Oh I loved history class. I was lucky enough to have two overly qualified teachers for history, one in seventh grade, and then another for 11/12 grade history classes.
The seventh grade one made a point of basically being like “LOOK AT THIS STUPID THING THIS PERSON DID. HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF. DO NOT BE THE MORON THAT REPEATS HISTORY.” Which was hilariously effective for a bunch of thirteen year kids.
My 11/12 teacher literally had two master degrees and a doctorate and was working on a second doctorate and for whatever reason, decided that teach history to a bunch of teenagers at a tiny school in Alaska was what he was supposed to do?
He changed my life.
Not only was he ridiculously smart and knew EVERYTHING I could ever want to know? He was also that weird sort of ageless so when he talked about the Civil War we all looked at each other like “yeah, he was definitely there for that. Definitely.”
This actually happened in class one day, I swear to god.
We were talking about the JFK assassination, and he knew all this weird stuff about it that wasn’t in our history book or online or like… anything! So my smart ass (and super hot) friend sort of scoffed about the whole “second shooter/gunman on the grassy knoll” thing?
And my teacher deadass walked over to his Always Locked and Therefore Mega Mysterious closet, pulled out this tiny key from a necklace under his shirt to open the lock, rummaged around and came back out with this old shovel with a flour sack cloth around the metal part?
He pulls off the sack, tosses the shovel at my friend. Dirt rains off the shovel and then we are all staring at dark reddish brown stains on the top of the shovel and my teacher goes “well if there wasn’t a second shooter who the hell did I bury?”
themusechronicles 