Ex-York High Teacher Recalls Racy Speech, Unconventional Deal

David Venetucci, a retired teacher from Elmhurst School District 205, is writing a memoir. Here is the part about his experiences teaching speech class:

An AI search of the opening line in Charles Dickens’ 1859 novel A Tale of Two Cities states the oft-quoted sentence sets the stage for the story’s “exploration of stark contrasts and contradictions…” While analogies between public schools, Elizabethan England, and the French Revolution may be a stretch, educators recognize that an educator’s career is also a study of contrasts and contradictions. On the macro level, for instance, a teacher may experience a uniquely positive school year followed by one that makes one question their career choice. On the micro level, a classroom teacher can transition from professional bliss to demoralization within a school day, sometimes even a lesson. Such was my experience during nearly three decades as a public school educator, many of those years teaching language arts, public speaking, print and broadcast journalism in the York Community High School English Department. Here’s a fond and not-so-fond remembrance of the best and worst moments in my career, replete with Dickensian contrasts and contradictions.

I witnessed thousands of student presentations when “SPEECH” was still a graduation requirement at York. I discuss in another memoir piece the circumstances, disengenuous as they were, that altered the school’s curriculum in 2005 and made SPEECH an elective course.

Of the many student speeches I observed over the years, a few were exceptional, some were good, most were average, and many were awful, as can be expected when judging the academic product produced by self-conscious adolescents standing up in front of their peers, attempting to speak coherently on a chosen topic.

I still recall fondly several student speeches, all for different reasons. Arguably, the most hilarious speech I remember was when a sophomore demonstrated how to make “shake-up” chocolate pudding. The presentation was going well until the student began shaking a plastic container vigorously, the lid not fully tightened. Bedlam erupted when streams of chocolate-tinged water suddenly exploded all over the presenter, as well as students seated in the front rows. When things eventually calmed down, I reassured the student he’d have an opportunity to “redo” his speech for full credit. It took a long time to clean up the mess before the next scheduled speech could commence that class period, which was probably fine with the teens who had been waiting anxiously to present their “demonstration” speeches that day.

Another memorable speech was also a demonstration speech. Tellingly, it was this explicit student presentation, early in my YHS career, that motivated me to require topic approval before students presented any future speech.

A junior student with long, curly red hair—who looked and acted older than her age—began her informative speech that fateful day by asking the following topical question, an attention-getting technique designed to arouse audience interest.

“How many of you believe in safe sex?”

That provocative question, which may or may not have achieved 100 percent “common ground” relevance with this adolescent audience, was followed by the following “purpose statement” that guaranteed everyone in the audience was paying attention.

“Well, whether you believe in safe sex or not, the purpose of my speech today is to show you all how to properly put on and use a condom.”

Oh boy. This young lady now had the rapt attention of every student in that classroom, especially the males. I remember starting to sweat a bit and feeling a slight crimson blush creeping across my face as we all learned the unexpectedly sexually-themed topic of this student’s prepared speech. Looking back, my embarrassment was likely due to being caught off guard by the student’s provocative topic selection. Or perhaps it was a reflection of my own sexual insecurities at the time. In hindsight, it was probably both.

Early in my teaching career, in my late 20s, I never felt it necessary to require topic approval before a presentation. Realizing immediately, however, that my class had just moved unexpectedly into the domain of the PE and Health Department’s sex ed curriculum, I considered halting this student’s presentation. In hindsight, stopping the speech was probably what I should have done even before the student began revealing colorful, topical “materials” from a bag she had artfully concealed under the speaker’s lectern. And, oh my, did this student have an impressive collection of “visual aids” assembled. I later wondered whether she obtained these adult-themed items on her own or with parental assistance. Oh my.

Despite my instructional discomfort, the student was adhering to the required speech format properly, perhaps too well. So, after some deliberative back-and-forth, I decided to allow her to continue the speech, vowing only to stop the presentation if she did something gratuitous, such as asking for “audience participation,” a public speaking technique that would generally be acceptable — even encouraged — in any other demonstration speech.

