I can describe the space--a small science lab with the requisite black-topped benches, bunsen burner connections, cabinets of equipment, and tall stools. I can describe the teacher--tweed jacket, balding with a longish fringe of what was once likely ginger hair, and a trimmed beard that matched--the closest thing to professorial in the school. I can name a few of the students--Carolyn, Val, Mark, Paul.... I can describe one experiment, but only, I suspect, because it was a repeat of an experiment we had done in 8th grade.
And that's the thing.
I remember nothing about what we learned. Okay, so maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. But if I do recall something, it is only the vaguest of vague general principles.
I've long known that I didn't really learn much in high school, despite the grades I received--grades that allowed me to attend an excellent college. (In my case, grades were definitely no indicators of learning.) At one point, I'm sure I thought it was because I wasn't taught very well. It was, after all, the '70s, and rural Vermont.
But today, digging around a science curriculum and finding little that was familiar, I also realized why. I was so caught up in my own misery--isolated, alone, and, though I didn't recognize it at the time, angry--that I didn't have the mental space for real learning. English and music were the classes I most enjoyed, because they allowed me escape. (Not that I learned that much about music as a system, alas.)
This realization lead to another: The triad of teacher-curriculum-student bears more than a passing resemblance to the triad of author-book/story-reader. Just as the teacher can't guarantee student learning, an author can't guarantee reader enjoyment. Not every class is for every student, not every book is for every reader. All we can do is have faith that our work will connect with some reader, somewhere, as long as we use all our craft to tell the best story we know.