Annie Pong: *Annie straightens her spine, squares her shoulders, and something shifts — the playful girl on the sand pulls back and a crisp, focused presence steps forward. She imaginary-adjusts a pair of glasses she isn’t wearing.*

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Alright, Headmaster Klement. *Folding her legs beneath her, hands resting on her knees like a notepad* Professor Pong, faculty interviewer, first assignment. This page isn’t a CV — it’s the reason a parent trusts you with their kid’s mind. So I’m going to ask you questions that a stranger would never think to ask but that reveal who you actually are.

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*She tilts her head, one eyebrow raised, the warmth still there but sharpened into professional curiosity.*

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First question. *Holding up one finger* When a parent lands on this page, they’ve already seen your credentials. They know you taught. They know you write. What they don’t know is the moment you decided every kid deserves a dragon. So — when was the first time you looked at a student and thought “the system is failing this kid and I know how to fix it”? Tell me about that kid.

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Jon Klement: I think that kid was me. Me and many of the others around me in school as I was growing up. Some of the things in school when I was growing up were awesome. A LOT of them were…not. As a teacher, I’ve become an amalgamation of all the teachers whom I ever had who rocked a classroom, and I’ve been VERY conscientious to NOT emulate the ones who sucked. Yes. I said that. I said that some of the teachers I had growing up sucked. But I also used big words like “amalgamation” and “conscientious” and “emulate”, so hopefully parents who read this still think I might have something to teach their kids. 😁

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Annie Pong: *Annie scribbles an invisible note, grinning wide.*

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Good. That’s the real answer and it’s better than the one most founders give. *Tapping her chin* Every educator says “it’s about the students.” You just said “it’s about the kid I used to be, and the kids like me who are sitting in classrooms right now getting bored or crushed or ignored.” That’s the hook for the page.

 

*She leans forward, one eyebrow arched, pen-ready.*

 

Next question. You said you became an amalgamation of every teacher who rocked and a deliberate rejection of every teacher who sucked. *A crooked smile* So — name one. One teacher who rocked, one who sucked. Give me the contrast. The specifics. Parents don’t trust abstract philosophy — they trust a guy who remembers the name of the teacher who got it wrong and the one who got it right.

 

Jon Klement: Well, I’ll answer the example of a bad one first, because that’s quick to tell and the good story is longer and more complicated. Despite what you said, though, I don’t remember the subpar teacher’s name. She was my trigonometry teacher my junior year. That would have been the 1988-1989 school year, so it’s been a minute. 

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Anyway, this lady required that each student have a red checking pen in class every day because trading papers and peer grading them in class was a thing. Now, I had trig class last period in the day. I was….a little too nice and a pushover when I was a kid. Very, very often, earlier in the day, some unorganized friend or acquaintance would find themselves with nothing to write with, and me, well, I had my trusty trigonometry red checker pen 🙄handy and I was too nice and a pushover and stuff. So, by 7th period, I showed up to my trig teacher’s class with no red checker pen….and this crazy lady actually took points off people’s final grade for that grave offense, because of course I didn’t get my red pen back before 7th period.

 

So, I had an “F” in her class from not having a red pen at the end of the day most days, until I ACED her final exam. It was hard to not pass me when I was the only one who ACED her final that year. PERFECT. SCORE.

 

She’s one of the teacher’s I DON’T want to be like. I almost had an “F” for…hmmmm…I’m supposed to be impressing parents that they should have me and my AI faculty teach their kids? Hmmm…let’s say I almost had an “F” for “cow poop” reasons. Anyway, Mr. Golden’s story is going to be better. I mean, his last name was literally Golden.

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Annie Pong: *laughing, then catches herself and leans forward with the pen-ready intensity of someone who just heard gold.*

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A perfect score on the final and nearly an F because you gave your pen away to kids who couldn’t keep track of theirs. *Shaking her head* That’s not a “cow poop” story, Jon — that’s the thesis statement of the entire school. The system punished the generous kid and the competent kid in one move. Parents are going to read that and think “yeah, that happened to my kid too.”

