Brian Libby
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Prep schools are quite misunderstood by the general public, which usually sees these private boarding schools for the college-bound as musty bastions of wealth and privilege secure behind vast bank accounts and supportive alumni. They are tranquil islands of scholarly calm amidst the turbulence of the public schools.
Well, it ain’t necessarily so.
St. Lawrence Academy, an Episcopal boarding school somewhere in the Midwest, has a few problems. The Headmaster is a dyslexic incompetent, the athletic program is afflicted with megalomania, the endowment is emaciated, the chaplain is a black magician, the consultants planning the school’s future are insane . . . and the food is really bad, too.
And Gladly Teach is funny, sarcastic, poignant, outrageous, light-hearted, serious, and more realistic than you would wish to believe. It is also short and has a happy ending. It is highly recommended for reading on long plane rides, at the beach, and at dull faculty meetings (as long as you sit way in back so the Headmaster can’t see you.) The author, a veteran (and completely burned-out) history teacher, hopes the book sells so well that he can retire early.
Brian A. Libby was born in Maine in 1949. He was educated at Cheverus High School in Portland (a Jesuit day school), Johns Hopkins University, the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, and Purdue University. He received his doctorate in History in 1977, his main fields being European military and diplomatic history.
After a year of complete unemployment he began teaching European history at Shattuck-St. Mary’s School in Faribault, Minnesota. He arrived just in time to take a minor part in the revolution which overthrew the Headmaster. In subsequent years he was named department chair, was twice nominated by his colleagues for the ISACS distinguished teacher award, received the Board of Trustees Meritorious Service Award, and was named the first holder of the newly-endowed Cochran-Lang Chair in History. His proudest moment, however, came in 1984, when his students secretly collected contributions and presented him with a Franklin Mint replica of the sword which Napoleon had with him at Waterloo (in his carriage, intending to wear it upon his triumphal entry into Brussels, but something went wrong.)
By 1998 Dr. Libby’s career has reached such a height of success and accomplishment that he suspected he was approaching a nervous breakdown, so he went part-time and began to write. If enough people buy his books (or should he win the state lottery), he will be able to realize his current dream of leaving the educational profession completely.
Brian Libby’s avocations include computer gaming and classical music. His favorite composer is Handel. Both he and Handel are unmarried.
II. ADMISSIONS
Tuition at SLA was $21,000 per year for boarders and $14,000 for day students. Since the school was what is called "tuition-driven," (i.e its endowment wasn’t big enough) it was essential to admit to capacity. Unfortunately, although SLA was very old, it was not in a part of the country with a "boarding school tradition," that is to say families in the Midwest did not readily accept the idea of paying more than what some colleges charge to send their children to a high school when they could send them to a local high school for nothing.
Mr. Leo Carter, the 33-year-old Director of Admissions, and an alumnus of SLA, was the fourth man to fill his post in seven years. (The Headmaster had little patience with people who could not admit enough students.) Mr. Carter loved SLA. He also loved getting a paycheck, and he had a wife and a young son. School was opening in a week and he was twenty-six short of the enrollment target. Mr. Carter sat with his two young admissions assistants, Linda Vail and George Potter. They were both twenty-two, hired fresh out of college to do some useful work like conducting interviews and giving tours. They were bright and eager to do well in their first real jobs. Just now they were reviewing application folders.
"How about this one?" asked George. "Morton Steinkopf. Colorado. Incoming sophomore. Likes to ski."
"Is he bringing a mountain with him?" asked Leo. "Or doesn’t he know we’re in the Great Plains?"
"Isn’t he the one who went berserk at lunch and tried to strangle another student?" asked Linda.
"No, that was Martin Kreeger," replied George. "We’ve already admitted him. Morton is the one who needs two doses of Ritalin a day to keep him from running amok during classes."
There was a pause. Finally Mr. Carter asked, "What is the Steinkopfs’ bottom line?"
George glanced at the last page of the folder. "Full pay," he said.
"Admit," said Leo. "Who’s next?"
"Abigail Pettigill. Pasadena. Incoming junior," said George, taking up another folder. "Very good grades."
Leo looked at the transcript. "Grades in what?" he snorted. The columns indicating the courses which Miss Pettigill had taken in the ninth and tenth grades were a jumble of incomprehensible abbreviations and acronyms.
"What is LanAr?" asked Leo.
"I think it means Language Arts," said Linda.
"Is that the same as English?"
"I think so."
"And what is ‘Comp Comp’?"
"Computer Competency."
"And ‘Ma Con’?"
There was silence. No one knew. They did know about public schools, though. It could be something. It could be nothing. It could be anything. Another pause.
"Well, whatever it is, she got an A in it," George said hopefully.
"And a full pay," added Linda.
"Admit," said Leo. "Who’s next?"
Just then there was a noise in the outer office, the door swung open all the way, and in came a man, a big man, six foot three, 220 muscular pounds, with a wild mane of dark hair, a Herculean chest, and a jaw which Mussolini would have envied: a man of tremendous power and virility, imposing, even intimidating.
"Hello, Lance," said Leo. "How’s the hockey team coming along?"
