Local Hero

Strange New Worlds 10 rejected story
Series: TOS

Local Hero
by Ragua

I never much liked Captain Kirk. But when you work at West Riverside Middle School, which feeds directly into James T. Kirk High School, that’s something you keep to yourself.

My distaste for Iowa’s favorite son began at a young age. Grammie knew the man, and she had very little nice to say about him. To be fair, I suspect this was because she was one of the early notches on his bedpost, so she could hardly be viewed as an objective source, but on behalf of former bedpost notches everywhere, I’ll take Gram’s opinion over that of the general public.

Even if I hadn’t been raised to look on Riverside’s golden boy with a healthy amount of skepticism, I think I would definitely have come to the position on my own after a lifetime of “Official Captain Kirk Weeks” every March. The speeches, the parades, the statues, and the dedications are enough to make any self respecting Iowan want to vomit. I don’t care how many times he saved the planet; the guy sat down to take a crap just like all the rest of us. In my opinion, Riverside should be lauding Roy Potter over at the Lutz Tavern for keeping the family diner open downtown for five generations now. Being able to get the best chicken fried steak in six counties has done a lot more for this town than some guy who left when he was 17 and never came back.

Still and all, it wasn’t until my third year of teaching that I began to take an active role in puncturing the Kirk-worship. Every March, like clockwork, teachers all over the state have to drop everything and give up scads of class time so students can participate in the annual state essay contest, “Captain Kirk: Iowa’s Greatest Natural Resource.” Although they aren’t very outspoken about it, most of the other teachers hate the essay contest as much as I do. Nothing says death to the creative thought process like a canned assignment, particularly one with such a gag-inducing topic title.

But just because I held the assignment and its subject matter in contempt didn’t seem like a good enough reason to buck the system. The first two years of my career, I held my nose, graded the essays, and sent the ones with a vague grasp of the English language on to the county competition. I figured the sense of unease I felt as the kids worked their compositions to death was just a symptom of my own prejudice. Then in year three, I really took a look around the classroom, and what I saw appalled me.

The popular kids--mostly athletic, charismatic boys who had started their growth early--enjoyed the essay competition (as much as any eighth grader can enjoy a required assignment). During the entire month of March, these kids who were already at the top of the adolescent food chain strutted about the school like puff-chested little banty roosters--much the same way the Kirk of my imagination always had. They were living the life of their hero. Kirk Week reinforced their belief in their own superiority, their sense of belonging, and their assured success in life.

For the geeks, the nerds, and the misfits, however, the yearly competition only served to instill an even greater sense of alienation. I’d like to think that it was the sighs, the defeated attitudes, or the looks of stoic resignation on the faces of these 14-year-old outcasts that led me to change the rules, but in all honesty, I’m not sure I’d have taken the step if I hadn’t already despised James T. Kirk. But in the classroom that day, I had an epiphany, and I went with it.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “you’ve been doing this same assignment every year since the day you started school. I figure a lot of you must be pretty bored with James T. Kirk by now.” All around the classroom, ears perked up, as students came out of their Kirk-induced catatonia. “So in order to keep things interesting, I’m going to expand the writing assignment. If you don’t want to write an essay about Captain Kirk for the eighth year in a row, you can choose a different topic.”

The banty roosters were frowning; they couldn’t imagine not wanting to write about Kirk. But the majority of the kids were responding with enthusiasm.

“We can write about anything?” Grace Lim asked hopefully, making me realize that I’d have to provide a little more structure for my ad lib.

“You can write about any person who has inspired you,” I said, scrambling to delineate acceptable criteria, in case school administration took exception to my decision. Immediately, students all over the classroom were calling out, seeking approval for their chosen subjects.

“I can write about Ambassador Spock, instead?”

“Is it all right if I do Captain Picard?”

“How about Charles Tucker III?”

I had to hold up my hands to silence all the excited inquiries. “You don’t even have to write about someone in Starfleet,” I said. “Write about anyone who inspires you. For whatever reason.”

There was a moment of silence, as students pondered their sudden freedom. Then, in an instant, there was a flurry of tapping, as each child began to attack his or her PADD for information, like ravenous wolves. Still, each student who decided against Kirk felt the need to approach me individually, to get assurance that they could indeed write their essay about Helen Keller, or Albert Einstein, or Lao Tzu. I’ll never forget chubby little Ruben Perez, who wore thick glasses because a medical condition prevented the correction of his astigmatism, asking in a cautious whisper if it was okay for him to write his essay on Stephen Hawking. If I’d had any doubts about my decision, they disappeared at the look on his face when I assured him that he could. I did get a few questions from the principal about the unconventional change to a time-honored tradition, but a quick explanation about keeping students engaged and motivated, combined with a few trendy educational buzzwords, and his admittedly halfhearted concern was easily diverted

That was nearly twenty-five years ago. My eighth grade English classes have been celebrating Not-Kirk Week ever since.

