Notes from The Professor

February 22, 2012

Tim: the displaced

My little rustbelt city has been hit hard by the recession. When I started teaching community college in the early aughts, very few of my full-time students were over 25. Now, there are displaced workers in every section of every class I teach. Many of them haven’t set foot in a classroom in well over twenty years. They have been set adrift from manufacturing jobs and laid off from shrinking companies. They are down, but not out.

Tim was an electrician in a manufacturing facility for thirty years before he was laid off the day before Thanksgiving 2008, when his company was purchased by a Chinese corporation. Even though his union contract guaranteed him severance, the new owners kept enough people around to fire up one production line every now and then until the contract expired, thus circumventing their obligation to the 120+ workers they had displaced. He was, for the first time in over 30 years, unemployed and without a paycheck.

Undaunted, he filed for unemployment and soon enrolled in school. He showed up in my English class at the end of his first year, having breezed through the first two quarters of our composition sequence in short order. He took the “hard” classes first: Math and English–subjects he hadn’t taken since high school.

He sat at the back of my classroom, a big guy with a shock of graying hair and a goatee. He wore jeans an army jacket just like a good college student should. While he was quiet at first, it wasn’t long before he started to distinguish himself, both in class discussions and in his writing. He had a poet’s ear for phrasing, and was a sensitive and appreciative reader. His papers were a pleasure to read. And although the math classes nearly kicked his butt, he started to see the power of mathematics in engineering. Going back to school, he told me, was harder than any job he’d ever had.

During his second year, he stopped by my office now and then to say hi, or to show me pictures of his new grandchild. To my delight, he said going back to school had kindled a love of writing, and he continued to do so, both for classes and for fun. When he graduated, he was in the top 3% of his class. He had made the most of his second chance at an education; he never missed a class, and the one tiny blotch on his otherwise perfect academic record was a single B in a math class that he just couldn’t quite beat. By all measures, certainly by the college’s metrics, he was the perfect “completer,” the “success” referred to on our marketing materials. Surely, his spanking new Associate’s Degree in Operations Technology had given him the skills and the resume necessary to compete in this job market. Surely the two years he’d spent in school would have been time for the economy to recover.

Tim and his family had managed to make ends meet while he was in school, thanks to a number of programs designed especially for people like him. He had done everything in lockstep: from filing for benefits, to enrolling in school, to completing every class successfully and on time, to graduating with honors. His TAA benefits (the Trade Adjustment Assistance benefits designed to help those who became unemployed due to the impact of international trade) kicked in exactly two weeks before he graduated. The minute he did so, the benefits dried up.

Over the next six months, he sent out literally hundreds of resumes, which resulted in a handful of interviews. Each of those, after seeming to go well, led to weeks of waiting, often for no response at all. With a resume and academic record like his, it’s hard to believe that his age didn’t have something to do with the lack of offers, but of course, no one says that. At first he applied for management jobs, but after a few months, he had to lower the bar.

Finally, in January, Tim was offered a job more than 45 miles from his home. In a manufacturing facility. Doing a job that he was qualified to do the day he was laid off over three years ago.

But it’s a job, and he’s happy to have it. Even with his wife’s income, things had started to get tight, and he needed to work. He was close to taking a job at a Home Depot or the like, just to make ends meet. And there may be an opportunity for advancement from his hourly union job to management. It’s not an easy leap to make, but it’s possible. I have my fingers crossed for him.

Still, it’s hard from where I sit not to wonder if the two years he spent in school did him any good at all. Our students, our state, and our President look to community colleges to retrain the workforce for bigger and better things.

But no one anticipated that the recovery would take as long as it has. In 2008, the idea of taking 2 years to go to school while the economy turned around seemed reasonable. That it’s taken closer to four was harder to predict. In this morning’s paper was an article about the mini manufacturing boom in Ohio, but they are not the high-tech manufacturing jobs Tim trained for. The tremendous optimism and hard work that accompanied his journey into academia must be hard for him to remember at the end of a long day. In fact, when I asked him if he wouldn’t like to tell his own story, he said:

“I will always continue to write, but for the near future I have to pour my heart and soul into this job to establish a foothold and maybe then I can advance. For the foreseeable future I am looking at lots of overtime, night shifts and a 97 mile round trip drive daily. As you can imagine, by the time I get home, I feel like a bird with no song in me.”

I like to think we did right by him, but there’s a part of me that feels like we’re making false promises to students like Tim when we say their education will lead to a brighter future. Deep down I know education is valuable for its own sake and not just as a means to an end. When asked if he would do it again, Tim said he wouldn’t have traded the second chance at a degree for anything. Discovering a facility with words, the power of mathematics, and having the satisfaction of exceeding one’s own expectations are all benefits that none of our institutional metrics can quantify. For now, that will have to be enough.

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December 1, 2011

Rhonda: the addict

I didn’t notice Rhonda for the first couple weeks of the quarter. A middle-aged woman who sat in the back of the room and listened carefully, she rarely participated. One evening after class (we met once a week for three hours, which was grueling enough, let alone that class let out at 9:45pm) she asked if she could speak to me.

She was, she told me, suffering from lupus, and lately had been having some pretty unpleasant symptoms. She held up her fingers, the tips of which were wrapped in bandages.

“My fingertips have split,” she said. “I’m not sleeping very well because of the pain, so if I seem out of it, it’s not you.”

Somehow I resisted screaming “Omigod your FINGERS HAVE SPLIT??? OUCH!!”