Once the actual demonstration portion of the presentation had concluded and the student’s provocative array of visual aids was safely back in the bag from which she had effectively revealed them—one at a time—the student ended with a “full circle” comment about “safe sex.” Oh my goodness, she’s done at last, I remember thinking, in near flop sweat mode, although my facial blush had receded.

I then had the customary and, in this instance, awkward task of facilitating a brief speech debrief session with the presenter and the class. These feedback sessions typically included constructive criticism in three parts, touching on the speech’s positive elements, along with credible suggestions for improvement, known in my classes as “feedforward.”

I don’t recall students being willing that day to offer this precocious junior any peer performance feedback. Perhaps the kids in attendance were stunned. Or maybe they were still busy making mental notes about what they had just observed. Probably both.

I tried to be transparent and acknowledge what students sensed: I was uncomfortable with the content of the student’s speech. I told the class that I allowed the sexually-themed speech to continue because the presenter was “doing a nice job” following the assignment’s guidelines. I remember foolishly making an awkward wisecrack about “learning a lot” from the presentation. Ouch.

I drove home from school that day, hoping fervently that I had made the proper call by allowing the student to complete her speech, and that nothing further would come of the situation. That was not to be, of course, as I found a note in my faculty mailbox before school the next morning from the school’s then principal asking me to “See me asap.” Oh shit.

The building principal at the time—a longtime YHS administrator with an infamously uneven temperament — disagreed vehemently with my decision to allow the female student to continue her demonstration speech on the topic of how to use condoms. I learned that at least one parent had complained already.

“What the hell were you thinking, David?”

“With all due respect, sir, I was thinking that the student was following the assignment guidelines and that it would be wrong for me to stop her speech just because the topic was uncomfortable.”

“Are you serious, David? Did you know in advance that she was going to do a speech on that topic?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I try to give students as much latitude as possible for selecting the topics for their speeches and presentations.”

“That’s ridiculous. That content belongs in the PE department, not in a speech class. You’ll pre-approve all speech topics from now on.”

After staring me down for a few uncomfortable moments through thick, coke-bottle eyeglasses, the principal sent me off to my period one class with sage professional encouragement.

“This better not happen again, David.”

And it didn’t happen again. No student ever presented another speech in my classroom without me knowing the topic in advance.

I’ve always tried to avoid making the same mistake twice as an educator. Still, my well-documented “unconventional” approach in the classroom invariably got me into more hot water with this mercurial administrator, as well as a succession of subsequent D205 bosses, for perceived professional misdeeds. Most were errors of commission — attempting something in good faith that didn’t work out. Other mistakes were errors of omission—not doing something that, in hindsight, I should have done. Some of the criticism I received from administrators was warranted, while some was not.

I’m not privy to the current school policy on final exams; however, back in the day, all students were required to complete a final exam in every course each semester, except seniors who weren’t in danger of failing during the second semester. The final exam accounted for 20% of the semester grade, with each of the two grading periods accounting for 40%. Intrinsically motivated students always took their final exams seriously, regardless of their grade status in the course. In contrast, students motivated primarily by extrinsic factors took these end-of-semester exams seriously only when necessary to improve a borderline grade. My experience was that most students took my SPEECH final exam project seriously, mainly because it wasn’t a typical final exam.

The “Me-Mobile” final exam project required students to share personal insights in a manner that demonstrated the public speaking skills and presentation techniques they had learned throughout the semester. The assignment consisted of three components: an in-class presentation, worth 50% of the exam grade; a speech outline, worth 25%; and audience participation, also worth 25%.

Before students presented any speech in my class, I would always model the assignment in advance, helping students understand the requirements by example. Most students found my assignment speeches helpful, reassuring, and entertaining.

