"Good job, Mr. Collins."

It's rare that an episode of television is written as superbly as this episode of The Wonder Years. I was never a regular viewer of The Wonder Years, but I happened to catch the episode entitled "Goodbye" in reruns, and I have remembered it ever since. In the episode, Kevin Arnold, the protagonist of the series, decides he wants to do better at Algebra, and his math teacher, Mr. Collins, having correctly interpreted Kevin's oblique after-class comments as a desire to improve, suggests that they start meeting after school to work on math. They do meet, and Kevin does improve with the help of the stern, "all business" Mr. Collins. When Kevin tries to arrange a meeting before the big midterm, however, Mr. Collins declines, citing "appointments" and suggesting Kevin do some extra work on his own. Kevin, feeling rejected by his mentor, says "I thought you were my friend." Mr. Collins replies, "Not your friend, Mr. Arnold. Your teacher." (The episode is brilliant for that bit of dialogue alone, as it provides an antidote to all the Dead Poets Society, teacher-as-non-conformist-pal tripe that's rampant in cultural depictions of pedagogy.) Kevin, in a childish attempt to get back at Mr. Collins, deliberately fails the midterm. He regrets it, though, and when, some days later, he goes to the faculty room to find Mr. Collins, he learns from the principal that Mr. Collins has died the previous evening (he had had a heart condition that his students were unaware of). The principal summons Kevin after school that day to inform him that Mr. Collins had graded all of the midterm exams before he died, but he appeared to have "misplaced" Kevin's exam. He shows Kevin a blank exam at the top of which Mr. Collins himself had written Kevin's name. The principal then has Kevin sit for the exam. Kevin finishes the exam, gives it to the principal, and says, "You don't have to grade it. It's an 'A.'" Before he walks out of the classroom, he turns back to the desk, envisions Mr. Collins looking back at him, and says, "Good job, Mr. Collins."

Part of the greatness of this episode, for me, is the suggestion that Mr. Collins has taught Kevin some profound "extra-mathematical" lessons precisely by adhering strictly to his role, and by testifying, through that adherence, to the dignity of that role. He doesn't do impressions of John Wayne and shout "Carpe diem!" at the least provocation. He doesn't -- a la Sidney Poitier -- teach his students how to make a salad (full disclosure: To Sir With Love is a guilty pleasure of mine). He doesn't speak to the kids "in their own language." He teaches math, and he does it well. And he rigorously guards the boundary between teacher and student that kids, hoping to "be friends" with their teachers, often attempt to transgress. For his efforts, he is deeply respected, though not necessarily beloved.

Mr. Collins reminds me that those of us who are parents or teachers are not in this to be liked. We're in it so that, in the end, the children in our care will pass the test. I like the idea of "being friends" with my children, but that's something that won't happen until they're adults themselves. On the other hand, I fervently hope that my children will one day be able to look back at their childhood and say "good job" to me.