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Early Wednesday morning, Mr. Erikson's American History II class, open
Jack sits at his desk, bored, waiting for students to arrive.
What did most teachers do during this time? Grade papers? Tests? Mr. Erikson didn't give those frequently. Less work for him to grade. He'd rather discuss the information with the students, talk with them about the Great Depression or Vietnam or John Locke's idea of tabula rasa...
Class was more interesting that way.
Releasing a sigh of frustration, he turns around and opens his guitar case, pulling out a black acoustic guitar that shined far brighter than his chipped wooden desk ever would.
He thinks for a moment before playing a personal favorite, one that he often found himself playing when left alone. He closes his eyes before playing this.
What did most teachers do during this time? Grade papers? Tests? Mr. Erikson didn't give those frequently. Less work for him to grade. He'd rather discuss the information with the students, talk with them about the Great Depression or Vietnam or John Locke's idea of tabula rasa...
Class was more interesting that way.
Releasing a sigh of frustration, he turns around and opens his guitar case, pulling out a black acoustic guitar that shined far brighter than his chipped wooden desk ever would.
He thinks for a moment before playing a personal favorite, one that he often found himself playing when left alone. He closes his eyes before playing this.