The Lone Ranger
12-11-2005, 04:08 AM
So, I’ve been feeling in a somewhat pensive mood today, and thought I’d put some thoughts down – some personal reminiscences and some personal predictions. Only time will tell how accurate are the predictions, and as for the accuracy of the reminiscences, well, I can only hope that time has been kind to my memory.
I’m originally from Maine, and it was a lovely place indeed, but we moved to North Carolina when I was quite young. My father was killed shortly thereafter, leaving my mother with four young children. I was the eldest. In some ways, it was perhaps a blessing, that our father died, though. He had come back from Viet-Nam profoundly changed. He was often drunk, and could be violent when drunk. I have essentially no positive memories of him.
One day, he struck my eldest sister in a fit of rage and gave her a scar that she has to this day. I remember the incident vividly, and though I know I am not my father, I have never touched alcohol, and I never will.
My mother re-married soon after my father’s death. Too soon, according to many of the relatives on my father’s side, but I cannot say.
My sisters and I grew up on a farm in western North Carolina. For me, it was nearly a paradise. Two more sisters soon came along. My sisters and I occasionally sensed some tension between our parents, but nonetheless, it was a great life, as I saw it. Ours wasn’t a commercial farm, and we didn’t produce enough to live entirely on what we grew, but we always had fresh fruit and vegetables in the summer, and we canned fruits and vegetables in the fall. I’m not sure that I ever tasted a store-bought tomato until I went to college. I’d milk the cows and gather eggs from the chickens, and my sisters and I would sometimes churn cream into butter. (We didn’t know it was work; we thought it was a game, so we enjoyed doing it.)
During the summers, I would roam all over the countryside. I sometimes found real Indian arrowheads, much to my delight, and I still have a particularly fine spearhead I once unearthed. I’d catch frogs at the stream or simply sit on the banks and watch minnows flit through the water. I’d catch lizards and snakes in the fields and woods. Some apple trees near the house hosted the nests of mockingbirds every spring, and I’d spend hours watching the parents tend their young.
Sometimes, I’d encounter a herd of deer while wandering through the woods. From books and an elderly neighbor and from my own practice, I honed my woodscraft to the point that I literally knew every tree within miles. I knew where to find sweet strawberries in the spring, blueberries in the early summer, and blackberries in the late summer. I knew where a great blue heron liked to prowl the stream for unwary fish, and I knew where I could find copperheads sunning themselves to warm up on cool mornings. My parents thought nothing of the fact that I’d disappear outside at the crack of dawn and not return until nightfall.
At night, I’d lie back in the field near the house and watch the stars and the fireflies, and listen to the calls of the whip-poor-wills.
If I felt the need for a treat, I’d walk to the local general store, a couple of miles down the road, picking up soda bottles I found in the ditch along the way. Usually by the time I reached the store, I’d have enough empties to exchange for a nice cold bottle of soda. The store owner knew me well, of course, and there were always a few old guys hanging out in the store and swapping stories about the “good old days.” Sometimes, there was nothing better for a lazy summer afternoon than to hang out, drinking soda and listening to them talk.
We were poor. We hardly ever had “store-bought” food, and my sisters and I wore our clothes until they were threadbare. Still, since everyone we knew lived pretty-much the same lifestyles, we didn’t know we were poor, and so had nothing to complain about. Actually, in my estimation, life was pretty good. I’d always loved learning, and so I loved school – especially because of the library there. I went through the entire library at each school I attended – first the elementary school, then the junior high, then the high school. I remember the librarian at the junior high teasing me once during my eighth-grade year, saying that she was sure I was looking forward to getting into high school, so that I’d have a new library to go through. “Yes I am,” I replied in all seriousness, not realizing at the time that I was being teased.
Occasionally, I could talk my step-father into taking me into town during the summer, where there was an honest-to-goodness public library. He’d drop me off on his way to work, and I’d stay there for the day until he picked me up in the afternoon on his way home. The librarians got to know me well, and would let me check out up to 15 books at a time – an entire month’s supply.
Yep, life was pretty good.
An elderly neighbor named Jerry lived a couple of miles down the road. (There were no houses close-enough to ours to be visible, so anyone who lived within 5 miles or so was considered a “neighbor.”) He was long-since retired, and had nothing better to do with his days than fish and read. He had a fine pond, and on hot days I’d hike down to his place to go fishing, listen to his stories, and then maybe go for a dip in the pond. Sometimes I’d accompany Jerry in his ancient World War II vintage jeep as he journeyed to visit friends and relatives. If anyone thought there was something strange about a 12 year-old boy who considered a 70 year-old man his best friend, no one ever said so.
Between sixth and seventh grades, two things happened in quick succession. Jerry died, and a new family moved in only three miles or so down the road. The family consisted of the standard two parents, plus three sons – one several years older than me, one just my age, and one a few years younger.
The father had just secured a job as a professor (of political science) at a nearby college. He had to commute almost an hour to work each day, but considered it a worthwhile sacrifice in order to live way out in the country. In my daily wanderings during the summer, I’d sometimes find myself in the vicinity of their place, so I’d stop in to visit. They soon became a kind of second family to me. Almost a first family, in some ways.
Though I’d loved books and reading, there were few in the house where I grew up. Nor was there any encouragement to read or otherwise seek to broaden my horizons. No one on any side of my family had ever been to college, and few people in the neighborhood had either. It was naturally assumed that I’d grow up and become a farmer or a mechanic, or some other sort of laborer.
