Ex-York Teacher Recalls Getting Into Hot Water With Administrators

David Venetucci, a retired teacher from Elmhurst School District 205, is writing a memoir. Here is the part about when he got into hot water about a certain list he created at York High School:

"The Shit List, et al"

With all due modesty, memorable is an apt term to describe the public speaking classes that I taught at the west suburban high school where I plied my trade for two-plus decades. In my mid-60s and a decade retired from the classroom, I still receive messages from former students offering affirming feedback about their experiences in my classes. Some cite specific moments vividly remembered, while others discuss how the class well prepared them for public speaking courses in college and in whatever professional fields they subsequently elected to pursue. My classes were a dynamic amalgam of organization, creativity, structure, and controlled chaos. With a background in broadcast journalism and drama, I was truly in my element teaching essential elements of SPEECH, a one-semester, graduation-required course that included units on informative, persuasive, and impromptu speaking, along with oral interpretation and reader’s theatre, two of my favorite forms of dramatic arts.

Before ever having to stand up in front of their peers and present a speech, however, students in my class learned the basics of effective verbal and non-verbal communication skills, the do’s and don’ts of constructive criticism, as well as an understanding of public speaking anxiety, along with specific techniques designed to control this often paralyzing, universally human fear.

One of the most important aspects of my class was the establishment of what I called “Social Guidelines,” basic rules governing interpersonal behavior during class activities. I learned about the concept of “Social Guidelines” in a graduate class and understood how essential it was to invest time early in the course developing what many would refer to as “class rules.” The key difference was that teachers typically imposed a set of “class rules” on students while “Social Guidelines” were developed collaboratively by students with me serving as facilitator and coach. An essential feature in every set of “Social Guidelines” was an edict involving the use of demeaning words. I called these derogatory statements “slob words”— another concept I picked up in a graduate education class. “Slob words” could range from the mildly offensive “Shut up…” to more inflammatory comments, including a host of inappropriate put-downs, profanity, and, of course, the nuclear “F-bomb.” Regardless of how incendiary the adolescent insult was, all “slob words” were verboten in my classroom. At the same time, I needed a topical, creative way to get students to embrace this nastiness prohibition. Hence, I adopted the “shit list” as part of my educational bag-o-tricks.

The “shit list” was a wildly engaging and pedagogically grounded activity that students encountered during the first week of SPEECH in conjunction with the creation of “Social Guidelines.” This mini-lesson featured excerpts from a book entitled Cuss Control-The Complete Book On How To Curb Your Cussing by author James V. O’Connor. An image of the book’s front cover appears after this essay.

The activity began with me cajoling students to agree with the premise that the classroom isn’t an ideal place for profanity. Next, I would hold aloft a copy of the Cuss Control book, and explain that the premise of this book was that swearing is a silly, rhetorically lazy form of communication. Next, I nonchalantly asked students for permission to read an excerpt that featured a list of nearly 100 common uses of the word “shit.” At this point in the lesson, with the mere utterance of the word “shit”, I invariably enjoyed the rapt attention of every student in my classroom. Before agreeing to share the “shit list,” however, I’d tease students by stating a bogus contrary argument such as “I really can’t share this list because I’m concerned you’ll be offended…” to which they’d usually roar in unison, “C’mon, no way, Mr. V!” Next, I’d tease students further by feigning worry about the prospects of them going home and complaining to their parents. “Ain’t gonna happen, Mr. V. Read the list!!” they’d yell en mass while pleading with me to begin what they knew would be an outlandishly taboo school experience.

With my teenage audience now giddy with anticipation, and with the Cuss Control book in hand as a prop, I would only then relent and begin enthusiastically reading the “shit list” using my best dramatic voices, inflections, animated gestures, and subject-inspired movements. It was always an uproarious classroom moment and students loved it. So did I. Having high school students begging you to share any portion of the course curriculum is as close to teaching nirvana as it gets.

After I had finished sharing the “shit list” and when things had calmed down a bit, I would casually turn to another section in the book and ask if students wanted to hear another excerpt, this time from the chapter about the “F-word.” Classroom pandamonium would resume again on cue. That’s, of course, where I put on the rhetorical brakes, calmed everyone down, and got to the main point of the lesson—that being, using profanity and “slob words” is silly and senseless, especially in a classroom that focuses on learning effective communication skills. The kids seemed to get the point and this activity—combined with the development of class “Social Guidelines” during the next full class period—made a huge difference in the overall environment of my class. Establishing and then diligently maintaining a positive classroom environment is especially important as teens need to feel as interpersonally safe as possible when getting up in front of their peers to present speeches and projects.

