Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.

Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, please review!

John Keating: Then and Now

I rushed down Welton Academy's main hall, overwhelmed with memories of a school I hadn't set foot in in 15 years. Demerits, Mr. Keating, I thought ruefully as I approached the door to the Welton conference room. I was my first staff meeting, and I was late. I opened the door softly and tried slip in quietly.

With the click of the door latch, thirty-one teachers turned to stare at me. Dr. Nolan glared at the man who had interrupted his speech. "Ah, Mr. Keating. You can't blame this one on getting lost."

"No, sir. I apologize." I put my briefcase down and slid into an available seat.

"As I was saying, this is a preparatory school. This means college. You are not parents, friends, or psychologists. You are teachers. I expect the boys' days filled with lessons and their nights filled with homework.

"Now, if we turn to page one of the Welton Academy Teachers' Handbook…"

I smiled. Nothing has changed.

I sat once again in the first pew of the chapel, watching the 'Light of Knowledge' being passed from boy to boy. Only this time, I was a teacher, dressed in a dark blue robe and not allowed to laugh at Nolan's speech as I had once laughed at those just like it from my Headmaster. Instead, I sat there trying to look solemn, and stood up when my name was called, facing the boys and their parents. Did any of them care? Did any of them want to be there?

Later I took my meager belongings to the Teacher's Quarters. I settled into a small room and took in my surroundings. A desk and a bookcase, a dresser and a bed. The walls white and dreary, the curtains brown and dusty. It was exactly like everything else at Welton: dull and made for studying.

I heard a knock at my open door and turned around. It was another teacher, short, a little pudgy, but looking at me with a kind expression. "Hello, I'm Ian McAlistair."

"John Keating." I shook his hand.

"Bit daunting on the first day, isn't it?"
"Yeah, a little. It was more daunting when I was a student, though." He chuckled.

"I imagine it was. But I see it in your eye."

"What?"

"Every new teacher that comes to this school has it. The 'I'm going to make students care about my subject. I'm going to change their lives,' look."

"Well, I do like to think that I have some influence."

"You do, John, you do. But they're better off without fantasies."

"You really believe so?"

"Yes … But what am I telling you this for? You know it, you attended this school! I just came in to wish you good luck and tell you that Dr. Nolan doesn't allow tea kettles in teacher's rooms." We both glanced at my kettle. "So I'd hide that."

"Thanks." I regarded this hard-hearted realist with some optimism. "I'll see you at supper?"

"Yes." He left the room and I continued unpacking, thinking about our conversation.

The next day was my first day of teaching. I was nervous but managed to make it through to the afternoon by following the curriculum left to me by the previous teacher. It was the senior years I was worried about, there was so little time for them, they were nearly robots already. I wanted to show them that there was a life beyond Welton- beyond homework and rules and demerits. I sat in the Teacher's Lounge pretending to grade papers but really watching the clock until 8th period. At long last, it was 1:45. I picked up my briefcase and headed to the 2nd floor. On the way, I passed through the Main Hall, with all the pictures of founders and valedictorians and graduates.

I passed by my own class picture and couldn't help glancing at it. Samuel Roberts…Thomas Helmer…William Strongfield…Maxwell Cannon…John Keating…I saw my face, smiling and eager, and felt my eyes well up with tears. I remembered my time hear, how much I had wanted to break out.

And then the bell rang, telling me I was late yet again. I never was on time…why break the tradition now? I thought. And after all, I had just figured out my first lesson for the Juniors.

I walked into the classroom whistling a tune from my college marching band. The students quieted down immediately, and were all staring at me like I had gone mad. I promptly walked right back out of the room, hoping they would follow me. When no one did, I popped my head back in.

I kept walking until we returned to the Main Hall. The students were gathered around, all looking confused and slightly uncomfortable. I began calling roll call, but honestly, who would skip on the first day? So I went to the more important part of my lesson.

"Carpe diem. Who knows what that means?" I asked, hoping they had retained more of their Latin than I had.

"Seize the day," answered a red-haired scholar.

"Very good. Now, go look at the pictures. Oh, except the class of 1945, demerits for anyone who looks at that one." I saw a boy smirk and go closer to it, later I would learn that he was Charlie Dalton. "See all those distinguished looking men? Impressive aren't they? But you see, gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils.

"Take Headmaster Golit, for example. Dead. Nothing left of him but a plaque and a picture. Or my old roommate Sam. He lives in Minnesota, works at an insurance company. Every night he comes home and read the paper. He goes to bed at exactly ten o'clock and waked up at exactly six. Once a month his mother comes over for dinner. And that it, that's the life of one of these boys. Think about it, would you like that life?"

"Look at the pictures. Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable?

"Seize the day. Take it, and make it your own. No one is going to have to live this life but you. Not your parents, not your teachers or your friends. Do what you can with this life or else be remembered only for you face among thousands in this hall." The students scrutinized the photos more carefully. Soon after, the bell rang, knocking all of us out of our trains of thought. "Class dismissed."

The next day at lunch I was sauntering around campus, supervising and enjoying the fresh air. "Mr. Keating?" I heard. "Sir?" I kept on walking, hoping this boy would catch on to my game. He did. "O Captain, my Captain?" I whirled around to find Neil Perry and his friends.

"Gentlemen?"

"We were just looking at your old annual," Neil explained. He hands it to me, an exact copy of the one in my room upstairs, minus the crude drawings and comments.

"No, that's not me," I deny, and smile fondly at the memories. Neil leaned down to my level.

"Sir, what was the Dead Poets Society?" They want freedom, I realized, but warned myself that they might not be prepared for it.

"I doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that." I was, after all, here to help them get into college, not to encourage their spirits.

"Why, what was it?" I decided to give the boys a chance.

