Rules cut career short

My career in science ended because of Robert’s Rules of Order.
Let me explain, or try to.
Back in ninth grade — roughly the same time as the 100 Years War or the Second Ice Age — I was gung-ho for science.
Billy Norris was my biology teacher, and he was a charismatic guy. He was smart, articulate and fired up.
It was his idea that the junior high (in that era, ninth grade was part of junior high not high school) should have a science club.
At some point, that morphed into a math-science club, probably to attract more students, though there’s a good chance that the same nerdiness about science carried over to math, and we were getting the same kids.
For some reason — probably the result of Billy Norris’s energy — the math-science club took off. And for reasons that I still cannot fathom, I ended up as its president.
What was remarkable about the club was that there was no equivalent at the high school level.
In fact, Mr. Norris (I still cannot bring myself to call him Billy) had a hard time pitching the idea to the high school faculty. He was a new teacher and a little brash, and that didn’t go down so well with the likes of Ralph Settle.
Ralph Settle had taught chemistry and physics at Portland High School roughly since the year of 1812 or the Gadsden Purchase, whichever came first.
And he had little patience with the folderol of student organizations.
In fact, he had little patience with students at all.
At some point, there was an effort to try to get the club to carry on into the upper grades. Mr. Norris lobbied Mr. Settle intensely, inviting him to meetings, pitching the idea.
And he was making some headway.
But then I created some hurdles.
As I recall, the club had been conducting some sort of fundraiser, as school extra-curricular organizations always seem to be doing. My recollection is that we were supposed to be selling Christmas cards, and they weren’t selling very well.
At a club meeting, members griped endlessly about the Christmas card project. The conversation became circular and was going absolutely nowhere. And I was supposed to be presiding over the proceedings.
For that chore, I was incompetent. The talk went on and on, and I didn’t have a clue as to how to stop it.
Mr. Settle did.
Worn out by the endless prattle, he spoke up harshly from the back of the room and told us — with perfect accuracy — that we were behaving like nitwits and that none of this had to do with math or science.
In retrospect, he was absolutely right.
But retrospect is easy.
Being in the moment is hard.
Faced with this challenge I began to panic.
That’s when my buddy Neil leaned in and told me confidently, “He’s out of order.”
And he was right, according to Robert’s Rules of Order.
But not according to the realities of the ninth grade.
Seconds after Neil whispered those words, I banged the gavel and said, to my eternal dismay, “You’re out of order!”
And right there, my life in science ended.
I had gaveled down one of the toughest, most demanding, most challenging teachers in the high school. Both of us were stunned.
I have no idea how the rest of the meeting went or whether we ever sold those Christmas cards. All I know is that I had publicly offended a powerful teacher.
A teacher whose chemistry course I would take the next year.
I survived the class, though I was the worst lab partner in the history of high school chemistry. (If you doubt that, ask Ruth Ann Widman at Jay-Randolph Developmental Services. She was my partner.)
And as to Neil?
He went on to a successful career in science and was one of Mr. Settle’s favorite students.
I doubt that Robert’s Rules of Order was necessary along the way.[[In-content Ad]]