“There is dignity in all honest work,” as they say, and I firmly believe it. After all, I was milking cows and pitching manure and mending fences from childhood. Anyone who does good, honest work has nothing whatsoever to feel ashamed about in his choice of career.
Still, I knew from early on that I was not interested in being a mechanic or even a “professional” farmer (I love farming, and would love to have a garden of my own – but I wouldn’t want to be a working a farm for my livelihood), and I certainly didn’t want to go to the city and work in a factory. But what other options were there?
Though it seemed like some sort of fantastic dream – as numerous friends and family members told me – I was determined that I would go to college from a very early age. I didn’t exactly know what I would do with my life, but I figured I’d work that out later.
The father of the neighboring family was, as I mentioned, a college professor. He had a fierce love of learning and of debate. One thing that he absolutely would not tolerate was anyone trying to pass off an opinion that wasn’t firmly grounded in facts and logic. He would mercilessly ridicule any opinion that you couldn’t defend. From him, I learned that it wasn’t enough to believe things – you must be able to justify your beliefs. An important lesson.
The mother of the family was a lover of the outdoors, especially of birds. She kept many bird feeders going, and took delight in watching the birds. She and I spent many a happy hour wandering through the woods looking for interesting plants and animals. Neither her husband nor any of her sons shared her love of the outdoors and of the flora and fauna contained therein, but in me she found a kindred spirit. She told me, years later, that I was the “biologist son” that she’d always hoped for.
Their whole house was filled with books. They had almost as many books as did the public library, it seemed to me, and the books were – in some ways – far more informative than any in the local library. The eldest son, being a voracious reader of fantasy and science-fiction, had lots of books on those subjects. Because of the father, they had lots of books on history and politics. Because of the mother, they had lots of books on science. They were an entire family of readers, and they were more than happy to nurture and encourage my love of learning.
The eldest son was an indifferent student, though he loved the sciences, especially physics and chemistry. Because he let me read his books, and because he provided me with many an interesting and stimulating conversation on such matters, I was most grateful to him. I like to think that I paid him back in some way, eventually. When I was a student in college, I encouraged him to apply. He eventually did, but because of his less than stellar educational record, the college initially refused to admit him. I went around to the professors in the physics and chemistry department and assured them that he would indeed be a good and capable student, and the school eventually accepted him. He went on to earn a chemistry degree, and is now happily employed in a field where his talents and interests are put to good use. (I also introduced him to the woman who would become his wife.)
The middle son was a lover of fantasy and adventure stories. He was no lover of the outdoors, but he was a boon companion, and we spent many a happy summer day roaming over hill and dale, beating off attacking pirate hoards, dealing with Cardinal Richelieu’s nefarious agents, and so forth. He was also a talented musician, and helped to inspire in me a love of music. Both he and his father had what seemed to me a truly astounding collection of records by people I’d scarcely ever heard of. People like Bach and Beethoven and Mozart. They taught me that there was far more to music than the country music and bluegrass that I’d grown up with.
The youngest son, unlike his elder brothers, was a lover of learning for its own sake. Where the eldest brother had little interest in school except for science classes, and the middle brother had little interest in school except for band, the youngest loved learning for its own sake. In that, we shared a deep bond of kinship.
Well, nothing lasts forever. My mother and stepfather split up, and my mother took us kids with her when she left. She was faced with the daunting task of trying to support six kids on her own. There were times when the electricity was shut off for a week or more, and I often hunted in the woods for berries to supplement our rather meager food stores. As the eldest, it fell on me to make sure that meals were prepared and so forth when our mother was at work. It helped to instill in me a deep sense of responsibility. I’ve been told on occasion that I have an “overdeveloped” sense of responsibility, in fact, but I don’t know about that.
I was nearly old-enough for college by that point anyway. And I was determined to go. I had always done very well in school, but there was no hope that my mother would be able to finance a college education, so she wasn’t exactly encouraging. Still, I applied to lots of different schools, and was accepted to several. Based on my academic background (and, let’s face it, my family’s poverty), one particularly appealing school offered me a scholarship that would cover the tuition. I still had to figure out how to pay for books and whatnot, but I could go to college! My friends (the college professor and his wife) were determined not to see me waste such an opportunity, and they packed me up and took me to the college, and they assured me that they would do everything in their power to keep me there. And they did, in their way. My mother suggested from time to time that I should really come home and find a proper job, to help support the family. It wasn’t a wholly unreasonable request, I thought, but my friends insisted that I’d drop out of college only over their dead bodies, or words to that effect. I stayed.
I worked part-time during the school year as a campus security guard – a job that actually suited me very well – and so earned enough money for books and miscellaneous expenses. I like to think that because I worked for my education, I appreciated it all the more.
I loved college more than I could possibly say. I was such an utter thrill to meet so many different people from such diverse backgrounds, and to have teachers and colleagues who didn’t think I was “weird” for wanting to read every book I could get my hands on, as most of my high-school acquaintances had. Though I had always intended to go to college – one way or another – I could not possibly have imagined what it would actually be like when growing up. I always said that if only I could figure out how to spend the rest of my life in college, learning all sorts of interesting things from all sorts of interesting people, I would.