Until now, that is.

#####

Every small town in the universe has some would-be politician out to make a name for himself, and I was unlucky enough to get the local schmuck’s kid in my class that year. Within a few days of telling my current group of students that they could write about anyone who inspired them and not just James T. Kirk, Josh Messerly, an alderman with an eye on the County Commissioner’s chair, began speechifying all over town about “the sad state of our local schools” and “the failure to instill the proper values in our children.” When I went into the Lutz Sunday morning for breakfast, it was all anyone could talk about. Roy Potter nearly ran his long, gangly legs off, loping from table to table with the coffee pot and the latest gossip.

“They say you’re a bad influence on our children,” he said when he finally got to my table carrying the scorched glass pot with only a drip of tepid coffee left in it. “They say you not lettin’ the kids write about ol’ James T. shows that our schools are in trouble.”

“They who?” I demanded. “And I’m not stopping anyone from writing an essay about Kirk, if they really want to.”

“Messerly, for one. He’s callin’ for a meeting of the school board and the town council. Wants to hold you accountable for your actions.”

“Josh Messerly wants to hold me accountable for getting my students excited about writing something besides the same damned Kirk essay they’re forced to do every year?” I snapped a bit too loudly. There were gasps from all the tables near enough to have heard my comment, followed by frenzied whispering, as those who heard quickly informed those who hadn’t.

You don’t badmouth James T. Kirk in Riverside, Iowa. At least, not where other folks can hear you.

Roy Potter’s mouth formed into an “O” of consternation, and he slowly backed away from the table--without having poured me any coffee. Although everyone in the diner was glaring at me, I stubbornly continued to eat my chicken fried steak. And the eggs and hash browns. If I was going down, at least I was going to do it on a full stomach.

###

By the night of the City Council meeting, I had pretty much resigned myself to having to find a new job. Because of tenure, it was unlikely that I could be fired, but the thought of being forced to tow the line on Kirk essays was unimaginable. I knew I couldn’t do it. Not after a quarter of a century of having the freedom to do something different. And I certainly couldn’t force that on the students. After years of seeing mousy little kids and misfits find a sense of self in being able to write about someone of their own choosing, I couldn’t go backwards. I couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle.

So after all these years, I’d have to find a teaching job elsewhere. I’d probably have to leave Iowa altogether, considering the pride the state took in its favorite son. No one would want to hire a Kirk-basher to teach their kids.

###

The meeting was held in the gym of Kirk High, both because Josh Messerly demanded it for symbolic reasons and because so many people were expected to attend it was unlikely the crowd would fit anywhere else. I made sure to arrive early so that I could get a seat up front; I’d be damned if I’d stand in the back while listening to them disparage me for two or three hours.

People were still filing in twenty minutes after the official starting time when our mayor, Pilar Contreras, finally called the meeting to order. As expected, Alderman Messerly leaped to his feet when she opened the floor for any issues. To everyone’s surprise, another man rose at the exact same time. His sharp Starfleet uniform drew all the attention away from Messerly. My delight at seeing the alderman upstaged was tempered by the fact that the Starfleet officer was obviously here to support Messerly in his defense of Kirk.

“Excuse me, your honor,” the officer addressed the mayor. “I’m not sure how much time I can afford away from my duties. Would it be possible for me to be heard first?” Everyone in the gym held their breath, staring at the stranger curiously. Even though he was there to excoriate me, I had to admit he was a fine-looking man. If only I were thirty years younger!

Mayor Contreras glanced at Messerly, who had apparently come to the same conclusion as everyone else: the Starfleet officer was here in support of the great James T. Kirk. The alderman nodded his assent and sat down, while the officer took his place at the podium.

“My name is Commander Ruben Perez. I’m in charge of Theoretical Physics and Warp Development at Starfleet Command.” He looked straight at me as he spoke, and my jaw dropped. For an instant, the hard, formidable lines of his face morphed into that of the chubby, earnest little guy I had taught more than twenty years ago. Ruben went on, telling the assembly that he could trace his phenomenal success in life back to the essay he had been allowed to write in eighth grade on Stephen Hawking, the great 20th century physicist.

At least, that’s what folks told me he said when the meeting was over and Messerly’s complaints were tossed out. I was too busy blubbering like a baby to hear anything that was said. I only knew the meeting was over when Ruben stepped away from the podium, came over with his arms open, and hugged the stuffing out of me.