A Favorite Professor

I made a post on April 29 about a professor of mine that I didn’t like. This is about one of my favorites.

William De Witt Snodgrass (1926 – 2009), one of the foremost American Poets of the 20th Century, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry and numerous other prestigious honors was my English Literature professor. When I read his obituary in the Miami Herald early last year, many wonderful memories of that long ago class flooded my mind.

He had a rather unusual appearance. He always looked as if he had just come from the wardrobe room on the set of a movie taking place in one of those ancient snobbish upper class British boarding schools. Think of Peter O’Toole in the modern version of ‘Goodbye Mr. Chips’. In addition his hair was long, bushy and wild – it looked like you see in cartoons where a character sticks his finger in an electric socket. This was years before the Afro came into vogue. And he had an equally wild and bushy mustache.

He also bicycled to school. Many a morning I would look out the window of my bus and see him furiously peddling away towards campus in his tweed suit and dress shoes. Not the normal professor’s manner of commute.

He had a great enthusiasm for the writings we covered and it came through strongly in his lectures. He could make even boring put-one-to-sleep writings such as Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ interesting and exciting. He had a wicked sense of humor – the sophisticated academic kind – and he thoroughly enjoyed his own wit. His eyes would twinkle and his deep rumbling laugh was infectious. I always left his classroom feeling that I had not only learned something but that I had been thoroughly entertained.

One morning he was not in the classroom for the start of our 9 AM class, which had never happened before. He had still not showed up by 9:15, the point when we were authorized to leave. While we were all headed down the stairway to leave the building we were met by a very bedraggled Professor Snodgrass coming up. His face dirty and hair even more unkempt than usual. His suit was rumpled and torn in spots. There were areas that looked like they had been rubbed in dirt. One trouser leg was torn to shreds below the calf. He laughingly explained to us as we headed back to the classroom, that his trouser leg had got caught in the bicycle chain and he had taken a spectacular spill.

At the time of his death I Googled him, and found a series of videos from an interview he gave in 2004, when he was 78. I was sort of shocked by his appearance. He didn’t look very much like the 31 year old professor I remembered. Odd, isn’t it? His hair was white and receding, his mustache white and trimmed. He was no longer slim. But the voice was familiar and the first time he laughed, eyes sparkling, I knew it was him.

I took the following screen capture from one of the videos.

Economics 101

The instructor in my Economics 101 class at university was a visiting professor from McGill University in Montreal. He was obviously outraged that a man of his stature would be assigned to conduct this elementary course, and made no secret of the fact.

On the first day of the class, after introducing himself and making us aware of his impressive academic credentials, he held up a book and stated: This is your text. It is the same text that is used by every Economics 101 class.

In his other hand he held up a few sheets of paper and stated: This is the syllabus setting forth the schedule of assigned reading of the text and the dates of the mid-term and final exams. It is the same syllabus used by every Economics 101 class. The mid term and final exams are Department wide exams and are based entirely on this text. If you read and absorb the material in the text you will have no problem passing this course.

What he said next totally stunned us. He said: I don’t take attendance. It’s immaterial to me whether you show up for class or not. That is entirely up to your discretion. My lectures will not be based on any of the material in your text. I intend to lecture on whatever subjects that relate to economics that I choose. I do, of course, hope that at least some of you will come to my lectures so that I don’t have to speak to an empty room.

I’m surprised that not one of us in the class had the nerve to report this jerk to the Economics Department. He should have been sent directly back to Montreal. It was, after all, his duty to assist us in absorbing and understanding the course materials. I believe that is what we were paying tuition for.

He was a man of his word. Most of us went to his first few lectures. Few attended many more.  The man had an intense hatred of the United States. His lectures were bitter diatribes, railing against the United States’ economic and cultural exploitation of Canada, exploitation that he insisted was carried out deliberately and with malice.

Now I am aware that there is some resentment of the United States by some elements in Canada, but it is nowhere near the degree expressed by our professor. Almost 90% of Canada’s population lives within 100 miles of the U.S. border. Without any conscious intent on the part of America, Canada is bombarded by American radio and television signals – American culture, personalities, news, attitudes, etc. Canada is by far the United States’ biggest trading partner, and it is very likely that the vast differences between the countries’ populations and economic resources can give the U.S. advantage in trade negotiations.

Pierre Trudeau, Canada’s Prime Minister probably expressed Canada’s feelings towards the United States in a speech in Washington in 1969.