Alas, graduation came. I took a job in a medical lab and worked there for a couple of years. I hated it. It was mindless drudge work. I would get up, go to work at a place that seemed to drain the life out of you, go home, eat, sleep, and get up to do it all over again. Weekends offered some respite, because I was then free to disappear into the mountains for a couple of days to hike and camp and generally enjoy myself. Still, it dawned on me eventually that I wasn’t living what I regarded as a remotely satisfying life. I still didn’t know exactly what I wanted to actually do with myself, but I knew that what I was doing wasn’t it.
So, I applied to a master’s program and was accepted. While a master’s student, I was required to teach labs, and to my great surprise, I discovered that I enjoyed the experience tremendously. I had been told before, back in college and even in high school that I had a natural talent for teaching, but I’d never really taken such claims seriously. Sure, I was always the kid that others came to when they couldn’t understand a math problem, and once in my senior year of high school, the physics teacher actually asked me to explain some of the lectures, because, she pointed out, it was clear that I understood the material better than she did. Even so, until I was actually made to do it, it never seriously occurred that I’d find teaching to be an enjoyable thing to do. But I loved it. I loved discussing interesting things with people who wanted to learn. I loved it when they asked questions, because it forced me to look at things from a different perspective, and so often gave me insights that I’d never have come up with on my own. In short, I “found my calling,” as they say.
After completing the master’s I managed to get a part-time teaching position at a local private college. Unfortunately, as an adjunct, I earned very little pay and had no benefits. Still, I loved what I was doing. I’d get up every morning eager to get to the school. After classes were done, I’d hang out for the rest of the day, delighted by the fact that students and colleagues (gee whiz! honest-to-goodness college professors!) would stop by to ask questions, get my opinions on matters, or simply to chat. Could life get any better? Sure, I was still dirt poor, and there was always the danger that if I were to become seriously ill or injured, I’d be in big trouble, but I loved what I was doing, so I did it for six years. Several faculty members and administrators told me that they thought I was doing a marvelous job for the school, but because I didn’t have a doctorate, the school couldn’t hire me as a “real” professor. All I could ever hope for was the opportunity to teach the odd class for low pay and no benefits.
A teaching opportunity opened up at a local community college, and only a master’s was required for teaching there. Because I had a master’s and plenty of teaching experience, I was hired to be a full-time teacher there. It wasn’t great pay by most people’s reckoning, but it was far more money than I’d ever earned before, and it was stability, so I took the job. I wound up teaching there for years. At first, I loved it, because I loved teaching, but I grew to loathe the school. The administration made it clear to me – over and over again – that they cared about one thing and one thing only: warm bodies in seats. As was explained to me repeatedly and in some detail, if you threaten to fail a student, he or she might be tempted to drop the class. That represented a loss of income for the school, so we were not to fail students. Still, I resolutely refused to assign passing grades to those students who would not or could not do the necessary work to earn a passing grade. After all, many of these students would be going on to become nurses or EMTs. I’d be damned if I’d let unqualified people pass my courses.
This went on for several years. I received a few reprimands because of my “uncooperative attitude,” but it’s not like they had anyone else who was better-qualified to teach the courses. Besides, those students who were serious about learning loved me. At the end of each semester, I’d have students tell me – either in person, or through cards – that they were thrilled to have had a teacher who actually cared whether or not they learned, and who was so willing to help them learn the material. Some of them sent letters or e-mails to the administration to tell them what a unique and valuable resource they had in me.
Most of the teachers at the school had long-ago given up trying to teach, or so it seemed to me. A sympathetic secretary told me that most teachers simply assigned “A”s to those students who showed up to class regularly and “B”s to the rest, and that was the extent of their grading. I literally didn’t believe such a thing, and I said so to my class later that day. To a person, they insisted that this was indeed the case, and many of them said quite forcefully that I was the only teacher they’d encountered who actually cared whether or not they knew and understood the material.
The straw that broke the camel’s back was a very nice, somewhat elderly lady. She always showed up to class on time, and was very quiet. It might help if you keep in mind that my teaching philosophy has always been that it’s most important that students understand the material. Any idiot can look up “facts.” What I want to ensure is that the students understand things. So, I tend to give “short answer” and “essay” type questions on my tests, and I demand that the students prove to me that they actually understand the material.
As an aside, this illustrates an amusing incident that once occurred at that private college where I had previously taught as an adjunct. During the week of final exams, I gave permission to one student to take her exam separately, because of some conflict that I can no longer remember. Another student from the class and a staff member agreed to act as proctors. Afterwards, the staff member called me up and told me that she had something to tell me that she thought I’d find amusing. When the student showed up to take the exam, the staff member asked her to leave her backpack and empty her pockets, to ensure that she wasn’t carrying any “cheat sheets.” When the staff member told the test-taker to do this, both students told her, “Don’t worry; the sort of tests he gives, no cheat sheets could help you pass – you either know the material or you don’t!”
Anyway, back to the straw that broke the camel’s back. I like to walk around when I’m lecturing, to see how the students are doing. If someone looks confused when I’m trying to make a point, that will prompt me to try to do a better job of explaining it. Besides, by taking a peek at their note-taking, I can get some idea of how things are going. I noticed that this particular lady was always quite punctual, and that she usually sat near the front, and that she always brought a notebook – but she never took any notes at all.