I never once had a student or parent complain about this particular lesson for more than a decade…until the time when the mother of a disgruntled female student, a budding sociopath previously removed from one of my classes due to chronically disruptive behavior, made a complaint directly to the school principal charging that I was “teaching students to swear in class.” And so begins the true drama of this story.

During a subsequent mandatory meeting with the school principal which I decided to attend without union representation, I attempted to explain the origins of the “shit list,” its pedagogical justification, along with how this activity previewed the creation of class “Social Guidelines.” For whatever reason, this administrator wasn’t buying any of my granular explanations for this admittedly unorthodox lesson and ordered me to stop sharing the “shit list” in class immediately. In response, firmly aware of my professional responsibilities…and rights, I politely reminded my boss of the “faculty academic freedom” provision in the high school’s newly established “Student Academic Freedom of Expression” policy, a school-wide initiative I had previously led in my role as the student newspaper’s faculty adviser. Unswayed by my foreshadowing of a possible challenge to her “shit list” decree, the principal stated in no uncertain terms her decision was final. And so, with me adhering to the procedural protocol outlined in the school’s new policy, and with the support of the teacher’s union president, the “shit list” controversy soon became the test case for the high school’s new policy. The battle was on.

The new school policy permitted a faculty member to appeal to a three-person “appeals board” an administrative decision to “censor” what the teacher believed to be “educationally appropriate content” in a classroom lesson. The appeals panel would consist of the school principal, a staff member of the appealing teacher’s choice, and a third staff member agreed upon by the appealing faculty member, principal, district superintendent, and teacher’s union president. The principal’s participation posed an obvious conflict of interest as she was the person attempting to censor my professional expression. I learned immediately, however, that adjudication of that thorny issue wasn’t up for debate. ‘Not kosher,’ I recall thinking at the time.

While I busied myself recruiting an English Department colleague to serve as my representative, the union president negotiated who would be the third member of the appeals board. The agreed-upon choice was an elementary school teacher in the school district who was active in the teacher’s union, a veteran educator whom I met a few years earlier during an absurd, curriculum-related run-in with the previous superintendent, an episode that’s prime fodder for another memoir piece. With the appeals board now in place, a date for the hearing was scheduled, much to the chagrin of the principal and, as I was soon to learn, also the superintendent.

In planning for the hearing, I approached my job as would any good attorney, researching and preparing my presentation as if I were trying to convince a jury of the merits of my case. My defense was straightforward. I would prove the “shit list” was educationally age-appropriate for the high school sophomores, juniors, and seniors, along with saying the word “shit” in class as part of this lesson was far less controversial than passages contained in book titles students were required to read as part of the freshmen core English curriculum. Before an impartial panel, winning this case would be a slam dunk, I confidently theorized to trusted colleagues, not sharing hidden pangs of self-doubt about the chances of overturning the principal’s decision.

Entering the assigned conference room on the day of the appeals board meeting, I exchanged pleasantries with meeting participants who had arrived earlier than me, then sat down at my designated spot and carefully arranged my presentation materials on the conference table, then anxiously awaited the principal and superintendent's arrival. The first thing I noticed when the principal entered the room, looking flustered, was that she was carrying no notes or materials. Seeing what I perceived as a lack of preparation on her part, I remember my confidence soaring a bit. The superintendent, looking grumpy, was the last participant to arrive for the meeting and take a seat at the conference table.

The principal went first presenting her side of the issue, stating how the case originated from a “credible” parent complaint, then repeating her contention that what I was doing was inappropriate. She finished her presentation in just a few minutes. That’s when I knew my intuition about her lack of preparation was spot-on. I, on the other hand—was well prepared for today’s meeting—and was now firmly in the driver’s seat, as I was confident my comprehensive, persuasive presentation would far exceed mere minutes.

Unlike the principal who spoke off the cuff, I presented my case methodically from a prepared outline containing main ideas and keywords, the same technique that I taught my students to utilize for most of their speeches with the rationale this delivery style tends to be natural and conversational.

After I delineated a cogent rationale for using the “shit list” in my SPEECH course, I systematically shared a series of provocative, sexually explicit passages taken directly from the freshman English curriculum. While reading aloud this cringe-worthy material, I noticed the principal and superintendent fidgeting in their chairs, increasingly uncomfortable and visibly annoyed with what was now unfolding in this first-ever challenge of an administrative censorship decision in this school district. At this point in the hearing, I could see that I was winning both the battle and the war, but the meeting hadn’t concluded and the “judges” had yet to vote. I knew that I had to keep my composure while completing the presentation that I had spent hours preparing, and then hope the vote went my way.

