Volume 4, Entry 44: Inclusive Instruction

Rollin' with bad references, old pranks, and good teaching

During eighth grade, the D-track history teacher was out on medical leave at the start of the school year. Our schedule cards said CLARK but we instead had GIBSON.

Mr. Gibson was only at Harriet Eddy for the first two trimesters that year, but that was enough time for me to adore him. A large man with a mellow personality, he brought quiet passion to our otherwise rowdy class. When he deemed an event or idea important, I regarded it with reverence. Funny without being overly sarcastic and encouraging without it ever sounding hollow, he was someone I instantly looked up to like I would a young uncle or an older cousin.

US History didn’t inspire me, but Mr. Gibson did. He was the first teacher I consciously went above and beyond for; that is, in my head, I justified decisions like writing an optional final paper and filming a short about the Boston Tea Party as “For Mr. Gibson”. It certainly wasn’t for extra credit—Travis, Joey, and I all ended up over 200% in his class. We all loved him; it was his advocacy for the Washington DC trip that got the three of us involved.

Eventually, with Ms. Clark set to return in March, Mr. Gibson left—but not just Harriet Eddy. Rather, he exited the entire profession and began cadet training for the Highway Patrol. Although he did join us as chaperone on the East Coast trip he’d sold us on, I never saw him again.

Despite several months of overwhelmingly positive memories of the man, there was one time when I left Mr. Gibson’s sixth-period class upset. I don’t remember what lesson he was teaching, but within it, he invoked a name that sounded like gibberish. Wanting to understand, I raised my hand and asked him what he had just said. He repeated the name, which didn’t help—and that must have been visible on my face because he then repeated one part of it, more loudly, and in a funny, sluggish tone I would only later recognize as a Ben Stein impression.

“Be-yoooo-ler?” he asked.

The class around me erupted into laughs.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

A look of exasperation pushed his goofy grin offstage.

“Bueller? Ferris Bueller?” he asked, dramatic pauses after each syllable.

“What’s that?”

He was incredulous. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off! No way! It’s one of the best movies of our lifetime!”

By now, Joey and Travis were whispering to one another and giggling. Maybe it was about my lack of cultural literacy, or maybe they were just exchanging quips from a favorite film, but it felt like the entire class was pointing and laughing at me. It hardly mattered if they were…because Mr. Gibson was.

“How does a kid get to thirteen without knowing who Ferris Bueller is? It’s criminal. Criminal!” Mr. Gibson shook his head. “You need to watch that movie. It’s…why it’s un-American.”

He then got back on track. I suspect he sprinkled in several more references that day, as my friends cackled several times at what seemed like random intervals.

I wouldn’t have known, both due to my cultural illiteracy and to my beet-red cheeks burning me to ash in my desk. When asked about my most embarrassing moment, I never cite this one because it’s different: I still feel a lingering shame when I remember that day, that movie, and even a little bit with Mr. Gibson. It’s not fun to feel like the loser outside of something beloved, and I absolutely felt like I had embarrassed myself by never watching a John Hughes comedy.

So embarrassed was I that I didn’t get in the car and request a visit to Hollywood Video. I couldn’t talk about it; I felt like I had done Mr. Gibson wrong! Disappointing him was the last thing I wanted, but alas, I had the fatal flaw of never running into a teen comedy from my birth year.

It wasn’t until my third year of college that I finally watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. To say I disliked it would be an understatement. Watching it was like munching on a spoiled onion: I couldn’t wait to get the thing out of my mouth.

Instead of inspiring love for a classic comedy, Mr. Gibson’s comments permanently tainted it. I associate the movie too much with that feeling of intense shame to ever watch it again. Matthew Broderick’s performance is forever tinted blue.

Just like my positive memories of eighth grade.

*****

I decided to make a movie after having back surgery.