Well, okay. Some people learn best by reading the material beforehand, listening attentively during lecture, asking questions when necessary (though she never asked a question), and perhaps re-reading the material afterward. I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
When the first test came, I could only figure out which was hers by process of elimination. In the “name” blank was an unrecognizable scrawl. Most of the questions on the test weren’t “answered” at all. Below a few of the questions she had produced a few scrawls that – as far as I could tell with the most diligent study – contained no legitimate words whatsoever.
Well of course she failed the test. The only reason I gave her any points whatsoever was because I felt too guilty about handing out a “0” and awarded a few points because at least some of the questions had some sort of an “answer,” and I gave her the benefit of the doubt by assuming that there might be some actual words contained in the undecipherable scrawls that related to the question.
Naturally, I asked her to see me after class, but she insisted she was busy. She did tell me, though, that she couldn’t understand why she had done so poorly, since she’d gotten an “A” in every other course she’d taken there. Frankly, I didn’t believe it, but I went to my sympathetic secretary and asked her. She looked up the records and confirmed that the woman had indeed received “A”s in every class she’d taken up to that point. The secretary then pointedly reminded me that many (probably most, she said) teachers there simply gave “A”s to anyone who had good attendance.
When I finally got this woman to agree to a "student-teacher conference," I discovered that she was illiterate. I don't mean that she didn't read -- she couldn't read. Yet she'd been given an "A" in every single class she'd taken at this school.
I started sending out applications to doctoral programs, and told my supervisor at the community college that I would not be returning after the end of the semester. He seemed genuinely surprised, and asked me why. "Because I'm a teacher, not a prostitute," I told him.
I was still good friends with several people at the private college where I had taught, and they had been encouraging me for years to get a doctorate. Several of them had pointedly told me that I’d make an excellent college professor, and that with a doctorate I could do so. Whether or not I’d make an “excellent” professor, I couldn’t deny that I loved teaching – at least in an institution where I was allowed to teach. So, I enrolled in a doctoral program. Frankly, I don’t care how many letters I have after my name, but if the doctorate is the key to doing what I love, then so be it.
Though I had loved my master’s training, I must say that I haven’t found the experience of getting a doctorate quite so enthralling. That’s not to say that I haven’t made many acquaintances who are dear to me, but I’ll be pleased to be done and out of here.
By this time next year, I hope to have secured a teaching position at some nice, small private college. Someplace like the one I attended as an undergraduate, or the one where I taught. So far, I have a few very promising possibilities, so I’m hopeful.
Back when I was in college, I always said that it had seemed like an almost ideal life to me. When I was teaching at that private college, I was asked on several occasions both by students and fellow faculty members why I was there. According to them, with my talents, I could easily find a job that paid much better. Maybe so, but teaching is what I love. As I told one of my students when she asked me that question: “College was a wonderful experience as far as I’m concerned; I got to meet all sorts of interesting people and learn all sorts of interesting things; if things work out such that I get to spend the rest of my life in college, I’ll be a happy man.”
I love the thought that as a teacher, I can help to shape people’s lives in a positive way. That’s why I felt so enthusiastic to get to school each morning when I was teaching at that private college, and why I was so reluctant to leave in the evenings. Just by being there and doing what I was being paid to do, I was doing good. I was helping, in my own way, to make the world a better place. What more could you possibly ask for in a job?
Of course, if all goes well, I’ll also be earning fairly decent money as a full-time, tenure-track professor. That’s nice, but if money was what I was after, I’ve known all-along that I could have been earning much more money in other fields. I’ve lived in what most people would consider poverty all my life, and so long as I have enough money to be comfortable, I’m content.
I do find it rather amusing to occasionally have people say that I seem to have “refined” tastes, as if that implies that I grew up in privilege. I did have a privileged upbringing in that I was free to roam the woods and fields and nurture my love of the outdoors and of living things. And I had good friends who encouraged my love of learning. I read Jane Austen and Shakespeare and Asimov and Sagan and so forth because I discovered them on my own and discovered that I loved them, not because I was ever told that a “properly educated” person should be reading such things.
And as a consequence, meeting people in college from genuinely privileged backgrounds made me acutely aware of just how much I had missed out on. When they spoke of being able to go to bookstores (as if I’d ever seen a real bookstore before going away to college – I hadn’t) and buy any book that took their fancy, I was jealous. When they spoke casually of taking vacations in other states or even other countries, I could scarcely imagine such people existed. Sure, I’d read about such things, but I had scarcely believed that people existed who actually thought nothing of traveling hundreds or even thousands of miles for vacations.
What will I be doing this time next year? Hopefully, I’ll be teaching bright, enthusiastic students and enjoying the heck out of the experience. In the spring, I’ll wander the woods in my free time, to enjoy the sensations of the forest coming back to life, and to search for wildflowers. In the summer, I’ll perhaps hike the Appalachian Trail, and I’ll look for waterfalls. “If there is magic on this planet,” Loren Eisley wrote, “it is contained in water.” To me, the magic of water is most manifest in a waterfall set on the side of a mountain and deep in a forest.
Most likely, the school I end up at will be somewhere in the East. I’m thinking that I’ll want to come back out West during the summers on occasion. I’ll want to see the Rockies again, and the Cascades. I want to camp out on Lake Pend Oreille and climb Mount Rainier. I have dear friends in Olympia and Portland whom I’ll wish to see from time to time. I’ll go back to Maine on occasion, too, to see family there. And there are my sisters, nieces and nephews in North Carolina to visit on occasion.
