Summary

A harsh and unforgiving environment, Alaska is at the same time inspirational and eloquent in its grandeur, a mystical place, populated by bears and whales, moose and people who are resilient and resourceful.

Set against the background of Interior Alaska, Just Enuf to Get By tells the story of a young man from a wealthy East Coast family who travels to Alaska to take a job teaching history at Wien High School in Fairbanks. Thousands of miles from home, literally and figuratively, Tom Duckworth struggles during his first year of teaching, unable to relate to his immature and undisciplined students.

A fellow rookie teacher, Merle Lucas, born and raised in Fairbanks, struggles as well. She has difficulty reconciling her idealism with the apathy and indifference of her students.

Just Enuf to Get By follows the trials and tribulations (and accomplishments) of Tom Duckworth and Merle Lucas during their second year of teaching. Mentored by a pair of veterans, the two young teachers confront the challenges and aggravations typical of many public schools in the U.S. - - - motivating, encouraging and disciplining students, finding time to plan lessons, grade papers, fill out paperwork, keep up with technological advancements, resolve conflicts between students, contact parents... attend meetings, stay abreast of pedagogical developments, take classes, keep a sense of humor, congratulate kids on a sterling musical performance or winning the big game, figure out what ‘diagnostic differentiators’ means, dry a few tears, do lunch duty, fulfill administrative requests... make copies, chaperone dances, cuss the network when it goes down just before grades are due, try not to roll your eyes when students whine, “Do we have to do this?”, ferret out plagiarism and cheating, align the curriculum... meet the standards, take away teenager’s cell phones and get to the lunch room before all the donuts are gone.

Excerpt

Parent-teacher conferences, no matter how well little Johnny or Susie was doing in class and even if I knew the parent to be a reasonable, well-adjusted individual concerned solely with the academic progress of his daughter, had always been stressful for me. Parents could look up their kid’s grades on the Internet at any time. The first-quarter marks that had been recently mailed home didn’t show up on a student’s transcript, the document colleges examined when considering admission, but they were important at home. At some homes anyway. So, in the weeks leading up to report cards, students who had been indifferent about grades, possibly to impress friends with their independence and cool, their teenage savoir faire, showed a renewed interest in their school work if there’d be hell to pay at home for low marks. When approached by a student under those circumstances, I enjoyed playing stupid. It could be quite entertaining. For me anyway.

“Mr. Calhoun, can I still turn in that assignment?”

“Which assignment is that, Tyler?”

“Uhh...You know, the assignment we did.”

“We”ve done a couple dozen assignments since the beginning of school. Could you be a little more specific?” Unprepared for this line of questioning, undoubtedly feeling that I should have intuited his demands and compensated for his lack of preparation, the student appeared stultified.

“Uhhh....I don’t know, that assignment we did.”

“Of course, you can turn it in,” I told him, magnanimous teacher that I was, taking a tiny gamble since my policy allowed homework and class work to be turned in a day late for half credit.

“Do you have it completed?”

“Uhhhhh....” he said, trying to buy time. “Can I bring it in tomorrow?”

The ‘Uhhh ’ sound elicited by the student before each response had grown progressively longer during our conversation, commiserate with the realization dawning upon the student that he was screwed. He no more had that assignment, any assignment, to turn in than I had a chance of winning a wrestling match with an injured grizzly I surprised while she nursed two newborn cubs. Either the kid was not bold enough to ask me if I’d give him another copy of the assignment or he’d been unable to find someone he could get it from.

Finally, in desperation, as the prospect of not getting to play video games for two weeks and only being allowed to watch PBS documentaries about marsupials sank in, the student asked, “Is there any extra credit?”

At various times in my career, I simply said, “No.” I have also elongated the “Nooooooooo” for dramatic effect. I have said no way, unt-uh, nope, not likely, not possible, forget about it, not in a million years, not if you pay me, not on your life. I have inquired of the student, with a perfectly straight face, “What’s extra credit?” I have guffawed, comically slapping my knee. But I have never allowed them to do any extra credit. I have given extra credit on occasion when a student did outstanding work on an assignment, but like it said in large type on the syllabus I passed out at the beginning of the year---Absolutely No Extra Credit.

“Do the work in class, hand everything in, make an effort, study for tests and quizzes and you don’t need a bail out when you discover your grade isn’t what your parents expect it to be,” I explained the first day of class.

“Does your employer reward you for not showing up to work? What happens when you have kids and you’ve neglected them for some reason? Do you think that buying them something really makes up for the fact that you haven’t shown a genuine interest in them?”

Some students claimed that I was ‘mean’ because of that policy, but there were students who thought a teacher was mean if he didn’t allow students to doodle in their textbooks, show up late for no reason or talk in class while you lecture. So, mean it was. And proud of it.

Occasionally, I had the disheveled student in class, the hopelessly disorganized kid, who approached me with a dog-eared, soda-stained piece of paper he uncrumpled. He held it up like it was the most significant archeological discovery since the Rosetta Stone, his face a mixture of pride and uncertainty, and I’m wondering, meanwhile, if I shouldn’t put on rubber gloves before touching it.

“Marc, you do realize that this is English class and you’re trying to pawn off an assignment from science?” I protested. “I’m not senile yet.”

“I thought it was worth a try, Mr. Calhoun.”

And then there was the common misconception that I was the Anti-Claus of the education world. Instead of dropping off presents children requested, I put grades they didn’t want under the Christmas tree.

“You GAVE me a D,” one student cried, possibly suffering cell phone withdrawal.

“No, Jason,” I countered. “You EARNED a D.” Somehow the concept of a student earning a grade that required minimal effort was foreign to me, but I no more indiscriminately gave grades to students than judges committed the crimes they passed sentence upon.