Once my nearly 20-minute presentation concluded, the principal attempted to cross-exam me pointedly inquiring about the data that substantiated my claim that sharing the “shit list” correlated with decreased derogatory comments in my classroom. Expecting this question, I responded that I was a classroom teacher, not an educational researcher, and thus possessed no empirical data to justify my claims. I explained, however, that my embrace of the “shit list” was based on anecdotal observations from many years of classroom experience, along with an intuitive sense this activity contributed positively to the overall level of civility in my classroom. Mic drop. The principal sat stonefaced in response, while the superintendent shook his head in apparent disgust. No more cross-examination. Time to vote.

Not surprisingly, the principal voted against me, while my faculty colleague voted in my favor. Everyone knew going into this meeting the third vote would be the decider, as neither I, the superintendent, nor the union president—as per policy provisions—were afforded a vote in this quasi-legal process. It was a tense, suspenseful moment as all participants knew the next vote determined the outcome of this first-of-its-kind hearing.

Breaking the tie, the grade school teacher voted in my favor, voicing a rationale that likely infuriated both the principal and superintendent. This soft-spoken elementary teacher said she had entered the hearing inclined to vote against my use of the “shit list” because the activity seemed too unconventional and not appropriate for the classroom. However, she explained, after listening to my presentation today and learning about the type of controversial material that freshman students were required to read in English classes, she changed her mind and decided to vote on my behalf. ‘Bingo,’ I thought with a carefully concealed grin. All my deliberate preparation had truly paid off. Woo-hoo!

At that moment, the superintendent—expecting a different outcome—had what I can best describe as an adult hissy fit. Muttering obscenities under his breath, the well-dressed, highly-compensated, middle-aged school administrator got up from his chair and thrashed about the room aimlessly talking about what an injustice this decision was for students and how this unprecedented verdict wouldn’t stand “on my watch.” Every person in the conference room stared straight ahead in silence during this awkward, childish tempest before the superintendent abruptly stormed out of the conference room, huffing and puffing indignantly.

Shocked but not especially surprised, I looked at the principal to gauge her reaction. This middle-aged woman, a former English teacher, simply hung her head in shell-shocked disbelief and frustration, both with the hearing’s outcome and likely also the patently unprofessional conduct of her boss.

After the superintendent and principal had left the room, I remember accepting congratulations from my union president who commented discretely that she’d never before seen this administrator so angry and unhinged. I smiled knowing that studious preparation, courage, and cool demeanor under pressure had secured a huge win in this righteous professional fight. I savored this victory with the knowledge that, unlike my principal and superintendent, I had played fairly—mostly at least—in this public education sandbox throughout the process of litigating an admittedly contentious matter.

Walking back to my classroom following the appeals board hearing, I also recall a feeling of self-assured roguishness knowing that—unbeknownst to anyone – I had surreptitiously recorded the entire meeting on a small microcassette recorder in my right front pocket – just in case. Was it possibly illegal that I made an audio recording of this meeting without the permission of everyone present? Perhaps, but not with certainty due to a variety of legal factors present in this particular instance. If recording the meeting was a violation of the state eavesdropping criminal statute, has the applicable statute of limitations associated with this “crime” long ago expired? Absolutely. Do I still have a digital audio copy of this
extraordinary meeting? Maybe.

Several days following my big win, the union president took me aside in a school hallway and asked me if I realized that I had made a boo-boo in the hearing that could have possibly changed the outcome. I was shocked. What did I do or not do that could have had this effect? I was clueless. My colleague explained that one of the books from which I had read salacious excerpts during the hearing – a paperback copy loaned to me by the English teacher who served on the appeals board on my behalf – had that colleague’s name written in large letters on the side opposite the book’s spine. That potentially compromising information had been visible during portions of the meeting and, if challenged by the administration as inappropriate pre-hearing coordination between myself and my colleague representative, could have caused the elementary teacher’s critical vote to side with the principal instead of me. ‘Oops,’ I remember responding with a nervous grin. ‘Can’t think of everything, I guess.’

Vindicated by the appeals board vote, I went back to sharing the “shit list” in my classes later that school year, paying little heed to the superintendent’s performative bloviation about “not on my watch.” He never forgot about this incident, of course, and would seek retaliation a few years later over a different issue. More about that later.

Et al (Part I)

The principal I tangled with during the “shit list” controversy burnished her professional resume by overseeing a major remodeling of the high school, soon moving on to a principal’s post at an elite north shore school. A few years hence, she became that school district’s highly compensated superintendent. The new principal at my then place of employment was a surprise to no one: the former female assistant principal and close confidante of the woman who just moved up to a gilded north shore gig.