The past few years have been a sort of limbo, and I must confess that I haven’t always enjoyed them especially. But you know? The future looks bright.
I hope the New Year turns out as well for everyone!
Cheers,
Michael
I’m originally from Maine, and it was a lovely place indeed, but we moved to North Carolina when I was quite young. My father was killed shortly thereafter, leaving my mother with four young children. I was the eldest. In some ways, it was perhaps a blessing, that our father died, though. He had come back from Viet-Nam profoundly changed. He was often drunk, and could be violent when drunk. I have essentially no positive memories of him.
One day, he struck my eldest sister in a fit of rage and gave her a scar that she has to this day. I remember the incident vividly, and though I know I am not my father, I have never touched alcohol, and I never will.
My mother re-married soon after my father’s death. Too soon, according to many of the relatives on my father’s side, but I cannot say.
My sisters and I grew up on a farm in western North Carolina. For me, it was nearly a paradise. Two more sisters soon came along. My sisters and I occasionally sensed some tension between our parents, but nonetheless, it was a great life, as I saw it. Ours wasn’t a commercial farm, and we didn’t produce enough to live entirely on what we grew, but we always had fresh fruit and vegetables in the summer, and we canned fruits and vegetables in the fall. I’m not sure that I ever tasted a store-bought tomato until I went to college. I’d milk the cows and gather eggs from the chickens, and my sisters and I would sometimes churn cream into butter. (We didn’t know it was work; we thought it was a game, so we enjoyed doing it.)
During the summers, I would roam all over the countryside. I sometimes found real Indian arrowheads, much to my delight, and I still have a particularly fine spearhead I once unearthed. I’d catch frogs at the stream or simply sit on the banks and watch minnows flit through the water. I’d catch lizards and snakes in the fields and woods. Some apple trees near the house hosted the nests of mockingbirds every spring, and I’d spend hours watching the parents tend their young.
Sometimes, I’d encounter a herd of deer while wandering through the woods. From books and an elderly neighbor and from my own practice, I honed my woodscraft to the point that I literally knew every tree within miles. I knew where to find sweet strawberries in the spring, blueberries in the early summer, and blackberries in the late summer. I knew where a great blue heron liked to prowl the stream for unwary fish, and I knew where I could find copperheads sunning themselves to warm up on cool mornings. My parents thought nothing of the fact that I’d disappear outside at the crack of dawn and not return until nightfall.
At night, I’d lie back in the field near the house and watch the stars and the fireflies, and listen to the calls of the whip-poor-wills.
If I felt the need for a treat, I’d walk to the local general store, a couple of miles down the road, picking up soda bottles I found in the ditch along the way. Usually by the time I reached the store, I’d have enough empties to exchange for a nice cold bottle of soda. The store owner knew me well, of course, and there were always a few old guys hanging out in the store and swapping stories about the “good old days.” Sometimes, there was nothing better for a lazy summer afternoon than to hang out, drinking soda and listening to them talk.
We were poor. We hardly ever had “store-bought” food, and my sisters and I wore our clothes until they were threadbare. Still, since everyone we knew lived pretty-much the same lifestyles, we didn’t know we were poor, and so had nothing to complain about. Actually, in my estimation, life was pretty good. I’d always loved learning, and so I loved school – especially because of the library there. I went through the entire library at each school I attended – first the elementary school, then the junior high, then the high school. I remember the librarian at the junior high teasing me once during my eighth-grade year, saying that she was sure I was looking forward to getting into high school, so that I’d have a new library to go through. “Yes I am,” I replied in all seriousness, not realizing at the time that I was being teased.
Occasionally, I could talk my step-father into taking me into town during the summer, where there was an honest-to-goodness public library. He’d drop me off on his way to work, and I’d stay there for the day until he picked me up in the afternoon on his way home. The librarians got to know me well, and would let me check out up to 15 books at a time – an entire month’s supply.
Yep, life was pretty good.
An elderly neighbor named Jerry lived a couple of miles down the road. (There were no houses close-enough to ours to be visible, so anyone who lived within 5 miles or so was considered a “neighbor.”) He was long-since retired, and had nothing better to do with his days than fish and read. He had a fine pond, and on hot days I’d hike down to his place to go fishing, listen to his stories, and then maybe go for a dip in the pond. Sometimes I’d accompany Jerry in his ancient World War II vintage jeep as he journeyed to visit friends and relatives. If anyone thought there was something strange about a 12 year-old boy who considered a 70 year-old man his best friend, no one ever said so.
Between sixth and seventh grades, two things happened in quick succession. Jerry died, and a new family moved in only three miles or so down the road. The family consisted of the standard two parents, plus three sons – one several years older than me, one just my age, and one a few years younger.
The father had just secured a job as a professor (of political science) at a nearby college. He had to commute almost an hour to work each day, but considered it a worthwhile sacrifice in order to live way out in the country. In my daily wanderings during the summer, I’d sometimes find myself in the vicinity of their place, so I’d stop in to visit. They soon became a kind of second family to me. Almost a first family, in some ways.
Though I’d loved books and reading, there were few in the house where I grew up. Nor was there any encouragement to read or otherwise seek to broaden my horizons. No one on any side of my family had ever been to college, and few people in the neighborhood had either. It was naturally assumed that I’d grow up and become a farmer or a mechanic, or some other sort of laborer.
