Ode on Bloom’s Taxonomy

Level One is knowledge.

It doesn’t require college.

Two is comprehension –

not too tough if you pay attention.

Level Three is application,

when you can use the information.

Analysis is Level Four.

Take stuff apart, and you’ll learn more.

Level Five is to Evaluate,

to say if something’s lame or great.

Six is Creation, or Synthesis.

It all adds up to make up this.

Chip Meister

Mr. Bulk

Friday morning, Tithe Kelley found Mr. Bulk, Mann Middle School’s History teacher, standing high atop a ladder that straddled the entrance to his room. Mickey Mendelson, who was afraid of nearly everything, refused to walk under the ladder and remained in the hall with adamancy. 

From up-top the ladder, Mr. Bulk praised Mickey as, “One strong enough to stand apart from the crowd”; yet dismissed him as, “One naive enough to believe in superstition.” 

From on high, Mr. Bulk explained to us that he was disconnecting the squawk box located in the upper corner of his room. “This communication device,” he said, “is as much about monitoring as it is about information.” He stretched his hands toward the fluorescent lights and yelled in a high-pitched voice at the principal as if he were inside the box, “Mr. Blaugh, are we testing enough?” 

Mr. Bulk shouted that his hope was that “the incompetent administration has learned something about rebellion from listening to my lectures, but,” he shouted, “no more free lunches!”

Mr. Bulk whispered to us, “Another more pragmatic reason for the kill switch is to quell the incessant and constant interruptions, ever present,’” he punctuated the words and underlined the air with his finger.

At that moment, Mrs. Early, Horace Mann’s Administrative Assistant, blurted out very loudly as if she were sitting right inside the squawk box with a megaphone how much she “Regretted it, but would Mr. Bulk please send the attendance sheets to the school office. Immediately!”   

“Will do, Mrs. Early,” Mr. Bulk replied from atop the ladder. 

All Tithe could see from his desk was a tangle of wires, but he heard Mr. Bulk’s voice coming out of the hole in the wall into which he had inserted his head. “This kill switch better damn well work,” he said too loudly.  

There were so many stories circulating about Mr. Bulk. There was a story about Mr. Bulk yelling, “Quit farting around!” to Lunzie Hoodie and Geo Jens, who made mischief by fashioning a paper mache penis for the plaster turkey Mr. Bulk hung from the ceiling for Thanksgiving. Story goes: Lunzie and Geo were not sure where the turkey’s penis belonged or if turkeys even had penises so they stuck it to the center of its chest with Super Glue. 

There was the story about Mr. Bulk standing on top of his desk waving around a large dull knife demanding to know the definition of freedom. When Lunzie Hoodie said “the right to do anything,” Mr. Bulk stuck the knife in the desk for freedom’s sake and said, “Anything?” 

“Within reason,” Lunzie Hoodie choked back his reply. 

There was the story about when Mr. Bulk stripped down to his long underwear and changed into George Washington with a wig and false teeth.

As the year progressed—students spent their time distributing tales about Mr. Bulk, who they steadfastly believed materialized from his desk each morning. 

In the middle of Billy Bremmis’ morning announcements, Mr. Bulk said, “Now for my damned test.” From high, he tossed down a device that very nearly looked like a garage door opener with an antenna to Mendleson. “Hit the switch, kid!” Mendelson did not have to be asked twice and killed Billy Bremmis’ annoying voice in mid-syllable. “Squelch!”

Mr. Bulk then encouraged Mendelson to press the button again. This time we heard Mrs. Early talking about the pulled pork sandwiches and tater-tots on the lunch menu. . . then, we heard Mr. Blah mumbling to himself about budgets and the schedule. . . then, we heard our math teacher Ms. Guilable say, “Puzzler: A certain dog whistle operates at 23.5khz, while another brand X operates at an unknown frequency. If neither whistle can be heard by humans when played separately but a shrill whine of frequency 5kHz occurs when they play simultaneously, estimate the operating frequency of brand X.” then we heard our old history teacher Mr. Iamb going on about Siberia and 20 million Russians lost in WWII. . .then, we heard Ms. Robbers reading, “When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!”

Mr. Bulk informed us that throwing the kill switch was an “act of not-so-passive resistance,” and, he continued, “from here on this will be our designated form of non-compliance. Besides,” he said and looked directly at Tithe, “any really important news will find ways to filter through.” 

At that moment, Mrs. Early squawked, “Sorry once again for the interruption! Mr. Bulk but would you please send a student down with the attendance sheets!” From high, Mr. Bulk pointed to Tithe. “Will you do the honors?”

Tithe emitted a great steady groan, found his way to Mr. Bulk’s desk, and picked up the attendance forms and ran full-force into Mendelson, who he forgot was blocking the hallway. The Squawk Box’s control antennae detached, and, to Tithe’s dismay, found itself firmly entrenched up his nose.

Tithe imagined that the class on any other day and in any other circumstance would have laughed but this day had just been so strange with the ladder and Mr. Bulk’s lecture and Mendelson standing in the hallway and the spectacle that was the antenna protruding from his nose that the class was silent, except for Mr. Bulk who continued to lecture about free speech from high atop his ladder. Mr. Bulk, like all good teachers, had not two but four eyes—two in the back of his head—began to recognize something was happening right under his own nose.  

Mendelson pressed the kill switch. 

And, from Tithe issued such a great barrage of words: “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Mendelson hit the button again. “I’ve seen the best minds of my generation” . . . Then, “I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. . .” Then, “Remember, remember always, that all of us, and you and I especially, are descended from immigrants and revolutionists. . .” Then, “This is the story of America. Everybody’s doing what they think they’re supposed to do.”

Mr. Bulk began to make his way step-by-step down the ladder, fairly muttering because he had still not fully completed his work. Tithe spoke about the hidden homeless “everywhere but nowhere.” He debated with himself about the rights of man.

Both Mendelson and Mr. Bulk now stood in front of Tithe alternatively pressing the kill switch. Tithe issued forth, “I love the man that can smile in trouble, that can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. ‘Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles unto death.”

Mann students listened politely. The girls fluttered their eyes up into their heads. The boys’ eyes threatened to open up a can of whoop-ass if he dared say anything more. 

Mr. Bulk told Mendelson to accompany Tithe down to the school nurse. But, Mendelson pushed the button once more as if in defiance: “Yes. Our country has been built on the foundation of ignorance and pushes ahead anyway; at Mann Middle, no matter what history we construct about this singular event, we are still and will forever be the great unwashed society of ignorant teens, who think we know and understand much more than we do. And, yet I am proud to report, Mr. Bulk, that we do understand a kind of history. Still, Sir, we will, with or without you, surge ahead without remorse; we will suffer the consequences later.”

“That may be true,” Mr. Bulk replied, “but it’s not very useful.”  

Thus, this, too, became another fabled story in Mr. Bulk’s classroom. The classroom students tuned in daily—a show Tithe didn’t like exactly but couldn’t stop listening or watching. 

J. Bradley Minnick