I wrote a flash fiction piece—called 'Hashtag smart'—about a teacher, Mr. Stanley, in an 11th grade English class overrun every morning by a group of 10th grade boys. Discover quirky student banter, T.S. Eliot echoes, and a nostalgic, witty classroom vibe.
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| Mr. Stanley and His Second Period English Language Arts Class |
Hashtag Smart
Tuesday morning, 8:56 AM. My second-period English Language Arts class. My class is 11th graders—some already seated, a copy of T.S. Eliot’s “Journey of the Magi” scattered neatly on every particleboard desk. Adolescents shuffle in, earbuds firmly planted, eyes downcast, looking like they just tumbled in from sleep. It’s an unusually tepid March day, and the AC in my room is blasting like it’s the middle of July. Why? My classroom still has these ancient 1950s grill heaters that think it’s their job to keep us all toasty—even in March.
“It’s a sauna in here,” I say out loud, but to no one in particular. Allan, a mobile gamer aficionado, who’s always a beat behind—like he’s buffering—enters the room.
“Hi, Allan,” I offer.
He responds, “Huh?”
“Hi,” I say. I wait a beat. And then—“Oh, hey, Mr. Stanley.” Robbie, the athlete, is already dribbling an imaginary basketball. A mess of them. But these boys are not in my class. “Feral golden retrievers,” I dub them—left teacherless for a few minutes because their real teacher is perennially late, trekking from her homeroom on the top floor. So, these 10th-grade boys have taken to nesting in my room until she arrives. It’s become a bit of a ritual, and who am I to ruin their squatter status?
There are ditches I no longer die in.
Enrique, stabbing Quentin with the blunt end of a ball-point pen, tells me, “Mr. Stanley, did you know the teacher who’s going to replace you did like a lesson in Ms. Patil’s class yesterday?” I was quitting after teaching in the same school for sixteen years. I had broken the news to the kids just a few days prior. But it still felt raw. Premature. But I offered demurely, “Oh, really? How’d it go?” Enrique grins, “He kept saying ‘hashtag smart’ every time someone answered a question.” Marsha, one of my quirkier students, and actually on my second-period roster, chimes in, “Hashtag smart? That’s so stupid.”
I secretly relished her response. A kind of commiseration.
A tinny voice from the hallway—“Don’t be tardy, y’all,” and the stragglers, reluctant, evacuate.
Flash forward. June.
I’m packing up books, and those loitering-sophomore boys from second period show up in my room. They’d just finished their finals, and here they were as if it were two minutes before second period. We chat about summer plans—Anton’s off to summer camp, Robbie might visit family in Belize, and Yuvraj, the one I call “The Prince,” is still insisting he’s a better writer than I am.
Then silence. I take the initiative. And walk towards the door. And like a dismissal, the boys depart. And I stood there in my vacant room. But one of the boys—Yuvraj, the Prince, pokes his head back in—“Hey, Mr. Stanley. Hashtag smart!” And before I can rejoinder—he’s gone. I cross my arms across my chest. A wan smile settles there. And, as T.S. Eliot might say, it was satisfactory.
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