“There is dignity in all honest work,” as they say, and I firmly believe it. After all, I was milking cows and pitching manure and mending fences from childhood. Anyone who does good, honest work has nothing whatsoever to feel ashamed about in his choice of career.
Still, I knew from early on that I was not interested in being a mechanic or even a “professional” farmer (I love farming, and would love to have a garden of my own – but I wouldn’t want to be a working a farm for my livelihood), and I certainly didn’t want to go to the city and work in a factory. But what other options were there?
Though it seemed like some sort of fantastic dream – as numerous friends and family members told me – I was determined that I would go to college from a very early age. I didn’t exactly know what I would do with my life, but I figured I’d work that out later.
The father of the neighboring family was, as I mentioned, a college professor. He had a fierce love of learning and of debate. One thing that he absolutely would not tolerate was anyone trying to pass off an opinion that wasn’t firmly grounded in facts and logic. He would mercilessly ridicule any opinion that you couldn’t defend. From him, I learned that it wasn’t enough to believe things – you must be able to justify your beliefs. An important lesson.
The mother of the family was a lover of the outdoors, especially of birds. She kept many bird feeders going, and took delight in watching the birds. She and I spent many a happy hour wandering through the woods looking for interesting plants and animals. Neither her husband nor any of her sons shared her love of the outdoors and of the flora and fauna contained therein, but in me she found a kindred spirit. She told me, years later, that I was the “biologist son” that she’d always hoped for.
Their whole house was filled with books. They had almost as many books as did the public library, it seemed to me, and the books were – in some ways – far more informative than any in the local library. The eldest son, being a voracious reader of fantasy and science-fiction, had lots of books on those subjects. Because of the father, they had lots of books on history and politics. Because of the mother, they had lots of books on science. They were an entire family of readers, and they were more than happy to nurture and encourage my love of learning.
The eldest son was an indifferent student, though he loved the sciences, especially physics and chemistry. Because he let me read his books, and because he provided me with many an interesting and stimulating conversation on such matters, I was most grateful to him. I like to think that I paid him back in some way, eventually. When I was a student in college, I encouraged him to apply. He eventually did, but because of his less than stellar educational record, the college initially refused to admit him. I went around to the professors in the physics and chemistry department and assured them that he would indeed be a good and capable student, and the school eventually accepted him. He went on to earn a chemistry degree, and is now happily employed in a field where his talents and interests are put to good use. (I also introduced him to the woman who would become his wife.)
The middle son was a lover of fantasy and adventure stories. He was no lover of the outdoors, but he was a boon companion, and we spent many a happy summer day roaming over hill and dale, beating off attacking pirate hoards, dealing with Cardinal Richelieu’s nefarious agents, and so forth. He was also a talented musician, and helped to inspire in me a love of music. Both he and his father had what seemed to me a truly astounding collection of records by people I’d scarcely ever heard of. People like Bach and Beethoven and Mozart. They taught me that there was far more to music than the country music and bluegrass that I’d grown up with.
The youngest son, unlike his elder brothers, was a lover of learning for its own sake. Where the eldest brother had little interest in school except for science classes, and the middle brother had little interest in school except for band, the youngest loved learning for its own sake. In that, we shared a deep bond of kinship.
Well, nothing lasts forever. My mother and stepfather split up, and my mother took us kids with her when she left. She was faced with the daunting task of trying to support six kids on her own. There were times when the electricity was shut off for a week or more, and I often hunted in the woods for berries to supplement our rather meager food stores. As the eldest, it fell on me to make sure that meals were prepared and so forth when our mother was at work. It helped to instill in me a deep sense of responsibility. I’ve been told on occasion that I have an “overdeveloped” sense of responsibility, in fact, but I don’t know about that.
I was nearly old-enough for college by that point anyway. And I was determined to go. I had always done very well in school, but there was no hope that my mother would be able to finance a college education, so she wasn’t exactly encouraging. Still, I applied to lots of different schools, and was accepted to several. Based on my academic background (and, let’s face it, my family’s poverty), one particularly appealing school offered me a scholarship that would cover the tuition. I still had to figure out how to pay for books and whatnot, but I could go to college! My friends (the college professor and his wife) were determined not to see me waste such an opportunity, and they packed me up and took me to the college, and they assured me that they would do everything in their power to keep me there. And they did, in their way. My mother suggested from time to time that I should really come home and find a proper job, to help support the family. It wasn’t a wholly unreasonable request, I thought, but my friends insisted that I’d drop out of college only over their dead bodies, or words to that effect. I stayed.
I worked part-time during the school year as a campus security guard – a job that actually suited me very well – and so earned enough money for books and miscellaneous expenses. I like to think that because I worked for my education, I appreciated it all the more.
I loved college more than I could possibly say. I was such an utter thrill to meet so many different people from such diverse backgrounds, and to have teachers and colleagues who didn’t think I was “weird” for wanting to read every book I could get my hands on, as most of my high-school acquaintances had. Though I had always intended to go to college – one way or another – I could not possibly have imagined what it would actually be like when growing up. I always said that if only I could figure out how to spend the rest of my life in college, learning all sorts of interesting things from all sorts of interesting people, I would.
Alas, graduation came. I took a job in a medical lab and worked there for a couple of years. I hated it. It was mindless drudge work. I would get up, go to work at a place that seemed to drain the life out of you, go home, eat, sleep, and get up to do it all over again. Weekends offered some respite, because I was then free to disappear into the mountains for a couple of days to hike and camp and generally enjoy myself. Still, it dawned on me eventually that I wasn’t living what I regarded as a remotely satisfying life. I still didn’t know exactly what I wanted to actually do with myself, but I knew that what I was doing wasn’t it.