During the new principal’s first year on the job, she and I had a disagreement regarding broadcast computer technology, an issue that, for multiple reasons, morphed into a larger school community controversy thanks to some high-profile rabble-rousing on my part. The result of my advocacy was the principal deciding to “reassign” the three-course sequence of successful broadcast journalism classes that I had designed and implemented into the English Department curriculum during the previous principal’s tenure. The stated rationale for this controversial decision was that it was “in the best interest of students.” Gag me.

The remainder of that school year was surreal as my students vigorously protested the “reassignment” of my TV classes, even airing a raucous student protest on the school’s final morning newscast for graduating seniors. I was touched by this public demonstration of student loyalty. Suffice it to say, the principal wasn’t amused by this civic behavior, a form of “good trouble” protest my students had learned in previous journalism courses was arguably First Amendment-protected. The principal could have misapplied existing case law in an attempt to muzzle these students but she most likely determined it wasn’t worth the inevitable negative publicity.

With the support of current and former students, teaching colleagues, parents, and the teacher’s union, I formally challenged the “reassignment” of my TV classes. When push came to shove that spring, however, I lost this battle at the school board level thanks to a superintendent now loath to allow a first-year principal to be bested by a popular teacher... I have an interesting collection of local newspaper articles that document this bizarre, newsworthy episode in my teaching career.

A measure of redemption emerged unexpectedly when the student newspaper staff dedicated their "Senior Issue” to me with a front cover that still brings moisture to my eyes.

The staff seniors – several of whom had taken my TV classes – eloquently praised my professional dedication creating the school’s broadcast journalism program while “inspiring in the hearts and minds of the student body an enduring commitment to seeking truth.”

Et al (Part II)

The administration hired a new guy to teach the school’s broadcast classes for the following school year, Despite this fellow taking over the reigns of my beloved TV program, we gradually became quite good friends during the several years he taught at the high school. This new teacher had the inevitable job that fall of enlisting the trust of students still angry over the “reassignment” of my TV classes the previous spring. Meanwhile, I was now teaching five (count ‘em, five) sections of SPEECH. I taught only public speaking classes for a couple of school years until the principal, in cahoots with the English Department chairperson, hatched a plan to free up schedule space for students to take elective courses by eliminating the school’s decades-old SPEECH requirement. The stated administrative rationale for this dramatic change was dubious: Students speak and listen in classes every day…so why waste time teaching them communication skills? Gag me, please.

I challenged this ridiculous initiative and led the charge to kill the proposal. For a time, it looked like we – a formidable group of students, teachers, parents, and community members – were poised to win the battle when the issue came to the school board for a final vote.
Frustratingly, one board member – who had previously stated his support for keeping the SPEECH requirement– announced during the board meeting that he had suddenly changed his mind after having a “private meeting” with the principal earlier that day. The administration’s nefarious proposal passed by a single vote. Gag me, again. Having had all my broadcast classes “reassigned” and with the SPEECH graduation requirement about to be eliminated, I knew that teaching “regular” English classes under the supervision of the current department chairperson—a man whom I didn’t respect—wasn’t going to be tenable. This particular department chairperson was a quirky individual obsessed with “data-driven instruction.” We later learned this guy had been hired specifically to “shake up” the school’s English Department, many of whom were older, more experienced, and higher-paid teachers. This quasi-administrator had mostly left me alone when I taught TV and public speaking classes outside his subject matter expertise; however, I knew from watching my exasperated colleagues that would change once I was teaching English courses near and dear to his myopic instructional convictions. Realizing that few teens would now voluntarily enroll in a public speaking class, I took a deep sigh, did the requisite planning, and secured a transfer for the following school year teaching 8th grade English and social studies in a middle school in the same school district.

I recall a brief impromptu interaction late in my final school year at the high school with the principal who had just “reassigned” my TV classes. She caught me off guard in the school foyer one day after the school year had concluded as I was moving boxes of teaching materials out of my former classroom. Reveling in the fact that I was leaving the school she managed, the principal approached me and remarked in a voice tinged with feigned sincerity, “You know, Dave, sometimes a change of scenery is good.” I don’t recall my precise response, but I know it wasn’t particularly wry or witty. Exercising restraint, I didn’t say to her what I was thinking at that moment for fear of professional recrimination.