The final exam presentation required students to create a "mobile” consisting of an inanimate “base” object to which five other objects were connected. All six objects were intended to represent personal characteristics about the speaker that the audience likely didn’t already know. The base object, to which all five other objects were somehow physically attached, was to be a foundational characteristic. For example, the base of my Me-Mobile was a ski boot, which symbolized me as an athletic person. Hidden inside the ski boot, connected with shoe laces, were my five other objects, each of which represented something else that I didn’t think my students knew about me. Every object in the Me-Mobile, including the base, had to symbolically connect to a personality trait in the form of an adjective (ie, “athletic”).

Before beginning my sample final exam speech, students only saw a large box covering something hidden from view. Utilizing presentation techniques taught earlier in the course, I revealed the ski boot immediately following the introduction to my speech. Then, using notecards in outline format, I gradually revealed each additional object from inside the ski boot, explaining to the audience the significance of each item. I integrated audience participation into the presentation by asking students to guess the adjective associated with each object. I used “motivated and specific platform movement” in my presentation, moving around the classroom at appropriate times to help sustain audience interest. At the speech’s conclusion, all five items were back inside the ski boot, and the large box again entirely covered the Me-Mobile. In my concluding statement, I referred back to the concept that had begun the speech, demonstrating the “full-circle” concept I had emphasized throughout the semester.

How students designed and constructed their Me-Mobile projects was always fascinating. Some projects were tiny and delicate, with the entire “mobile” literally fitting within the palm of the presenter’s hand, necessitating considerable movement so the audience could fully appreciate the student’s project design and creativity. In contrast, other projects were so large that the parts sometimes had to be disassembled to fit through the classroom door.

While all Me-Mobile presentations were uniquely personal, some speeches were more creative and impactful than others, usually depending on the effort a student put into the project, along with the interpersonal courage a teen was willing to display in this very public academic context. I recall deeply personal and powerful speeches that evoked tears, as well as others that elicited belly laughs. It was a pretty cool project.

Memories of shake-up chocolate pudding explosions and prophylactic exhibitions notwithstanding, the best student speech I ever witnessed was a Me-Mobile presentation by a male student whose name I no longer recall. Decades later, however, I remember vividly the elements of his remarkable presentation, which took place sometime after the YHS campus renovations were completed in 2004.

It began with the audience seeing only a large drop cloth covering an object perhaps four to five feet tall. We first heard the presenter’s voice booming from behind the drop cloth, asking the audience a series of topical questions designed to create common ground, audience interest, and suspense. The student then emerged from behind the drop cloth, articulating a clear “purpose statement.” Next, channeling his inner magician, the student revealed the large object hidden under the drop cloth with a flourish.

Visible now to the audience was a full-size wooden headboard with five separate knots of thick rope attached at the top. Skillfully utilizing a new series of topical audience questions, we soon learned that the headboard, the base of this Me-Mobile, symbolized the student as being “lazy.” Employing relaxed physical movement and natural gestures in the front area of the classroom, the student explained why that particular adjective fit his personality with interesting and amusing personal anecdotes.

Once the student explained the headboard-lazy connection, he playfully retreated behind the (properly back-braced) headboard to shout out a new set of questions to the audience before revealing the first object attached to the headboard base. That first object also had a dramatic reveal as the presenter had constructed his Me-Mobile using lengths of rope long enough so he could toss each object over the top of the headboard, where it would tumble noisily into position in full view. Then, the student emerged from behind the headboard and used additional questions to playfully reveal the adjective and personal trait associated with that first object. He added further explanation and stories about that personal trait for context and enrichment. Early on in this presentation, the student audience was fully engaged with this clever approach to the assignment. So was I.

Predictably and effectively, this student used the same basic procedure to reveal the remaining four objects and personality traits. I don’t recall today what any of the objects were or the traits they symbolically represented; however, I remember that all five objects attached to the bedframe were relatively large and made an impressive clatter when tossed over the back of the headboard. The presenter’s object-adjective connections were clever, meaningful, and well-explained to the audience.

