Island Voices
What a wonderful strike it was
By Walt Novak
An English teacher at Wai'anae Intermediate School
Teaching is the most important job in the world. A lawyer can mess up only one client at a time. A doctor can kill only one patient at a time. A high school teacher, however, can absolutely ruin 30 lives, every hour.
Armed with this logic, I took part in the historic Teacher Strike of 2001. I figured that if we teachers crippled the public schools for just one day, Gov. Ben Cayetano would strew rose petals before us, chant Ali Baba, recline to his knees and give us what we demanded.
What I hadn't noticed was his resemblance to a bulldog. Of course I don't mean this physically, that would be immature of me. When I say bulldoggish, I mean in nature. Yes, the governor can bite onto a thick beach towel and be twirled in circles. In addition, he could sit with thoroughly resolute jowls and disregard the proddings of two U.S. senators named Dan, a Legislature that miraculously dug up a quarter billion bucks in his own sandbox and 13,000 of the most important people in the world.
I need to be grateful to Ben Cayetano. Striking for three weeks led to enormous faculty bonding. We had zero scabs. At Wai'anae Intermediate School, the bonding was so thorough that I even liked the teachers whom I didn't like. This was formerly a cliquish bunch. No longer.
One of Wai'anae Intermediate's most compassionate teachers has warned me that "Hate is a powerful, powerful word." But I just don't care. We teachers hate Ben. And here's the reason: He hates us.
Picketing in circles with the most important people in the world isn't dull. Once two passengers in a slow-moving car screamed at us: "Save the whales."
The previous day a slow-moving passenger screamed, "Hey, teachers! Hey, teachers!" He was quite effective in getting our attention. We stopped walking in circles and looked. He stuck his hand out the window, dangled a dollar bill and laughed.
It was inviting, but even a slow-moving buck is faster than a picketing educator.
You're probably wondering what I'd do differently if I had this whole strike to do over again. Okay, I'll tell you. I'd do a Gandhi. That's right, I'd tell the media that I was going to starve for education. "No caloric intake will pass these smackers until teachers can effectively imitate gerbils. We teachers want to keep running in place and not fall behind."
Being used to lots of food, I'd get hospitalized in no time. Assorted media would amass at my bedside as I slipped further and further into uselessness. "Nope," I'd declare, feebly, "not one bite will I take until Cayetano gives teachers a raise. My demise will be on Ben's hands."
'Round the clock, round-the-globe updates would be beamed so extensively that the other 13,000 teachers would get no coverage whatsoever. In no time, "Walt Novak, the Starving Teacher" would be more famous than Jack Lord, Don Ho, Tom Selleck or even Joe Moore. If I could go back to April 5, that's probably what I'd do. But nah, people might misinterpret this as a desperate ploy to gain attention.
My worst students love me now. They had a two-week spring break. Then they had three weeks more. Radiant joy is the best way to describe it, radiant like the sun with a spat of solar flares. Those beaming faces who formerly despised my authoritative control leaned dangerously out of moving windows, waved extremities and screamed "Novaaaak" with explosive exuberance. They loved me!
These are the same discipline problems who used to chant "Noback Nobelly Nobrain Novak" at my campus-strolling self. The bad boy who seems most radiantly exuberant of all used to scream "Big Bird!" and throw pebbles as my blond, lengthy exterior trotted toward the cafeteria. My lunches became so ruined with his ever-growing entourage screaming ever-more-voluminous Big Birds that I began eating home lunch, locked in the safety of my classroom.
The sun had been hot. The pavement had been hotter. But it was all worth it. My students love me now. For Walt Novak, it was not about money. It was the condition of finally becoming popular that I strove for. I feel all new, fully resultant of a Freudian renaissance, which has spurted from an immaculate conception — misconstrued popularity.
What more could any teacher want?
Thank you, Ben, thank you.
