In the Internet dark ages—1993—I was invited
(coerced, actually) to do a “flyaround” media tour with then-Governor of
Michigan, John Engler, to promote a school funding initiative.  It was kind of fun, in a surreal way. We
started at dawn in Detroit with a few grumpy reporters, and then flew to a
half-dozen cities doing pre-arranged media events with various conscripted audiences
serving as backdrop. Two of our stops were at middle schools, where TV cameras
captured the governor’s remarks to school assemblies.

Being thoroughly familiar with gymnasiums full of
bored 13-year olds, these performances were no big deal to me, but the governor
was more than a little anxious about his prepared remarks and how they would go
over with preadolescents. I reassured him that any school would prepare
students for a gubernatorial visit by threatening kids with serious
consequences for any untoward outbursts. He could expect respectful, quiet
behavior, but couldn’t count on anything like comprehension, let alone enthusiasm,
from the kids.

You may be wondering how I was selected as the
governor’s sidekick for this experience. It was done scientifically, in fact:
the media consultant for the campaign (Republican stalwart Mike Murphy) held a
focus group session, to determine whom Michiganders trusted most on issues of
education. Their #1 pick was the State Teacher of the Year. Since the
governor’s trust numbers were significantly lower, and I was currently serving
as MI Teacher of the Year, I was drafted. The third member of the media team was
the president of the Michigan Education Association, a distinguished-looking
African American gentleman who was not on speaking terms with the governor. The
three of us were an appealing public relations mix, evidently, a diversity dream
team—but the atmosphere on that four-seater plane was pretty frosty.

I also shot a few TV commercials endorsing the
proposal, in a borrowed classroom, which had been tarted up with fake
blackboard writing, Palmer-method penmanship borders and—naturally—an apple or
two.  I didn’t mind doing any of this—I
strongly supported the funding proposal, which represented a shift away from
property taxes that left enormous funding gaps between the wealthy suburban
districts and the generational poverty of tiny community schools in the
northern woods.  But I was repeatedly
struck by the calculated manipulation of symbols and people to make political
points.

I was
supposed to be on tour as decorative moral support, but when the gov’s dry,
wonky remarks fell embarrassingly flat with middle schoolers in Saginaw, he
turned and asked me--surprise!--to say a few words to the students. When I made
them laugh with a comment about how their teachers were strategically placed
next to known outlaws, I was suddenly part of the official program. Somewhere
between Grand Rapids and Traverse City, the governor decided I looked like
Hillary Clinton (a definite stretch, but oh well), and started joking about how
even Hillary thought the proposal was a great idea. That inanity and
accompanying photo made several local newspapers.

Did the governor have the right to shamelessly use
seventh graders as scenery--or make a pitch in a public school, even if that
school would benefit greatly from a funding shift? I would say yes. Just as
much as Barack Obama had the right to urge kids to take responsibility for
their learning, Ronald Reagan had the right to disguise his tax policies as a
history lesson, and George W. Bush had the right to read "My Pet
Goat" in a photo op arranged by his own personal governor, after a night
of Republican fund-raising in Florida. The purpose of schools is not to shield students from politics and media; it's to educate them about those things.

Here's how it works: media is about
attention, and politics is about influence. 
Neither is about considered and noble principles or genuine communal
good. Want to distract attention from an important national speech where someone is
constructing a thoughtful policy argument before your eyes? You aren’t going to
get it with debate or dialogue. So just go ahead and call the guy a liar—better
yet, bawl it out on national TV, knowing that the incident will go viral on
YouTube, the notoriety lasting much longer than any pro forma apology you may
offer later. Attention guaranteed.  Influence? Remains to be seen.

Too bad that South Carolina Congressman Joe "You lie!" Wilson didn’t hear the
principal’s admonitions about appropriate behavior in an assembly. Too bad
there wasn’t a teacher sitting next to him, reminding him that the president
was an honored guest. When we demand respectful behavior from students but
public officials demonstrate appalling rudeness, how can we expect students to
take the policy process seriously?