Throughout this marvelous presentation, the student’s vocal delivery was conversational, with appropriate volume, effective use of vocal inflection, and intentional pauses to create emphasis. I was elated to see the student utilize an especially nuanced performance skill I had introduced earlier in the course as he purposefully moved in opposite directions each time he discussed a new object/trait to achieve increased visual variety (ie, clockwise around the classroom, then counterclockwise). By the presentation’s end, the student had tossed all five objects back over the headboard in dramatic fashion, and the drop cloth entirely covered the headboard. It was full circle, extraordinare, as the student’s concluding statement also brilliantly tied back to his opening attention-getter.

Once the student formally concluded his presentation with the universally symbolic head nod, the teen presenter received a standing ovation. This interpersonally talented teenager had just demonstrated exceptional mastery of every public speaking skill I had endeavored to teach and model during the semester.

While I recall students creating many outstanding academic projects in my classes at York High School, it was this particular final exam presentation that stands out as most memorable. As Dickens referenced in the first line of his famous novel, this student’s exemplary presentation was emblematic of “the best of times” for me as an educator.

With teaching bliss inevitably fading in life’s rearview mirror, we move on to an additional not-so-good episode, the “worst of times…” in the words of Dickens.

While school administrators often focused incessantly on “data-driven instruction” (ie, test scores), my instructional approach always centered on helping students learn practical life skills. I once had a YHS administrator look me (sort of) in the eye and tell me that educators shouldn’t care about student academic effort or about preparing young adults for college and the workforce. An educator’s only job, he told me with conviction, is to prepare kids for standardized assessments and evaluate test data to inform curriculum decision-making. This administrator actually believed this utter nonsense. So apparently did the YHS principal at the time, who reportedly hired this quirky administrator in an effort to “reform” the school’s English Department. Interestingly, that department administrator and building principal both left D205 some years ago, utilizing their acquired professional connections to land plum administrative positions at prestigious North Shore high schools. Hmmm.

With my educational philosophy focused on finding ways to utilize the curriculum to help kids be better equipped for life’s challenges, I was always looking for ways to bend the rules to help a student who needed a break. Sometimes, I bent the rules too creatively on behalf of a student, and it bit me firmly on the arse.

Because SPEECH was a graduation requirement back in the day, it was inevitable that some students would fail the semester class and have to repeat it. Most YHS students took the course during their sophomore year. Some took it during summer school, figuring the class might be more intense but shorter in duration. Some kids waited until junior year to take SPEECH, but that was the exception. I regularly had students enroll in the class who had previously failed it, sometimes with me as their instructor.

For the record, it took a genuine lack of effort to fail my SPEECH class, as I provided students abundant “extra-credit” opportunities throughout the semester to help counterbalance a bad speech or project assignment grade. Offering these types of academic opportunities to students always made my job easier when justifying a particular grade to skeptical parents.

A student whom I attempted to assist in dire academic circumstances had taken and failed SPEECH three (3) times previously. He had failed the class with me once during sophomore year, so I knew him well by the time he showed up again on my roster during the second semester of his junior year. Like many adolescents who struggled in high school, this particular teen was quite intelligent, just extremely unmotivated. True to form, he continued to skip class on days he was supposed to present a speech and didn’t complete required written assignments, much less extra-credit work to raise a pathetically low semester grade percentage. By the time the “Me-Mobile” final exam rolled around in the late spring, this young man knew he had no chance of passing the course, again. It was disturbing.

Then a very strange thing happened on the last day of final exams. This student, who had done virtually nothing for 18 weeks, showed up for class and presented his Me-Mobile speech. He had even completed the required speech outline. I was flabbergasted, but in a good way. The speech wasn’t great, but it was decent, and he seemed genuinely proud of his presentation.

As we debriefed the speech as a class, I asked the student why he had shown up and presented his speech, knowing it would likely make little difference in his semester grade. The student replied that he did it to prove to himself that he could complete school work that he didn’t want to do. If I remember correctly, the teen also said he “…kinda liked the assignment.”

At that moment, I decided to “MacGyver” the rules to help this struggling adolescent. I realized, however, that doing so came with multiple potential risks. I had learned from experience that offering students creative academic lifelines in good faith often came with unintended consequences.

