Dead Poets Society

McAllister’s
classroom.
    McAllister, probably
the only 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