So, I applied to a master’s program and was accepted. While a master’s student, I was required to teach labs, and to my great surprise, I discovered that I enjoyed the experience tremendously. I had been told before, back in college and even in high school that I had a natural talent for teaching, but I’d never really taken such claims seriously. Sure, I was always the kid that others came to when they couldn’t understand a math problem, and once in my senior year of high school, the physics teacher actually asked me to explain some of the lectures, because, she pointed out, it was clear that I understood the material better than she did. Even so, until I was actually made to do it, it never seriously occurred that I’d find teaching to be an enjoyable thing to do. But I loved it. I loved discussing interesting things with people who wanted to learn. I loved it when they asked questions, because it forced me to look at things from a different perspective, and so often gave me insights that I’d never have come up with on my own. In short, I “found my calling,” as they say.
After completing the master’s I managed to get a part-time teaching position at a local private college. Unfortunately, as an adjunct, I earned very little pay and had no benefits. Still, I loved what I was doing. I’d get up every morning eager to get to the school. After classes were done, I’d hang out for the rest of the day, delighted by the fact that students and colleagues (gee whiz! honest-to-goodness college professors!) would stop by to ask questions, get my opinions on matters, or simply to chat. Could life get any better? Sure, I was still dirt poor, and there was always the danger that if I were to become seriously ill or injured, I’d be in big trouble, but I loved what I was doing, so I did it for six years. Several faculty members and administrators told me that they thought I was doing a marvelous job for the school, but because I didn’t have a doctorate, the school couldn’t hire me as a “real” professor. All I could ever hope for was the opportunity to teach the odd class for low pay and no benefits.
A teaching opportunity opened up at a local community college, and only a master’s was required for teaching there. Because I had a master’s and plenty of teaching experience, I was hired to be a full-time teacher there. It wasn’t great pay by most people’s reckoning, but it was far more money than I’d ever earned before, and it was stability, so I took the job. I wound up teaching there for years. At first, I loved it, because I loved teaching, but I grew to loathe the school. The administration made it clear to me – over and over again – that they cared about one thing and one thing only: warm bodies in seats. As was explained to me repeatedly and in some detail, if you threaten to fail a student, he or she might be tempted to drop the class. That represented a loss of income for the school, so we were not to fail students. Still, I resolutely refused to assign passing grades to those students who would not or could not do the necessary work to earn a passing grade. After all, many of these students would be going on to become nurses or EMTs. I’d be damned if I’d let unqualified people pass my courses.
This went on for several years. I received a few reprimands because of my “uncooperative attitude,” but it’s not like they had anyone else who was better-qualified to teach the courses. Besides, those students who were serious about learning loved me. At the end of each semester, I’d have students tell me – either in person, or through cards – that they were thrilled to have had a teacher who actually cared whether or not they learned, and who was so willing to help them learn the material. Some of them sent letters or e-mails to the administration to tell them what a unique and valuable resource they had in me.
Most of the teachers at the school had long-ago given up trying to teach, or so it seemed to me. A sympathetic secretary told me that most teachers simply assigned “A”s to those students who showed up to class regularly and “B”s to the rest, and that was the extent of their grading. I literally didn’t believe such a thing, and I said so to my class later that day. To a person, they insisted that this was indeed the case, and many of them said quite forcefully that I was the only teacher they’d encountered who actually cared whether or not they knew and understood the material.
The straw that broke the camel’s back was a very nice, somewhat elderly lady. She always showed up to class on time, and was very quiet. It might help if you keep in mind that my teaching philosophy has always been that it’s most important that students understand the material. Any idiot can look up “facts.” What I want to ensure is that the students understand things. So, I tend to give “short answer” and “essay” type questions on my tests, and I demand that the students prove to me that they actually understand the material.
As an aside, this illustrates an amusing incident that once occurred at that private college where I had previously taught as an adjunct. During the week of final exams, I gave permission to one student to take her exam separately, because of some conflict that I can no longer remember. Another student from the class and a staff member agreed to act as proctors. Afterwards, the staff member called me up and told me that she had something to tell me that she thought I’d find amusing. When the student showed up to take the exam, the staff member asked her to leave her backpack and empty her pockets, to ensure that she wasn’t carrying any “cheat sheets.” When the staff member told the test-taker to do this, both students told her, “Don’t worry; the sort of tests he gives, no cheat sheets could help you pass – you either know the material or you don’t!”
Anyway, back to the straw that broke the camel’s back. I like to walk around when I’m lecturing, to see how the students are doing. If someone looks confused when I’m trying to make a point, that will prompt me to try to do a better job of explaining it. Besides, by taking a peek at their note-taking, I can get some idea of how things are going. I noticed that this particular lady was always quite punctual, and that she usually sat near the front, and that she always brought a notebook – but she never took any notes at all.
Well, okay. Some people learn best by reading the material beforehand, listening attentively during lecture, asking questions when necessary (though she never asked a question), and perhaps re-reading the material afterward. I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
When the first test came, I could only figure out which was hers by process of elimination. In the “name” blank was an unrecognizable scrawl. Most of the questions on the test weren’t “answered” at all. Below a few of the questions she had produced a few scrawls that – as far as I could tell with the most diligent study – contained no legitimate words whatsoever.