Confident that I wasn’t revealing publicly information that students weren’t already aware of through the school grapevine, I asked the junior if he felt that he deserved to fail this class again and retake it for the fourth time during his senior year. The teen responded with a despondent “…um, yes…” It was so quiet in my classroom at that moment that one could truly hear a proverbial pin drop. Purposefully, I turned my attention to the class as a whole and asked if today’s presentation should make a difference in whether this student should pass or fail the course. Students immediately responded in the affirmative, sensing something interesting was afoot. I turned back to the presenter, who was still standing in front of the class near the lectern, and asked if he agreed with his peers. The student paused, then humbly responded, “I think so.”

I told the teen in front of his peers that I was mightily impressed with his decision to show up and present his Me-Mobile speech. I told him that I was proud of his effort and that today’s speech was representative of the type of academic work he was capable of with self-discipline. I informed the student that I was willing to discuss a way for him to still pass the class this semester, based on his attitude and academic performance today, and encouraged the teen to remain after class. The classroom went bonkers with positive energy and applause. It was a super cool moment.

After class ended, the student remained as I had requested, and we talked about what had just happened. I had already decided how I wanted to handle the situation. Still, I wanted to get the student’s buy-in before presenting the “deal” I had just concocted. I also wanted to include the student’s mom and guidance counselor in the unconventional agreement I was about to explain to this forlorn teen.

When talking with the student after class that day, I reminded him that intelligence and aptitude had little to do with his repeatedly failing SPEECH. It came down to attitude, effort, and self-discipline. He agreed. I then explained the deal. I told the student that, based on his encouraging efforts today, I was willing to change the student’s “F” semester grade to a passing grade of “D” on the condition that he earned a “C” grade or better in every academic class during the first grading period in the fall of his senior year. I told the young man that if he accepted this offer and then failed to take his academic responsibilities seriously in the fall, as he had actually promised to do in his final exam speech, I would request that his semester SPEECH grade be changed from passing to failing and that he would have to repeat the course yet again to graduate, this time with a different instructor.

As I explained the deal, I watched the student’s face intently. I could see he was playing it all out in his mind, weighing the pros and cons of this unusual academic opportunity. I asked the teen if he was willing to agree to the conditions I had described. The student paused for a moment, then responded, “I can do that. Thanks, Mr. V.”

Before we shook hands, I reminded the student what would happen if he didn’t uphold his end of the deal. I also informed him that, along with his guidance counselor, I would be monitoring his grades during the first quarter of his senior year. The student said he understood. We shook hands, and he left my classroom. I remember feeling optimistic yet realistic about how this might all unfold.

Shortly thereafter, I phoned the student’s mom and explained what had transpired earlier that day. I explained the “deal” that I had offered her son after his final exam speech, and that he had accepted the offer. I asked Mom if she was also willing to support the agreement. Mom said she was appreciative of the extra effort I had devoted to working with her “challenging” son and that she was comfortable with this “generous” agreement. I reiterated what would happen if her son earned any poor grades in the first quarter of his senior year. Mom said she understood and would be supportive of the agreement, no matter what happened in the fall. We ended the call, both expressing optimism that the adolescent had finally learned his lesson about the importance of academic effort and self-discipline, and that he would hopefully not mess up this special opportunity.

Next, I contacted the student’s guidance counselor, now retired, and explained the situation to him. The counselor was also supportive of the freshly minted deal. We agreed to keep tabs on this young man in the fall as he worked through his first quarter academic schedule. The counselor and I decided it wasn’t necessary to seek administrative sign-off on the agreement. That was a mistake, in hindsight.

Since this story comes in a section of this essay entitled “…the worst of times”, it should not be surprising to learn that, sadly, this student reverted to his old ways of irresponsible academic behavior early during his senior year. As I had pledged, I made it a point to keep tabs on his grades throughout the first grading period. I saw warning signs early on and spoke with the young man a couple of times to remind him of the consequences if he earned less than a “C” grade in any academic class. I also contacted Mom with the same concerns. Both the student and his mother said they were confident that everything would work out. I wasn’t so sure.

