Columnist Jon Ralston: The dog ate their homework

Friday, Nov. 22, 2002 | 4:11 a.m.

"What does this mean?" the avuncular teacher asked his 63 students, thinking to himself that this group's retarded learning ability was a perfect argument for class-size reduction.

Most of the students either looked down at their desks or blankly at the professor. But Ann O'Connell's hand shot up and she declared, "Professor, you haven't said anything all semester about raising taxes. In fact, you haven't said much of anything. And now you just expect us to accept this?"

Behind O'Connell, a few students nodded earnestly. Sandra Tiffany and Barbara Cegavske tittered. "They never should have let us into this advanced class," Cegavske whispered to Tiffany. Tiffany smiled and whispered back, "They have no idea the trouble we are going to cause."

Nearby, an older student in the front row turned and hissed at the pair. "Cut it out," chided Bill Raggio. "Listen to the professor. Treat him with deference. Respect your elders."

Mischief-maker Dennis Nolan, wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with "The South shall rise again," smiled at Raggio. Then as Raggio, a longtime boss of one clique of students, turned to face Guinn, Nolan slowly raised his index finger behind his leader's back. Tiffany and Cegavske tried to stifle laughter.

Guinn gazed sternly at his students and asked, "How many of you have even read the report I assigned you, the one called, 'Analysis of Fiscal Policy in Nevada'?"

No hands went up.

"How can you speak intelligently without doing your homework," the professor lamented. "If you haven't taken the time to read this extensive report, which a task force took months to create, how can you learn anything. Think before you speak."

Laughter rippled through the classroom. "He's one to talk," Lynn Hettrick whispered to Bob Beers. "He expects us to buy that mandate crap when everything we've been taught tells us different. I'm against it, no matter what he says."

Beers smiled wryly. "Me, too," he said, as others in their small but growing clique nodded.

Among those not showing approval, though, was Josh Griffin, who wore a "Future Leaders of America" lapel pin. Griffin, who had beaten out Beers for a better classroom seat, didn't want to get the professor mad.

Guinn was scribbling on the board again, drawing boxes and arrows. "This is the budget," he said. He crossed out a box. "That's the Rainy Day Fund," the professor said. "That's gone." Then he crossed out a few more boxes -- "See, Ann, there goes the state motor pool and the state printer. And not even a dent. There's no money. Why can't you kids get this?"

Next to Raggio sat another leading student, Richard Perkins, who led the biggest clique in the school. Perkins whispered to the leader of the rival faction: "I thought I wanted to be a professor someday. But this doesn't look like much fun."

In the second row, a couple of hands went up. Guinn ignored them. They started waving their hands around, begging for attention. The professor pretended not to notice.

Finally, Dina Titus spoke up without being called on. "You are going to have to listen to us eventually, Mr. Guinn," the southern student drawled. "Even if you have to come on bended knee."

Sitting next to Titus, Barbara Buckley piped in: "Why don't you care about what we think, professor. Maybe we have some ideas you should consider."

Professor Guinn suppressed his anger as best he could. ("Who do these two women think they are, challenging my authority," he wondered to himself. "I'll ask for their input the day Carson City freezes over. Wait a second. That generally happens about the time the session starts in February.")

A few of the nervous freshmen started to thumb through the list of scheduled guest lecturers:

Professor Bill Bible of the Nevada Resort Association on "Anyone But Us -- How we continue to try to tax business folks and they beat our brains out."

Professor Sam McMullen of the Chamber of Commerce: "The Bait and Switch -- How to promise to help and then skip out when it comes time to pay."

Professor Ken Lange of the Nevada State Education Association: "Insatiable -- Whatever you give us, it's not enough and never will be."

Professor Jay Kornmayer of Wells Fargo: "Free ride -- How to use Nevada as an ATM, withdrawing money with no fees."

By now the classroom was abuzz with chattering. A frustrated Guinn finally put down his chalk and glared at the students. "All right, you don't want to listen," he fulminated. "Fine. Then here's your assignment. By February, I want from each of you a plan to fill the budget hole and how much more than that you think is needed to properly fund this growing state. It's time for all of you to stop just sitting there and take a stand. And if you don't, I'm going to call all of you back for summer school, and that's a special session you won't like."

And with that, Professor Guinn stormed out of the classroom. One by one, each member of the Gang of 63 followed, wondering how to fulfill the responsibility they had accepted without angering the professor or all of the people at home who were counting on them.