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Mr. Bowditch
Nov. 20th, 2021 01:39 pmI usually don't remember my dreams, but I remember the one I had last night. I will tell you about it, but first, I need to tell you a little about Benson Bowditch.
Mr. Bowditch was my social studies teacher in 7th and 9th grade (which were middle school grades in my hometown). He was white-haired and bespectacled, tall and trim, never wore a tie, had a wide smile, and whistled melancholy tunes. He had been a career air force man who had become a schoolteacher, and he grew more left-wing as he aged. In his classes, I discovered that I loved American history. Many years later, when I became a professional historian and published my first book, I thanked him in the acknowledgements and sent him a copy. Years later still, when he died, I went to his memorial service and spoke of his impact on me.
In my dream, I was a participating in a protest. It was like any number of marches and rallies that I have joined since 2017.
I spotted Mr. Bowditch there, in a red flannel shirt. He smiled at me. I was surprised of course to see him, because he was dead. I rushed over and greeted him warmly. Before we could talk, however, I was called up to speak to the crowd. They wanted to hear from me, because I knew the history of the cause we were fighting for. In my speech, I pointed out Mr. Bowditch, conspicuous in his red shirt, and said, There is the man who made me a historian! I discreetly did not mention that he was dead.
The protest ended, and I lost sight of him. But I found the organizers and told them: The man in audience I had pointed out, the man in the red shirt, who had made me a historian, was in fact dead. I had even spoken at his memorial service. And with tears in my eyes, I said, "Even the dead are with us!"
Mr. Bowditch was my social studies teacher in 7th and 9th grade (which were middle school grades in my hometown). He was white-haired and bespectacled, tall and trim, never wore a tie, had a wide smile, and whistled melancholy tunes. He had been a career air force man who had become a schoolteacher, and he grew more left-wing as he aged. In his classes, I discovered that I loved American history. Many years later, when I became a professional historian and published my first book, I thanked him in the acknowledgements and sent him a copy. Years later still, when he died, I went to his memorial service and spoke of his impact on me.
In my dream, I was a participating in a protest. It was like any number of marches and rallies that I have joined since 2017.
I spotted Mr. Bowditch there, in a red flannel shirt. He smiled at me. I was surprised of course to see him, because he was dead. I rushed over and greeted him warmly. Before we could talk, however, I was called up to speak to the crowd. They wanted to hear from me, because I knew the history of the cause we were fighting for. In my speech, I pointed out Mr. Bowditch, conspicuous in his red shirt, and said, There is the man who made me a historian! I discreetly did not mention that he was dead.
The protest ended, and I lost sight of him. But I found the organizers and told them: The man in audience I had pointed out, the man in the red shirt, who had made me a historian, was in fact dead. I had even spoken at his memorial service. And with tears in my eyes, I said, "Even the dead are with us!"