“Living next to you is in some ways like sleeping with an elephant. No matter how friendly and even-tempered is the beast, if I can call it that, one is affected by every twitch and grunt.”

I’m Not Shy

I am no extrovert, but I am not shy. I have no problem relating to strangers or expressing myself in a group or speaking to an audience.

However, when I was a teenager I was painfully shy in any situation outside my comfort zone – anytime I wasn’t with family, friends or classmates or in the classroom. I would blush so much, and my face and ears would get so hot that I think I could glow in the dark. I could not speak a coherent sentence. I could not look at a person – my eyes would be riveted on the floor or ground. I have no idea why I was like that. I had absolutely no lack of self confidence otherwise. I eagerly spoke up in class. I was practically a ‘motor mouth’ with my friends.

The first few weeks at university were especially traumatic for me. Everyone was a stranger. We freshmen were required to wear silly little beanies everywhere on campus which identified us as such. We were required to say hello to anyone we met. We were required to memorize the school’s alma mater and fight song and be prepared to sing them when requested. At least I only had to face this in the daytime, because I didn’t live on campus. There was a secret group of sophomores who, wearing hoods, terrorized freshmen in the dormitories at night.

Now I laugh about it. It was such a minor thing. But in those first few weeks I was constantly teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown. I felt safe only in class and in a crowd. I remember times being caught walking alone on a sidewalk on campus suddenly noticing someone approaching me from the other direction and I would start to freak out – – I would be frantically trying to recall the words to the songs, desperately hoping the request wouldn’t be made, trying to build my courage just to say “Hi”, wishing I could disappear. Somehow I was always able to squeak out a tiny ‘hi’, and nobody ever asked me to sing.

At some point after those first few weeks it occurred to me that it was that damn beanie that was causing all my distress. It was like an epiphany! It suddenly hit me that on a campus with thousands of students nobody would know that I was a freshman if I weren’t wearing an advertisement on my head. So, the beanie went into a dresser drawer and I then had only to concern myself with trying to get over my shyness.

I Still Wonder Why

Another not so happy memory of my college days.

I met DM in the first class of my Junior year. He sat next to me and introduced himself. He had transferred from another university. Having the same major we had the same classes except for electives. Like me, he lived at home and commuted to school. We connected immediately. We had similar personalities and interests, and were very comfortable with each other.

Very soon we became almost inseparable. I should modify that. We became almost inseparable on campus. Although we knew where each other lived, I never entered his home, nor he, mine. Neither of us even knew the other’s phone number. We never saw each other during school breaks or summer vacation. But on campus when we had common breaks between classes we would meet, usually in the rec room of a dormitory and play cards, shoot pool or play ping pong. We always had lunch together, and would study together. We conversed easily about almost everything: news, sports, music, movies, our classes and our professors, etc. – everything but personal stuff. At the time I thought we were fast friends. In retrospect, however, I realize that if it was a friendship it was rather different from the norm.

Something odd occurred on the last school day before the Christmas/New Years break of our Senior year. We had lunch together and on the way to the library to study he said he had to get something at the campus bookstore, which was in the basement of a building near the library. As he was entering the store I told him I would wait outside. He said: “OK, I’ll only be a few minutes.” So, I sat down on the floor, my back against the wall and started to read from a textbook. I got engrossed in my reading, but eventually I sensed that more than a few minutes had passed. I checked my watch – it had been almost 20 minutes, and no DM. I got up and went into the store to look for him. He wasn’t there. I thought maybe he had misunderstood me when I’d said I’d wait, and that he thought I would be waiting in the library instead. So I went to the library – he wasn’t there. I went back to the bookstore – he wasn’t there. I was a little annoyed but went back to the library to study alone. I figured I would find out what had happened when we were back at school after the holidays.

On the morning of January 3rd I was sitting at the breakfast table with my mother, having coffee and reading the sports section of the newspaper. My mother was reading another section. Suddenly she said: “Isn’t DM the name of your friend at school?” I said: “Yeah, what about him?” Her response: “He committed suicide.”

I was stunned! I grabbed the paper from her and read the article. On the morning of January 1st his younger brother discovered him dead  in their attic. At some point on New Years Eve he had gone up to the attic, attached a rope to the rafters, made a noose, climbed up on a chair, put the noose around his neck and jumped. He’d left no note. He was 21 years old.

I had a long talk with his father a few days later. We each wanted to hear from the other something, anything that might give a clue to why. There were none. He never, ever, gave the slightest indication at home, or to me at school, that anything was bothering him or that anything bad was happening in his life.

