Dead Poets Society

Latin teacher in the history of contemporary education with a Scottish brogue, wasted no time in getting into the subject. He handed out the books and launched in. “We’ll begin by declining nouns,” he said. “Agrícola, agricolae, agricolae, agricolam, agricola...” McAllister walked around the room, repeating the Latin words as the boys struggled to keep up with him.
    After forty minutes of recitation, McAllister stopped and stood, facing the class. “You will be tested on those nouns tomorrow, gentlemen. You have your work cut out for you.” He turned and faced the blackboard as a collective groan rippled across the room. Before McAllister could begin round two, however, they were saved by the bell.
    “That guy is nuts! I’ll never learn all that by tomorrow,” Charlie moaned.
    “Don’t worry,” Meeks said. “I’ll teach you guys the system. We’ll study together tonight. Come on, we’re late for math.”
    Mathematical charts decorated the walls of Dr. Hager’s classroom, and books were already waiting for them at their desks.
    “Your study of trigonometry requires absolute precision,” Dr. Hager instructed. “Anyone failing to turn in a homework assignment will be penalized one point off his final grade. Let me urge you now not to test me on this point. Who would like to begin by defining cosine?”
    Richard Cameron stood and recited, “A cosine is the sine of the complement of an angle or arc. If we define an angle A, then...”
    Dr. Hager bombarded the class with mathematical questions the entire period. Hands flew into the air, students stood up and sat down like robots, reeling off answers, staunchly taking harsh reprimands for mistakes.
    The bell rang, but not soon enough. “Thank God,” moaned Todd as he piled up his books. “I don’t think I could have taken another minute of that. ”
    “You’ll get used to old Hager,” Meeks consoled him. “Once you get the pace of it, you’ll do fine.”
    “I’m already six paces behind,” Todd groaned as the boys walked together to their next class. He didn’t say another word as they dragged themselves into the English room, dropped their books on their desks, and fell into the seats.
    The new English teacher, wearing a shirt and tie but no jacket, sat at the front of the room, staring out the window. The boys settled down and waited, grateful for a moment to relax and shed some of the pressure of the last few hours. Keating continued to stare out the window. The boys started to shuffle uncomfortably.
    Finally Keating stood, picked up a yardstick, and started strolling up and down the aisles. He stopped and stared into the face of one of the boys. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said kindly to the blushing boy.
    He continued to move around the room, looking intently at the boys as he walked. “Uh-huh, he said aloud, looking at Todd Anderson. “Uh-huh,” he repeated, moving toward Neil Perry.
    “Ha!” He slapped his free hand with the yardstick and strode forcefully to the front of the room.
    Nimble young minds!” Keating shouted, looking around at the class and gesturing with the yardstick.
    He jumped dramatically onto his desk and turned to face the class. ‘“O Captain! My Captain!’” he recited energetically, then looked around the room. “Who knows where that’s from? Anybody? No?” He looked piercingly at the silent boys. No one raised a hand. “It was written, my young scholars,” he said patiently, “by a poet named Walt Whitman about Abraham Lincoln. In this class you may refer to me as either Mr. Keating or O Captain! My Captain! ”
    He jumped down from the desk and resumed strolling the aisles, speaking as he moved. “So that I become the source of as few rumors as possible, let me tell you that, yes, I was a student at this institution many moons ago, and no, at that time I did not possess this charismatic personality.
    “However, should you choose to emulate my manner, it can only help your grade. Pick up your textbooks from the back, gentlemen, and let’s retire to the Honor Room.”
    Using the yardstick as a pointer, Keating headed to the door and walked out. The students sat, silent, not sure what to do.
    “We’d better go with him,” Neil said, leading the class to the back of the room. They each picked up a text, gathered their books, and proceeded to the oak-paneled Welton Honor Room, where they had last waited to see Dean Nolan.
    Keating walked around the room as the boys straggled in. He