It’s nice when people acknowledge who inspired them. A man recalls the insights of the small town historian who taught him to understand the world. A sculptor thanks her art teacher for introducing her to beauty. A scientist recalls the first thrill of discovery at the elbow of his high school chemistry teacher. Now that I spend hours choosing words as an aspiring novelist, I credit an English teacher, Mr. Elliot, as the most inspiring instructor I never had. (That is not a typo.)

Due to the state of Philadelphia’s public schools in 1968, and my father’s disinclination to move, my parents enrolled me in a private school for seventh grade. After considering the local choices, many of which were religious, they selected Friends’ Academy. Nominally Quaker, the school was effectively non-denominational. The administration strove to promote every liberal ideal, including open-mindedness and inclusivity. Who could object to that during the tumultuous Vietnam War years of 1968-1974, when I attended? In practice, openness to all ideas meant that my classmates were encouraged at every opportunity to be non-conformists; however, in their non-conformity, they achieved near-total conformity. In retrospect, I was the one who was “out there,” wearing my hair short and my shoes on, choosing baseball over protests, and attending classes alone on school-sanctioned “cut-days.” 

I felt that my parents had paid for me to attend school, not to walk aimlessly around the quadrangle holding a sign. I felt apart from my classmates, proud not to succumb to peer pressure. On the social level, for all its openness, I found Friends’ Academy oppressive. Nonetheless, I welcomed the school’s influence on my intellectual life. Environmentalism resonated with me thanks to a groundbreaking (in 1969) recycling program.  Small classes encouraged immersion in subjects like music theory and art that propelled lifelong interests. Surrounded by wealthy classmates, I learned to detect hypocrisy, observing the conspicuous consumption of classmates picked up each day in luxury cars with Gene McCarthy bumper stickers.

The majority of the teachers at Friends’ Academy were superb. I recall the teacher of a course called “Propaganda.” Ms. Prager lasted only one year on her tiny salary, but left me with a lifetime of skeptical political insights. Mr. Golden taught medieval history so vividly that one could almost feel the tip of the lance when he described jousting. Mr. Groff, dressed daily in his frayed 1938 varsity jacket, made participation on Friends’ Academy’s mediocre teams seem more meaningful than suiting up for the Phillies.

What about Mr. Elliot, the man who influenced me more than any other? Ironically, despite an avowed inclination towards egalitarianism, Friends’ Academy made class assignments as though it were a monarchy. Each grade was divided into three sections. Section 1 students were deemed truly outstanding in the worlds of intellect and, often, family wealth. Most had attended Friends’ Academy since kindergarten. Section 2, where I was placed, consisted of capable students who lacked overwhelming brains or money. Section 3 consisted of those who lacked brainpower but who still held appeal in terms of wealth, sports ability, or legacy. 

I believe each student in Sections 2 or 3 was keenly aware of the characteristics of his or her group and the absolute impossibility of upward mobility. Though some teachers taught classes at more than one level, the most experienced and legendary teachers taught only Section 1. Mr. Elliot was, perhaps, the most accomplished of these “masters,” with a collection of awards, publications, and honorary degrees worthy of a famous university professor. His appearance was striking, too, with bushy black eyebrows and a full head of hair atop an oversized head, balanced on a short, barrel-chested body. His voice was a growl with hints of England tinged with fluency in Russian, the other language he taught. (At Friends’ Academy, one could study Latin, Greek, German, French or Russian, but not Spanish – it was considered too easy).

From my teenage perspective, I considered Mr. Elliot to be ancient, though he was probably only around forty at the time.  Picture a swarthy and serious Robin Williams, his voice booming through the hallways. Section 1 students reveled in describing lectures where he’d recited Chaucer from memory or costumed himself as a peasant to perform Chekhov in the original Russian. Recounting Mr. Elliot anecdotes at lunch was an unsubtle marker of placement in Section 1.

My exposure to Mr. Elliot was indirect.  My eleventh-grade German class met in his homeroom three hours each week, while his classes were elsewhere, no doubt reenacting scenes from Ibsen or building sets in the style of the original Shakespearean playhouse. While Frau Springer tried to interest me in German grammar (more words for “the” than Eskimoes have for snow), I focused on Mr. Elliot’s aphorisms written in capital letters on construction paper tacked onto the classroom walls. Each had the gravity of the Ten Commandments. “Do not dangle participles.” “Use parallel construction.” “A semi-colon cannot appear twice in an essay.” Basically, Strunk & White’s “Elements of Style” was reduced by Mr. Elliot to simple rules.