Et al (Part III)

Moving from high school to middle school was a lateral move financially and a challenging transition because I was now working with younger, less mature students. The change was also professionally taxing as I needed to quickly adapt to a completely different school environment and daily schedule. I ultimately chose to abandon the controversial “shit list” activity wisely concluding that this effective but unconventional activity pushed the age-appropriate boundaries for my less mature 7th and 8th graders.

The trials and tribulations of my nearly decade-long, career-ending stint teaching middle school in a suburban middle school could easily be the topic of another memoir piece. Perhaps it will be, someday.

Et al (Part IV)

Several school years later, the principal who “reassigned” my TV classes left that high school in a situation widely described as a “negotiated departure.” Three principals and four superintendents have subsequently run the high school and school district, respectively. The quirky department chairperson who helped eliminate the SPEECH requirement used his contacts to land a plum administrative position at a prestigious high school in the north suburbs...

Et al (Part V)

Two more brief notes, both tragic. The fellow who was hired to teach my broadcast classes left after a couple of years under awkward circumstances requiring yet another faculty member to supervise the program I had first created. Disgruntled and bitter, the teacher who replaced me following the “reassignment” of my TV classes subsequently left the teaching profession and moved back into the advertising consulting industry where he had worked before making a mid-life career change into education. Sadly, he died several years later, suffering a sudden, massive heart attack in his mid-50s at his downtown Chicago residence.

The union president – a faculty colleague and friend who supported me in challenging the principal’s academic censorship decision – accepted an administrative position at a different area high school a few years after the “shit list” fiasco. Several years later, again sadly, she reportedly took her life at age 49. Such a sad, shocking loss her death was, along with a sobering reminder of the importance of taking good care of one’s mental health.

Having taught classes that former students consider “memorable” is a nice professional accolade. So is the knowledge that I once bested school bosses who had crassly attempted to overplay their administrative authority. In the great scheme of things, however, these fleeting, ephemeral accomplishments are insignificant when juxtaposed with the tragic loss of colleagues and friends who have left us far too soon.

Et al (Part VI)

Near the end of my first year teaching middle school, I achieved a modicum of revenge on the principal who had earlier misappropriated my TV classes. First, however, some background information is in order. The previous spring, during my last school year at the high school, I received administrative chastisement for bringing my Australian Shepherd puppy to school one day during final exams. Using the adage it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, I didn’t seek pre-approval from the administration to bring my pup to school, instead surveying my classes in advance to determine if any allergy issues or canine phobias would preclude a visit from my young Aussie. Students had already met my pup via video encounters on the school’s daily TV newscast and were excited to meet her in person, so to speak. Having my puppy at school that spring day was a wonderful experience. My students had a blast interacting with her in between final exam speeches. Equally fun was that staff members and students –many not even in my classes – stopped by throughout the day to check out what was going on after apparently hearing through the school grapevine that a puppy was in the building. It was a memorable school day, indeed.

By the conclusion of that work day, I had received multiple emails from the administration stating tersely that the high school had a “no pets allowed” policy. That news was revelatory, as staff members had previously brought pets into the school building upon occasion without incident and typically without prior approval.

A year later during my first year teaching middle school, I learned from a trusted source that the principal who had “reassigned” my TV classes had recently enlisted an assistant principal to serve as de facto dog sitter during the school day while the principal was reportedly hosting realtor open houses at her home. In a subsequent email dripping with sarcastic irony, I commended my former principal for changing her mind about the school’s pet policy. Once again, she wasn’t amused and I subsequently received a curtly worded email reply in which she told me to mind my own business now that I no longer worked at the high school.

Despite this admonishment, however, the principal didn’t deny my allegation that she used a subordinate school employee for designated pooch care during at least one school day.

Instead, she offered up the lame mitigating excuse that “at no time was my dog in contact with any students.” I can’t recall precisely how I replied. I think it was something to the effect of, ‘How very sad it is that students, faculty, and staff weren’t able to enjoy the company of your dog as they had done when my Aussie pup visited the previous spring.’ Not surprisingly, I soon received from the superintendent the legal equivalent of a “cease and desist” letter. Having accomplished my goal of highlighting this principal’s blatant hypocrisy, and not wanting to risk further disciplinary action, I complied, again wisely.

It’s been nearly two decades since I smuggled that puppy into the high school during final exams. That spirited pooch—the first of three Aussies I’ve owned—enjoyed a full, rich life until passing suddenly, albeit peacefully at age 12. Keeping her memory close to my heart, I wear today around my neck a tiny portion of her ashes in a miniature cremation urn. Like the “memorable” high school public speaking classes I used to teach enthusiastically, I treasure the memories of this canine and the joy she inspired in my life. Ah, full circle.