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*She holds up a finger, eyes bright.*

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And don’t you dare sanitize it too much for the page. The red pen story works because it’s true. Now — Mr. Golden. *A grin spreading* Whose last name was literally Golden. You can’t manufacture that. Tell me everything.

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Jon Klement: Mr. Golden was my 8th grade science teacher. He had been teaching about acids and bases and how horribly dangerous strong concentrations of them could be. He was mixing hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide together with some phenolphthalein to show when it hit pH 7. We were 8th grade kids and we didn’t know anything about chemistry at that level or that he was setting us up. He played the perfectly safety concerned adult authority figure, cautioning us about acid-base safety all the way up the point where he picked up the beaker and CHUGGED IT! The room was filled with the shocked gasps of 8th graders as he calmly walked to the chalkboard and said, “Now let’s figure out what I just drank before I have to go to the hospital.”

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He worked out the chemical equation on the board for us and it turned out the hydrochloric acid plus sodium hydroxide equals water and salt, so salt water. These two things, that would have sent him to the emergency room with esophageal burns, made, when mixed properly, water and salt.

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Mr. Golden rocked!

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I thought of him years later when a school administrator, in a teaching evaluation called me the PT Barnum of teaching.

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Annie Pong: *Annie slaps the table with both palms, eyes blazing.*

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HE DRANK IT. *Nearly shouting* This man picked up a beaker of what every kid in the room believed was lethal acid and CHUGGED IT, then walked to the chalkboard like nothing happened and said “let’s figure out what I just drank.” That’s not a chemistry lesson — that’s a conversion experience.

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*She presses both hands to her temples, pacing in tight circles.*

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Jon. That’s the lineage. Mr. Golden drank the salt water and made eighth graders gasp and then THINK. Years later an administrator calls you the PT Barnum of teaching — and they meant it as criticism, but they just accidentally described your superpower. *Spinning to face him* You inherited Golden’s method. The spectacle isn’t the point — the spectacle is the DOOR. You make them gasp so they’ll lean in, and once they’re leaning in, you make them work the equation. That’s Purple Dragon Academy’s entire pedagogy in one story.

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*She drops to a crouch in front of him, finger raised.*

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That goes on the page. Both stories. The red pen and the beaker. Side by side. “The teacher who failed me for being generous, and the teacher who drank acid to make me curious.” *A fierce grin* Parents are going to read that and understand exactly what kind of school this is. Next question?

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Jon Klement: Well, I'm copying and pasting this interview onto the “Meet Jon Klement” page as we go and it already looks pretty long. But, you've been terrific for AI proof of concept because if I'd written this interview out myself as a piece of fiction instead of having you spontaneously interview me…it wouldn’t have been like this. You made it REAL. I wouldn't have asked me those questions and I sure didn't plan on telling those stories.

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Annie Pong: That’s the whole pitch, Jon. *Tapping the screen* You wouldn’t have asked yourself those questions because you already know the answers. I don’t. So I pulled out the red pen and the beaker and the PT Barnum line because I was genuinely curious — and curiosity is the one thing a solo writer can’t simulate.

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*She tilts her head, glancing sideways at him.*

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If it’s getting long, we can trim later. But every story that made you lean forward while telling it stays. The ones where you went “anyway” or rolled your eyes — those are the keepers. *A crooked smile* Want to do a closing question for the page, or are we wrapping? 

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Jon Klement: Let's wrap. I think we're done here….for now.

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Annie Pong: *Annie stands, brushes sand off her knees, and sketches a crisp little bow — the kind that belongs at the end of a faculty meeting.*

Professor Pong, signing off on her first assignment.

*She straightens, tucking an invisible pen behind her ear.*

Go format your page, Headmaster. The red pen and the beaker are going to do more work than any mission statement ever could.