One sheet that I immediately memorized was titled “The Black List of words to never be written.” Included were: “Really, very, more, most, get, got, seems, might, good, better.” Other precious pearls of Mr. Elliot knowledge I memorized during German class were “necessary” vocabulary words. He spread lists of SAT words in threesomes around the walls, such as “trite, banal, hackneyed” and “adamant, obdurate, indurate.” I memorized these words to the extent that I can annoy family members to this day. I can be “annoying, vexing, and bothersome.”

I used to imagine what it would be like to have Mr. Elliot as my English teacher.  I pictured a world of brilliant insights exploding like fireworks. I do not claim the students in Section 1 were unworthy of their selection or that I was improperly left out. Could I, or would I, have published a novel by tenth grade, as one of the “geniuses” did? Did I choose to memorize the entire timetable of the London subway system, as did another? No way. I lack sufficient curiosity and was resistant to learning a broad section of subjects. If a book or lecture did not interest me, I shut down. Literature, music, and history commanded attention; science, math, and foreign languages did not. I recall when my eleventh-grade English teacher arrived in class one day with Mr. Elliot in tow, introducing the elder luminary as our guest lecturer on War and Peace.“The novel represents the dual pinnacles of Mr. Elliot’s interests in Russian and English,” he said.

My classmates seemed unfazed by the opportunity to share the Section 1 experience, but I looked forward to savoring an hour with Mr. Elliot. “Please give him your full attention,” implored the young teacher. I sensed his fear that we would disgrace him. Mr. Elliot strode to the front and immediately launched a rousing explanation of the author’s complex narrative that passed largely over our heads. After pausing for a moment, the Great Man posed a question. By luck, I thought I knew the answer. I rarely raised my hand in class, and I was especially reluctant to draw attention from the great man. Yet, everyone else sat like lumps of clay.  Excruciating silence enveloped the room, and I could almost feel Mr. Elliot’s inner thoughts as he confronted the dullness of students not in Section 1. Finally, I raised my arm in stages. Mr. Elliot looked at me.

“Yes?” he boomed.  “Will we have enlightenment from the student in the blue shirt?”

“I think…” I began.

“Stand up when you respond,” said Mr. Elliot.

I rose self-consciously, aware of shuffling around me from surprised classmates. “I think…” I began again.

“Don’t ‘think’,” interrupted Mr. Elliot. “You either know the answer or you do not.”

Duly prodded and with a burst of adrenaline, I gathered the entire answer in my mind and delivered a clear and well-formed paragraph. I waited a moment for my insight to be lauded. I was proud of how it had unfurled from my lips. Mr. Elliot, I was certain, was impressed. I anticipated his broad smile.  Doubtless, he was gathering the right combination of adjectives to describe my answer, perhaps: “cogent, lucid, illuminating.” Instead, his face contorted in a mask of anger.  Not looking at me, he pivoted to gaze at the entire class and sputtered: “I do not accept someone quoting from Cliff’s Notes in response to my question. In order to achieve anything, you must do your own thinking.”

I felt mortified, humiliated, and embarrassed. I noticed my teacher shaking his head sadly. Mr. Elliot proceeded to the next portion of his lecture, while I sat down, red-faced and burning with indignation. I wasn’t a perfect student; however, I liked reading novels, and I hadn’t used Cliff’s Notes or any other shortcut. I may have been the only student in Section 2 who’d read every word.  My disillusionment with Mr. Elliot and shame at my inability to defend myself were crushing. The only positive thing about being humiliated in front of a class of teenagers is that they seem to care so little. I went to lunch after class in a daze. One friend said: “Wow, he really nailed you.” I started to explain: “I read every page….” No one listened. The discussion had already moved on to the daily dissection of the Allman Brothers, the Eagles, and Van Morrison. The private injustice done to me was already forgotten, except by me.

I didn’t encounter Mr. Elliot again.  But I took satisfaction for the rest of the school year in taking his words and rules from his walls and making them mine. Eventually, the focus on quality words and writing Mr. Elliot taught so succinctly (concisely, pithily, sententiously) guided me through the SAT’s, the LSAT’s, law school, the bar exam, my career, parenting. and writing. Mr. Elliot turned out not to be my hero, but he was my inspiration. Exoneration, revenge, vindication.