch.

I was a little skeptical, but a couple days in, it became clear that he wasn’t putting on a show. Mr. Kickham genuinely cared about every student in his class and tried to find a way to identify with every person. I’ll never forget one day early on, when I was sitting at my desk waiting for class to start. Mr. Kickham came up to me with the survey I’d filled out the first day, the kind that asked for your favorite bands and movies. I was pretty sure every teacher handed those out to give the appearance of interest in our personal lives and then promptly threw them out. But Mr. Kickham sat down in the desk across from me without a word, looked at me, and then asked me if I knew anybody else in school — besides the two of us — who liked the band Belle and Sebastian.

My eyeballs about popped out of my head. Belle and Sebastian are pretty well-known now, but in my relatively uncultured high school back then, nobody had heard of them. From then on, we swapped CDs and talked about what books we were reading, and he became my new favorite sounding board for what was cool.

I’d never seen anything like Mr. Kickham. I’d had teachers with comparable enthusiasm, but it was usually of the ex-cheerleader variety — superficial and exhausting to be around. And I’d had teachers that were serious, but it meant a big dose of crankiness, too. Mr. Kickham, on the other hand, combined kindness with professionalism in a way that made me want to succeed.

Needless to say, I got an A. Graduation passed without much ceremony, and I went on to college. The one time I went back to visit, Mr. Kickham wasn’t in his room.

But if I could talk to him now, I would thank him. For most seniors, the last semester is nothing more than a transition period between high school and college. But for me, that last semester was better than the other three-and-a-half years of high school combined — all because one teacher took the time to care.