"Gentlemen, can you keep a secret?" The all huddled around me and I felt like Socrates spouting his wisdom. "The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That's a phrase from Thoreau that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see we'd gather at turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our own verse. And in the enchantment of the moment we'd let poetry work its magic." I could see them becoming wrapped up in the idea of the Dead Poets Society. It was an idea that had led to wondrous evenings and a sense of purpose as well as failed tests and long afternoons.

"You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?" asked Knox Overstreet incredulously.

"No Mr. Overstreet, it wasn't just "guys", we weren't a Greek organization, we were romantics. We didn't just read poetry, we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created, gentlemen, not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?" I saw the boys enchanted and decided to leave it at that. I glanced at the annual still and my hands and handed it back to Neil. "Thank you, Mr. Perry, for this trip down amnesia lane. Burn that, especially my picture."

That afternoon I entered the top floor of the dormitories, on my way to Neil's room. I gazed at the unchanged yellow walls, thinking that time had stood still. I could see myself as a sixth-former, rushing up the stairs to change for soccer or go to a school newspaper meeting. I could almost hear my roommate Sam working out a problem aloud in our room.

When I got to the top, I stood stock-still. Some of my best memories took place here. No boys were here at this time and I could have stood there all day, staring into the distance, had Dr. Hager not come out of his room. Dr. Hager had been a first-year teacher during my last year of school, and my friends and I had never greatly respected him. I felt awkward now, when we were theoretically equal, to be meeting him in the place of so many of my misdemeanors. "Dr. Hager, hello!"

"Hi, John. What can I do for you?" He asked courteously, albeit a little suspiciously. I gathered he remembered me from earlier times.

"I was just returning a book to Neil Perry." I held up Five Centuries of Verse. "Can you point me to his room?"

"Of course." He walked over to one of the plain wooden doors and opened it. "Looks like detention for Mr. Perry and Mr. Anderson." I entered the room and put the book on the desk with all the achievement pins on it. The other was empty save for a small picture of a mother, a father, and an older boy who looked remarkably like Todd. The room was relatively clean, with only a sweater and some pencil shavings that had missed the garbage on the floor.

"Just for this?"

"Yes. You have to keep an eagle's eye on them, John." I remembered my room, and the mornings of hastily stuffing things under the bed and shoving my suitcase in front of them. It had always made the room seem more like a cell.

"But still, they have to live in this room. It should have some kind of live look, don't you think so?"

"I do think so, as a matter of fact. But those are the rules."

"You might bend the rules sometimes."

"Oh, you youngsters. You don't understand. I always wanted a son, and here I am in charge of fifteen boys, but a father to none of them. They'll leave. They'll move on. And I'll still be here." I realized that Hager truly cared for the boys. I smiled sadly, waved to him, and left.

A few nights later, I sat by the window in my room, holding a pen and with the grade ten English essays before me. I couldn't grade papers, however. Instead, I was staring out into the blackness. All of a sudden, I noticed a flash of something, or someone, below. And then another. I turned off my lamp to get a better view and saw seven caped boys heading off campus in the direction of the stream, their flashlights lighting their way. My own memories of sneaking out in that same cape washed over me. The first meeting of the Dead Poets' Society…

"Come on, Sam! Don't you want to get out? I'm sick of being stuck in Hell-tonl every single day!"

"John, where would we GO?"

"I don't know, the forest, the town, Tanzania, I don't care!"

"We would have to go far off campus to be truly safe. John, we can't go all the way to the woods!

"Yes we can! That's perfect! Let's go tonight. I'll tell the others." I heard a sigh behind me as I walked away, but I knew that my roommate took joy in being a pessimist. I quietly passed on the information to Will, Max, and Tom, who agreed to come.

At two AM that night we were rushing silently down the stairs. We had waited until we were sure the teacher's Thursday Night Poker Tournament had ended. The air outside was fresh and just a little bit chilly. I headed for the forest, knowing our refuge was in it somewhere.

It was nearly three when we got to the river. It was freezing and to escape it Will crawled into a crack beneath the rocks. It turned out to be a small cave, and the rest of us went in after him. We had no matches that night so we sat in the light of our flashlights, all a bit awed at being out of school grounds and what the consequences would be if they found out we were missing.

"So what are we supposed to do here, John?" demanded Max.

"I don't know."

"Does anyone have cigarettes?" asked Will. I searched my pockets.

"No. Unless you want to make Roll-Your-Owns out of…" I turned the book over and looked at its cover, "Five Centuries of Verse."

"You have poetry in your pocket?" asked Sam in amazement.

"Well I had to do this English project on some 17th century poet. I had to sneak this out of the library because I hadn't paid my fines."

"Geez, John, how much are you up to?"

"I think I'm going to have to take a job in the dining hall after Graduation to pay it off…"

"Let me see that." Tom took the book from my hands and opened it. "'I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately.' Yup, that's what we did. 'I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.'" He looked up. "Will, I want to suck your marrow."

"You can kiss my butt." Will suggested, and we all laughed.

"We need a name." I said suddenly. "A name for when we're here."

"The Hellton Survivors," advised Sam.

"The Tie Boys," put in Max.

"The Chemistry-Haters," added Will.

"No, it needs to be something less school-y. Something away for the grades and the uniforms and the Four Pillars. Besides, Will, only you hate Chem."

"The Society of Poets," said Tom, still leafing through the book.

"The Poets' Society," said Sam.

"Dead Poets' Society," I interjected.

"But we're not dead," argued Max.

"But we're not poets," I countered.

"Okay, I hereby declare us the Dead Poets' Society," finalized Will. "Who'll drink to that?" Since it was 1945 and we were underage, none of us had alcohol. We all took a celebratory handful of the crystal-clear river-water instead and headed back to school, but the walls seemed shorter now.