Since 2011, I have been creating silly review activities told in narrative form. Starring an intrepid and intuitive—mathematically, at least—baby seal who inexplicably has even babier seal brothers to care for, these exercises consist of my character, Cuddles the Baby Seal, chasing down assorted kidnappers. Along the way, various pop culture figures rope him into solving a gauntlet of challenging application problems to progress the plot.

The movie I had in mind post-surgery would follow the same format but max out in every way. There’d be more intricate art, a fuller story, and a cinematic presentation with music and narration like I’d never attempted before. But I also had an even more ambitious addition in mind: a full music video. This wouldn’t be just any music video either. I aimed to recreate the most widely watched entry from the 1980s: Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”.

If the pop crooner strikes you as an odd fit for that much effort, then let me bring you up to speed. Astley’s song has become a meme online for its role in one of the silliest repeatable pranks out there. When referencing websites, digital hooligans will occasionally replace the intended link with one to Astley’s music video on YouTube. Instead of landing in an informative space, they get corny 80s cheese. Harmless and goofy, this process has been deemed Rickrolling.

Like many broad cultural touchstones, I came late to the Rickrolling game. It happened to me several times before I understood it wasn’t just an accident. I appreciated the hustle—the groaner laughs a Rickroll inspires suit my style well—and I wanted to mimic it myself, both the actual video and the prank that helps it endure.

Easier said than done. Incorporating such a niche thing into a movie about a time-traveling seal chasing down Thanos doesn’t sound like a good fit for a maxed-out meme, but my MCU packaging gave me an excuse. In the Avengers finale I based my film on, the titular heroes returned to their pasts to acquire the Infinity Stones, a series of artifacts that power the villain’s weapon. Cuddles, I realized, could do the same. Pursuing stones would grant him a purpose for revisiting old playgrounds. Moreover: if he got stumped by a particular stone, he might have cause to seek internet assistance with the search. Any link could lead him to its whereabouts.

Or to a particular YouTube video.

This was my in. I had already filmed scenes with Susan, Michelle, and Ethan for the video; assembly would happen during the middle of my recovery. Although my old computer wasn’t the best for video editing, I had little trouble bringing the parody to life. I finished the project with a few days to spare.

When I watched the whole thing back, though, something felt off. The music video was surely a highlight; at the eleventh hour, I’d enlisted Dat to play the bartender and even placed Astley’s original in the corner to highlight the fidelity of my construction. But amusing though the music video was, a thought persistently gnawed at me regarding it.

What if someone hasn’t been Rickrolled? Would the bit land for them? Could I feel successful if it didn’t?

I knew the answer. I wasn’t done. I wanted everyone in on the joke.

I just didn’t know what I could do to fill in a pop cultural hole on the fly.

*****

During my final week of recovery, I was able to have visitors over. Carter, Carmen, and Ahmad brought pizza one night before we played some games, Bradley joined me for dinner another night, and Simi and Nathan had breakfast with me before a late start Wednesday. Maia and Matt even helped me grade exams.

During one of my final days on leave, Nate and Bria came by. They’d brought Five Guys, but we otherwise had no firm plans. Having friends you schedule time with as often as activities is a wonderful thing, but usually, we could at least go to a movie or grab food. I still couldn’t go anywhere, though, which inspired a silly idea: filming a commercial for Cuddles: Endgame.

A premise for this commercial came together in minutes: an old 90s infomercial hawking my broken-down laptop from college. But why would anyone want to buy a beat-up computer from 2006?

To avoid internet pranks.

That’s right: the commercial would open with Bria getting Rickrolled while trying to download an obviously bootlegged version of Endgame. Nate would then step in, verbally bemoaning the Rickroll as a deplorable disturbance, before I, as helpful narrator, step in and save the day with the glorious solution of a dead digital device.

Although the commercial works on its own—it got big laughs during both periods of Calculus Lab—the mock ad works on two separate levels. The first is the amusing parody of a Billy Mays/Phil Swift-style infomercial ubiquitous to cable television, but the second is educational.

