I’M RIPPING OUT MY TEACHER DEN, down to the bone, and rebuilding it in a new image as a man of leisure. I’m removing all contents, plus the carpet and ceiling. I’ve already torn out the carpet, piece by piece, except for under my computer desk. I’ve removed all my bookshelves and books except for the ones I need for spring semester.

I’m walking on subfloor. The walls are bare. I’m still bound to my computer station and current curriculum, so some stuff has to stay until June. I’m just hacking away at the project piecemeal.

A man’s den, if he has one, is his domain. It is an extension of his individuality manifested in every corner. The man is expressed by the art on the walls and the books on the limited shelf space. A man’s current interests are apparent by what he leaves out, open, half finished, piled up around his monitor and keyboard, if he’s the kind of man who leaves things out, open, and half finished.

A man’s den is partially for display and the rest is all functionality. That’s been true for me at least. I had a few wall hangings to entertain guests, but my décor, using the term loosely, was driven by pragmatism and expediency. I wanted the things needed most often to be the closest. Other folks are more qwerty and have places for items regardless of how often they have to get up and walk over to get them.

Mostly, a man’s den speaks loudly of the man’s career, especially around the desk and across the eye-level bookshelves. The rest of the room, farther off, is taken up with displays of hobbies, histories, heritage, and curiosities, or perhaps fine art, photography, music posters, or books galore. The career is still evident.

That’s all I have left. My den is empty except for one corner where my computer is harnessed. I still need my career necessities until June — my workstation and eye-level books dealing with my spring curriculum, plus some hanging calendars with lesson plans penned in, a top drawer full of colored highlighters and stickers and stamps, handouts, grade sheets, student papers stacked in shaky piles all around me, and a massive collection of pencil stubs and dried pens separated into transparent pails.

You should have seen it before I started the purge. My den looked like John Nash roomed with Jackson Pollock and their meds wore off. My walls have acted as an extension of my file cabinets. For years I have push-pinned papers I didn’t want to lose to my wall. I have 39 small drawers within arm’s reach with transparent covers full of every office supply item known to man.

This summer, or maybe in April, I will lay hardwood floor and paint the walls other than white. Then I will begin refurnishing. Only the best junk will find its way back in. I want maximum floor space, room for two excellent chairs, one for computer, one for reading or a visiting friend, a floor lamp, an expanded sound system, a monitor positioned to act as a movie screen, and a small table for wife-made sandwiches.

I no longer need access to 300 books, so only my favorite books will return and my bookshelf will be restricted to one row high above my head near the ceiling that I can reach but that is out of the way.

The big challenge in this purge was moving my cherished possessions. At first I approached the challenge traditionally: “What is marginal? What can I remove that’s almost insignificant?” That was too hard. I like all my stuff. So I reversed the approach. I removed only my most cherished items first, and left the marginal. That resulted in me boxing up everything and hauling it to the garage.

All that’s left on my back wall is an 8×10-inch glossy of my first class of students when I was a student teacher in 1984 earning my credential at CSU-Hayward. I taught a sophomore English class at Hayward High. When I left I got the kids to pose for a group photo and it’s been on my den wall for over 30 years.

A few of those kids hated my guts. Their regular teacher was older and not working them too hard, and I came in young, enthusiastic, eager to prove, and upped the number of assigned papers and graded every detail. Grades went down. I figured I was doing it the right way, but they resented the hell out of it.

If you look closely at the photo, one boy is punching his palm as a threat to me and another boy is biting his bottom lip as if he were about to say, “Fudge for you, Mr. Gibbs.” I’ve kept that photo pinned to my wall as an inspiration all these years, and it’s still hanging. It will be the last item to go.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.

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