Many years have passed. I rarely think of him anymore, except obviously at New Years, or when I read or hear of a teenage suicide. But, whenever I do, I can’t help wondering why. I can’t shake the thought that that minor incident at the bookstore was significant – that something of great import had happened while he was in that store.  I wonder if anything would have been different if I had gone into the store with him. I’ll never know.

I Failed P.E.!

I did!  I really did!   It’s been decades, and I’ve never told another soul outside my immediate family until this very moment.

You’re probably thinking that I was obviously a geek who couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time.   But that was not the case at all.

It happened in the first semester of my Sophomore year at college.  Back then my school, a rather prestigious university in the Northeast U.S., required all undergraduate students to take Physical Education in their Freshman and Sophomore years. For that semester scheduling  the courses I wanted or needed to take left me in a position where the only available time I could take P.E. was Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday at 9 AM.  Tuesday and Thursday were not a problem.  Saturday was!

Now I was still a teenager -having  turned 19 late in that semester.  Any of you who can remember your teen years, and all of you who are presently teens, know perfectly well that getting out of the sack every Saturday morning to go to the gym at 9 AM would be a monumental achievement!  Back when I was in High School I doubt I ever even stirred on a Saturday before 1 PM! So, I cut a few Saturday P.E. classes.  Well, actually, I cut more than a few. Out of the 16 or 17 Saturdays in the semester I probably missed about 10. However, I did manage to make all my 11 AM Saturday American History lectures. I surely deserved some credit for that!

The problem was that the P.E. instructor told us the very first day that if we cut more than 6 times we would fail. Naturally, I paid that no mind. Attendance was not an issue in any of the courses I had taken. In fact, most of my professors didn’t even bother taking attendance.

Well, as you can guess, he meant it. There on my semester end grades report was a great big “F” – the first, and only, such black mark of my entire educational experience.  I was devastated. In typical teenage self absorption I saw myself as the victim of a great injustice. Sure, I had exceeded the maximum number of cuts allowed, but I had probably spent more time in the gym and pool than anybody else in the whole university. I was a true “gym rat”. Almost all my free time I spent in the gym; playing basketball, racquetball, handball,  running on  the indoor track or swimming in the pool. Even on  those Saturdays that I cut I would spend 3 or 4 hours in the gym in the afternoon.

I was no great athlete. I was not endowed with  superior quickness or strength. And at 5’9′ and 145 lbs. I was just a little runt. But, I hustled and worked hard at whatever I did. And I loved the physical activity. It was my way of handling the stress and pressures of that stage in my life.

I knew that that letter on my grades report would not be the end of the matter; that there would be some further action to come. And, sure enough, a few days into the second semester I received a note in my mail box at the student union from the Dean of Students  inviting me to meet with him in his office on the afternoon a few days hence.

I can recall that meeting in startling detail as if it had happened yesterday.   At that age I was intimidated by most men in positions of authority. But the huge and impressive office, the purpose of the meeting, and the Dean’s harsh demeanor combined to make me even more intimidated than normal.

He didn’t waste time with amenities. As soon as I was seated in front of his desk he said: “I’ve asked you here today to discuss your grade in Phys. Ed. class. As you are undoubtedly aware, of all the courses offered by this University, Physical Education is the only one in which all one needs to do to pass is to be there – – and you have failed! What do you have to say for yourself?”

I had come to the meeting with my rationalized defense well rehearsed, but I realized at that moment it wasn’t going to fly. So I just “fessed up”. I said that I had no excuse, my cuts were all on Saturdays and I guess I’d just been too lazy to get out of bed in time to make the class.

He made no comment on my confession. Instead he gave me my sentence: “I know it is going to be a great embarrassment to you as a Junior, but next September you’re going to have to repeat the course with lowly Freshmen.”

As he paused for a moment for  that to sink in, I was feeling quite relieved. After all, I knew that was going to happen, and as I’ve stated, I liked going to the gym. I was actually going to miss organized P.E. when it was no longer required. Then he dropped the bomb!

“And, I’m taking your scholarship away for this semester and the next. If you pass Phys. Ed. in both semesters I’ll restore it retroactively. In the meantime you’re going to have to come up with the cash.”

Yikes! Such are the wages of sin! I had several scholarships, but the University scholarship accounted for almost a third of my tuition. I was forced to get a student loan to stay in school.  Well, I’m happy to report that I passed P.E. both semesters and I went on to get my diploma.

Many years have passed but the memory of that embarrassing experience stays with me.