Think about it: when Bria clicks on a janky link and Astley’s song plays, students who know Rickrolling will be amused. They get the reference! They’ve been there; maybe they’ve even done that. But for students beyond the gag’s reach, her mistake is instructional: it shows that suspicious links can lead to goofy musical 80s exuberance.

Then Nate enters and provides context. He provides essential vocabulary, explicitly calling the situation a Rickroll, and then he notes his disdain to convey a general tone of tired annoyance. Bria shows what a Rickroll is for those who don’t know; Nate tells them what to call it and how the average person feels about it.

Bam. Done. Everyone watching is unambiguously caught up on the concept of Rickrolling. The commercial, which plays like a goofy exercise between friends, entertains while front-loading pop cultural awareness. When the re-creation video appears several problems later, every student watching has an experience to associate it with. Whether they’ve been Rickrolling with gusto since grade school or only discovered it with Bria’s commercial click, all will be in on the gag.

The humor and appreciation can land in both cases. Everyone can laugh at the reference; everyone can be entertained. No one will feel that bizarre sense of shame that only comes with being the weirdo on the outside looking in.

And nobody will have to say “Bueller?” either.

*****

Please don’t misunderstand: I don’t mean this as a harsh rebuke of Mr. Gibson. Not in any way. I know what he was trying to do: excitedly tell other people about something he loved. I do that all the time! And while I’ve never fully shaken the humiliation his Bueller lesson induced in me, it doesn’t change that I remember him fondly. That’s one small drop in a massive bucket I got from a future CHP talking about George Washington.

Still: I express excitement like that regularly, but I’d like to think I’m a little more careful. Surely Mr. Gibson was trying to say “You’ve gotta watch this fun movie!” but he pressed too hard; letting his reaction morph into disbelief modulated his message into one of judgment. It is very reasonable that a thirteen-year-old might not have seen a movie from the previous decade. I’m a film buff, and the holes in my watch history remain massive—and that’s not even factoring in the diversity of cultures and families for whom Hughes might not mean much. Strenuously advocating for something beloved can never cross that line.

What I did with Cuddles: Endgame couldn’t have happened in Gibson’s class. His remarks were off-the-cuff and improvised whereas my film was decidedly not. But that doesn’t change that the effort I invested to include everyone in that joke is admirable. I purposely considered the full breadth of my audience while constructing the activity, and I spent time ensuring that all could access my piece to the fullest. That I did this for something as innocuous as a shot-for-shot recreation of a meme shouldn’t take away from my attention to detail and foresight. It was a good thing. I did a good thing.

No joke.

*****

At Diamond Day last week, we had enough time to hit every single activity on my intended script. This included an activity that both Maia and I hate: Self-Complimenting.

Whether in partners or small family groups, the process goes like this: participants take turns saying positive things about themselves. The event has been packed with complimenting people to that point, so all know what they sound like, but here that praise turns inward. When they leave the bubble of the day, they must find ways to hold onto the wavelength it vibrated at, and paying tribute to oneself is an easy way to evoke those glowing moments again.

I hate the activity. It feels wrong to self-administer kudos; I worry it will invite voices both external and internal that object and bring receipts.

Watching Cuddles: Endgame with my classes last week, one day after Diamond Day, I found myself impressed with the commercial Bria, Nate, and I put together. Not only did it make me happy to share the screen with my friends in a way that resurfaces the feeling of being cared about after surgery, but I also recognized the presence of excellent teaching. I’m not always that good or successful, but I was right there, and seeing it play out so transparently in gorgeous high definition forced me to think about other intentional good things I do each day in pursuit of doing right by students.

When I directed the groups at Diamond Day to begin heaping on praise, I purposefully did not demonstrate myself first. That may have been the only activity I didn’t model. That was wrong of me.

I’m doing it now.

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If you are curious, here is the commercial I described above. I remain proud of it.

I also remain very, very, very, very tired. I must do something about that, so I shall say no more here.