Well of course she failed the test. The only reason I gave her any points whatsoever was because I felt too guilty about handing out a “0” and awarded a few points because at least some of the questions had some sort of an “answer,” and I gave her the benefit of the doubt by assuming that there might be some actual words contained in the undecipherable scrawls that related to the question.
Naturally, I asked her to see me after class, but she insisted she was busy. She did tell me, though, that she couldn’t understand why she had done so poorly, since she’d gotten an “A” in every other course she’d taken there. Frankly, I didn’t believe it, but I went to my sympathetic secretary and asked her. She looked up the records and confirmed that the woman had indeed received “A”s in every class she’d taken up to that point. The secretary then pointedly reminded me that many (probably most, she said) teachers there simply gave “A”s to anyone who had good attendance.
When I finally got this woman to agree to a "student-teacher conference," I discovered that she was illiterate. I don't mean that she didn't read -- she couldn't read. Yet she'd been given an "A" in every single class she'd taken at this school.
I started sending out applications to doctoral programs, and told my supervisor at the community college that I would not be returning after the end of the semester. He seemed genuinely surprised, and asked me why. "Because I'm a teacher, not a prostitute," I told him.
I was still good friends with several people at the private college where I had taught, and they had been encouraging me for years to get a doctorate. Several of them had pointedly told me that I’d make an excellent college professor, and that with a doctorate I could do so. Whether or not I’d make an “excellent” professor, I couldn’t deny that I loved teaching – at least in an institution where I was allowed to teach. So, I enrolled in a doctoral program. Frankly, I don’t care how many letters I have after my name, but if the doctorate is the key to doing what I love, then so be it.
Though I had loved my master’s training, I must say that I haven’t found the experience of getting a doctorate quite so enthralling. That’s not to say that I haven’t made many acquaintances who are dear to me, but I’ll be pleased to be done and out of here.
By this time next year, I hope to have secured a teaching position at some nice, small private college. Someplace like the one I attended as an undergraduate, or the one where I taught. So far, I have a few very promising possibilities, so I’m hopeful.
Back when I was in college, I always said that it had seemed like an almost ideal life to me. When I was teaching at that private college, I was asked on several occasions both by students and fellow faculty members why I was there. According to them, with my talents, I could easily find a job that paid much better. Maybe so, but teaching is what I love. As I told one of my students when she asked me that question: “College was a wonderful experience as far as I’m concerned; I got to meet all sorts of interesting people and learn all sorts of interesting things; if things work out such that I get to spend the rest of my life in college, I’ll be a happy man.”
I love the thought that as a teacher, I can help to shape people’s lives in a positive way. That’s why I felt so enthusiastic to get to school each morning when I was teaching at that private college, and why I was so reluctant to leave in the evenings. Just by being there and doing what I was being paid to do, I was doing good. I was helping, in my own way, to make the world a better place. What more could you possibly ask for in a job?
Of course, if all goes well, I’ll also be earning fairly decent money as a full-time, tenure-track professor. That’s nice, but if money was what I was after, I’ve known all-along that I could have been earning much more money in other fields. I’ve lived in what most people would consider poverty all my life, and so long as I have enough money to be comfortable, I’m content.
I do find it rather amusing to occasionally have people say that I seem to have “refined” tastes, as if that implies that I grew up in privilege. I did have a privileged upbringing in that I was free to roam the woods and fields and nurture my love of the outdoors and of living things. And I had good friends who encouraged my love of learning. I read Jane Austen and Shakespeare and Asimov and Sagan and so forth because I discovered them on my own and discovered that I loved them, not because I was ever told that a “properly educated” person should be reading such things.
And as a consequence, meeting people in college from genuinely privileged backgrounds made me acutely aware of just how much I had missed out on. When they spoke of being able to go to bookstores (as if I’d ever seen a real bookstore before going away to college – I hadn’t) and buy any book that took their fancy, I was jealous. When they spoke casually of taking vacations in other states or even other countries, I could scarcely imagine such people existed. Sure, I’d read about such things, but I had scarcely believed that people existed who actually thought nothing of traveling hundreds or even thousands of miles for vacations.
What will I be doing this time next year? Hopefully, I’ll be teaching bright, enthusiastic students and enjoying the heck out of the experience. In the spring, I’ll wander the woods in my free time, to enjoy the sensations of the forest coming back to life, and to search for wildflowers. In the summer, I’ll perhaps hike the Appalachian Trail, and I’ll look for waterfalls. “If there is magic on this planet,” Loren Eisley wrote, “it is contained in water.” To me, the magic of water is most manifest in a waterfall set on the side of a mountain and deep in a forest.
Most likely, the school I end up at will be somewhere in the East. I’m thinking that I’ll want to come back out West during the summers on occasion. I’ll want to see the Rockies again, and the Cascades. I want to camp out on Lake Pend Oreille and climb Mount Rainier. I have dear friends in Olympia and Portland whom I’ll wish to see from time to time. I’ll go back to Maine on occasion, too, to see family there. And there are my sisters, nieces and nephews in North Carolina to visit on occasion.
The past few years have been a sort of limbo, and I must confess that I haven’t always enjoyed them especially. But you know? The future looks bright.
I hope the New Year turns out as well for everyone!
Cheers,
Michael