Which one of you is Eiki Martinson?
A Tale of Geek Triumph
This story is true. No names have been "changed to protect the innocent" - the innocent are here honored and need no protection. The guilty deserve what they get (although they were probably humiliated enough!).
There were a few years towards the end of my primary schooling in which all students were required to attend a Computer class twice a week. This was always a nice break from the usual indignities of middle school, and a chance for me to show off my programming skills. In those days the lab was equipped with various examples of the Apple 2 and some neglected Commodores. I was still using a rather old but much loved Apple ][e as my home computer and had been programming it for years; mostly writing simple graphics programs and games (as I write this I'm thinking: get this kid a unix!). Owing to this knowledge I quickly acquired a special position in the class - I taught more BASIC than I learned, took on a considerable share of other student's questions, and was asked to fix the machines on occasion. It would be an overstatement to say that this experience made me a computer geek; I had long since started down that path and would have continued in any event. However, I should thank the teacher, one Mrs. Hash, because in this class I had the rare (in public or even private education) experience of being always, except once, treated with respect and humanity.
This tale is concerned with that one exception. There were a few days in the seventh grade when our usual computer lab teacher was absent for some reason. At this school a pool of substitute teachers was employed, most of which with no special qualifications but still deemed competent to teach any class; during these few days we drew one Mrs. DiGiorno. Her manner made immediately obvious a deep ignorance and fear of computers and technology - she wasn't expecting to cover this class. "But", she told herself, "the regular teacher left instructions. You can DO this!". And so, clutching tight her clipboard with its supply of step-by-step instructions, she made ready to Teach. "Do the name-on-the-board thing, that'll be good for a few minutes..."
The assigned objective was to type a BASIC program and run it. Memory fails, but it was probably intended to impress the kids with some ASCII visual effects. I had long since discovered the graphics modes of the Apple ][ and thought the expected program far too obvious, but I knew that, with a substitute in place, I would not be left to my own devices as I usually was. But at least I could write my own program, fulfill the objectives in my own way, instead of simply typing in the given code! I set out to do so, starting with my usual signature: a couple of lines that printed a title and "By: Eiki Martinson".
A piercing shriek left my fingers hovering over the keys. "What are you doing!?!?" screamed DiGiorno. "That's not what you're supposed to be typing!"
Sure of both my superior knowledge and of the right way to teach a programming class, I responded: "I'm just ..."
"No! NO! You do not 'just'!" - embarrassingly, variants of this inanity were popular among the teachers at this school. I imagine it was a stock response designed to exasperate smart-ass students that had arrived at the perfect excuse.
I continued on my theme: "The changes don't make any difference!"
"FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS EXACTLY!" she bellowed, almost shaking with rage, the instant escalation making obvious (at least, it does now) her fear: that she would be no match for my superior knowledge, and therefore lose control of the class.
Defeated, I turned to my terminal and made a show of erasing the offending code. She stalked off to check on the other students, who would have followed the instructions to the letter even without the spectacle they had witnessed. I burned with shame and writhed in anger; slowly hammered each key with furious emphasis; muttered oaths quietly. No twelve-year-old is a stranger to this feeling, and many have probably even been in the right from the perspective of an intelligent adult, but rarely are they rewarded with the complete, beautiful revenge I was to receive.
Ten minutes later Mrs. DiGiorno was standing in the next aisle of computers where one of the students had asked for help. Something must have gone wrong with one of the machines; she consulted her instructions, hoping for advice. Finding it, she turned and surveyed the class. And then she spoke the words that still taste of sweet vengeance and richly-deserved justice: "I'm supposed to ask for help from one of the students. Which one of you is Eiki Martinson?".
Heh heh heh.
I sat back in my chair and raised my hand, what must have been an absolutely insufferable smirk spreading across my face. Fighting to remain unperturbed, she asked her question. Some sense of propriety made me answer as evenly as I could, not easy considering that my brain was reeling with joy. She never apologized or made any reference to this humiliation. The college-educated adult, backed by the weight of school authority, could not apologize to the wronged seventh grader. How sweet her silence - the ultimate proof of total victory! No apology could have been as satisfying.
I almost felt sorry for her!