When Quarter One grades were posted in late fall, the student had earned two “D” grades. Stoically, I began the administrative process of changing the student’s semester SPEECH grade from a “D” to a “F.” That’s when all hell broke loose.

I soon learned that Mom contacted her son’s guidance counselor, but didn’t hear what she wanted. She then called the administration demanding that her son’s SPEECH grade from last semester not be changed, previous agreements be damned.

Once I found out what was going on, I called the parent and attempted to discuss the situation; however, her tone had changed dramatically compared to last spring, when she had wholeheartedly endorsed her son’s “generous” academic agreement. All Mom would talk about now was how unfair it would be for her son to have to take SPEECH over yet again, and that if that happened, he likely wouldn’t be able to graduate with his peers. I attempted to get this frustrated parent to understand that not changing the semester grade, as per our agreement, might deal with today’s problem, but that it wouldn’t address the bigger concern of her son’s chronically poor work ethic and the implications of that issue after he graduated from high school. I did my best to focus Mom on the counter-productive message we’d be sending to her son by allowing him to bypass the requirements of what essentially was a contract he had agreed to abide by. The student’s mom, now sounding cornered and desperate, didn’t want to hear it. With the conversation going nowhere, I ended the call politely.

When I discussed the issue with the student’s guidance counselor, I learned that it was now outside his professional purview and that I had to speak with the administration. To no one’s surprise, the subsequent conversation with the then-assistant principal for instruction (a building principal in another school district, as I last heard) also went nowhere fast.

“What are we trying to teach here?” I asked the AP plaintively, repeatedly.

“The grade won’t be changed,” was the only response I received.

Feeling defeated and disgusted, I excused myself from the AP’s office and trudged back to my classroom for whatever activity was next on my teaching schedule that day.

It was abundantly clear the administration wouldn’t support enforcing the provisions of this unconventional academic agreement from last spring. But why? My informed conclusion was that because the parent was now complaining loudly, the administration didn’t want to deal with it. It was easier for the powers-that-be to cave to a demanding parent than to support a teacher thinking outside the box with long-term objectives in mind. Don’t get me wrong. There are times when parental advocacy is necessary and appropriate to right a wrong within the public school system. Attempting to protect a child from life’s unfair atrocities is one thing. However, protecting a teen from life’s natural consequences in a public school setting is a troubling form of parental enabling I’ve discussed in another education-themed memoir essay involving D205.

The frustrating conclusion of this initially inspirational saga was something that stuck in my proverbial craw for some time. Looking back today, it would have been wise for me to have conferred with the administration early on about the contract’s enforcement. Doing so would probably have averted the unnecessary drama that unfolded subsequently. That was an error of omission on my part. Hindsight is always 20/20, alas.

Like other surreal professional encounters with parents and D205 administrators, this was a troubling, unsettling episode. I often wonder how this motivationally-challenged young man fared following high school graduation. Did he continue to underperform in subsequent jobs and experience an unfulfilled life, or did my attempted intervention eventually help this young man turn a corner into personal productivity and contentment? I have no idea. But like all of life’s contrasts and contradictions, this incident, too, is now H20 under the proverbial bridge, where it rightly remains.

Charles Dickens was a devout, non-denominational Christian with deep admiration for Jesus Christ. Dickens believed that religious faith was a force for social good in the world, and he desired his published novels to encourage individuals to put their faith into action in positive ways for the public good. While I’m not remotely religious myself, I imagine Dickens would be proud of my unconventional, risk-taking approach as an educator, despite its admittedly secular underpinnings. Although narrow-minded administrators and enabling parents occasionally thwarted me, I endeavored in good faith to create social good in my classroom. If nothing else, my teaching career was an adventurous exploration of stark contrasts and contradictions encompassing, of course, both the best and worst of times. Kudos to you, Mr. Dickens, for the unlikely literary inspiration.