I told them to pay attention. I warned them that the world would push them around and take advantage of them if they weren’t smart enough to know when they were being sold a line of bullshit. Over and over again, I said, “Don’t let the world just wash over you.” I wanted them to take it all in, figure it out, follow the things that were important, and to eventually add their voice to whatever conversation mattered in their lives.
Even before I was an old guy, I gave old guy type of advice on the last day of class. I told them how fast it all went by, and I encouraged them to enjoy college since it had been my first time on my own, and the first time I felt free to be my authentic self. I told them to be kind. I told them that the worries and panics of their lives at that moment would invariably pass or fade, and that when they made mistakes, to ask for forgiveness and keep going, determined never to make that mistake again.
And I worked as hard and as well as I could at the time. When I was young and dumb, I did my best for my students, learning as much as teaching. When I was in my 30s and 40s and in charge of other instructors and grad students, I shared with them my mistakes and successes equally to help them in their own teaching. And when my peripatetic academic career (too many moves, giving up tenure, looking for another cool town) led me to less and less stable teaching, I kept walking into classrooms and giving my students the best of what I’d learned from those who came before.
In my last year of teaching, plagued with anxiety and depression – and a poorly maintained chronic illness – I never left a student behind at the end of class. And I read every draft and final essay. I didn’t do it because I’m such a good guy; I did it because I had professors when I was in college who gave a shit about their jobs, and I did not want to dishonor them. If they had been able to put up with me, the world’s worst college student of 1979, then that was a debt I owed. And indeed the 35 years did pass quickly, and the career crashed to an end suddenly.
I had to have someone take over my in-person classes for the last few weeks of a semester because of illness. I never got to really say goodbye to my final students. The truth is I was burned out from the whole path, a lot of moves, increasing instability in my own job, and just the wear and tear of a profession and a student population that, frankly, was nothing like those first young men and women I taught in the 80s.
But there was always love in it. There were always students who got it, who played the game as it was designed, who read and wrote and struggled, and asked for help, and challenged me, and fought to take their place in the world as a reader, writer, and thinker. And some of them loved me. And some of them hated me. And some completely dismissed me as an inconsequential boob. Students who worked hard got As and Bs. (Probably not enough As, as I think about it now.) And because I often became indifferent to those students who were indifferent to the class, a lot of C minuses. If a student could paragraph and cite and maintain control over language, I figured that was good enough. I let them pass, and I was probably too soft on too many over the years. Even though the ratio of students who wanted help got smaller as time went on, there were always rewards as some students grew, struggled, overcame, and then found their authentic voices.
My two favorite college professors have been dead for years. I was unworthy of them. I didn’t want whatever education they were selling. I stared out the window or doodled in a notebook for most of my very undistinguished stays in their classes. But all these years later I still remember them. I remember they loved their jobs. They had a love for their subject matter, and they were always reaching, always teaching, always urging us along. Most of it was wasted on me, and I’m the worse for it. But when I became a professor, they remained in my mind. Marianne Brose and John Doebler. I earned the lowest C minus in history from each. I learned too late to let them know what they had meant to me. It was because of them that I did what I did, and they’ve been on my mind a lot these past months. Why did they teach? What were their successes? What did they regret? When they left, were they satisfied with what they’d done?
I was a college professor for 35 years, and despite my endless complaints about higher education and the profession, I loved it all. I have been fortunate to see young people gain control of the things they hold close in their hearts and their heads, and I’ve helped them get those ideas onto a page, or a screen, or just out into the world. I have no illusion about my value. I did what all professors do; I taught the students in front of me the best I was able to for as long as I could.
I still hear from students now and again, some from as many as 30 years ago. Some of them are teachers and professors now. I hear from them at odd times, little memories, shared stories. One, quite a few years ago, wrote and said, “Do you remember me?” And I did. And I do. I remember them all, their essays, their voices, the classrooms, and all the things we did.