Instead, I offered a sympathetic and professional “Thanks for letting me know, Rhonda. If there’s anything you need or if you have to miss class for any reason, just let me know.”

“I will, Ms. Professor,” she said, her voice a little ragged and her huge brown eyes sunken slightly in her face. I wondered how I could have neglected to notice she was ill.

Sure enough, she was gone the next week. And the next. This was about ten years ago, before students communicated with me via email. She never called, and I had no way to reach her. Each time I saw her empty seat, I privately worried that something terrible had happened to her.

When she returned to class, she was like a different person. As tiny and waif-like as she had been, now her stocking cap and thick wool coat nearly swallowed her whole. She shuffled into the classroom, sat in back (as usual) and struggled to stay awake while I spoke. After setting the class to work on a group assignment, I went over to her.

“I’m glad you’re back, Rhonda. I was worried about you.”

She looked at me, her huge eyes glassy, her formerly clear brown skin mottled with gray. When she spoke, her speech was slurred.

“The pain got so bad I finally had to go to the emergency room. The medicine they gave me helped, though. It’s called OxyContin. They use it for cancer patients,” she chuckled, “it’s that strong. But at least now I can sleep at night. I can take care of my babies.”

Her “babies,” I knew, from her introductory paper, were nearly grown men: big, strapping boys of 16 and 18 who played football and adored their Mama. I hoped they were taking care of her.

At the time, I had barely heard of OxyContin. Just a few months earlier, another student had written a paper about this relatively newly available drug and its terribly addictive properties. He worried that it was being used indiscriminately when its original intent had been to treat intractable pain in patients too ill to function anyway, not unlike morphine. He wrote about a black market, about junkies crushing the pills and snorting them, about addicts hooked after a single use, about physicians prescribing it in emergency rooms.

The next week, Rhonda was even more out of it. She approached my desk on a break, and with eyelids at less than half mast, asked me to explain what I had just gone over.

“I’m not sure I understand the assignment,” she murmured, barely intelligible.

I did my best to clarify the details for her, but I could tell she wasn’t getting much. She barely stayed conscious the rest of the evening, then shuffled out the minute class was over.

I stayed behind to answer a few stragglers’ questions and pack up my bag, and just as I was leaving, Rhonda reappeared in the doorway.

“I can’t remember where I parked my car,” she slurred. “Can you help me?”

“You drove here yourself?” I tried not to sound as horrified as I was. I wanted to tell her she was nuts, that she had no business driving, that she was being overmedicated, that she needed help. But instead, I just said, “Why don’t you call one of your sons to come get you?”

“I have the car. They don’t have any way to get here.”

Had this happened now that I’ve been at the same school for 11 years, had it been at a time of day when not every single campus office was closed, had I not had a babysitter at home who had to be home by 10:30, had I been more willing to venture well outside the comfort of my usual boundaries, I would have called her sons or found out where she lived and taken her home myself. Instead, I just said, “Let me walk with you. I’ll help you find your car.”

I knew that there would be a security guard in the parking garage, and sure enough, one of the friendly regulars was there, bundled up to his eyeballs in the frigid February night.

“Sir, this lady needs help finding her car and getting home. Perhaps you can find a campus police officer to help her?” I looked at Rhonda, wondering if she’d be embarrassed, but she was too far gone to care. Then I patted her awkwardly on the arm, told her to be safe, thanked the security guard for his help, and hurried off to my car.

Rhonda never came back to class, but I thought about her all the time. I took to skimming the obits in the local paper, wondering if I’d see her name, and what the cause of death would be: Rhonda Simpkins, age 42, of complications from lupus.

Six months later, I was in the college library with a research class when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Rhonda. I was so happy to see her I almost grabbed her and squeezed her. She looked great. Healthy. Alert.

“It is so good to see you, Rhonda. I was worried about you.”

She told me she had been through rehab and had been clean for a few months. That she had been so badly addicted to OxyContin she’d almost died. That she didn’t remember very well the last time she’d seen me or what happened that night, but she was sorry I’d had to see her that way. That she was reenrolled and starting classes anew. That her boys had been wonderful, and her lupus was under control. I was so relieved I wanted to cry. Then I gave her a hug and she went on her way. I haven’t seen her since.

I never found out what happened that last night she was in my class. I don’t know if her sons came to get her, if campus police took her to the hospital, or if she somehow drove home herself, God forbid. All I know is that I passed her off, and that things turned out okay either in spite of or because of that. That’s good enough for me.

June 11, 2011

Commencement

Over the past several years, I’ve developed a small ritual during finals week.  I go to the bookstore on Monday, the day the paper avalanche starts in earnest, and pick up my Josten’s packet — black robe, mortarboard with tassel, and Master’s hood — and take it back to my office, where I hang everything on the hooks behind my office door.  When the baskets of portfolios and folders full of research papers and stuffed online dropboxes overwhelm me (which is many times a day), I look at the phantom professor in the corner and remember that the end is near.  Summer begins in a week.  No matter how bad it gets, it will all be worth it soon.

It is sort of a tradition among us professors to whine about having to attend commencement.  Other than teaching a certain number of hours each quarter, it is one of the only duties specifically enumerated in our contract — ostensibly because no one would go if they didn’t have to.  It’s a long evening. There are more than 800 names to read.  We are tired.

Then there’s the fact that it is held in an unairconditioned basketball arena on the second weekend in June. In spite of the enormous fans whose roar fills the air even over the chattering of the crowd, it is sweltering — and we are dressed in black poly-blend and velvet.  With hats.  One of my colleagues has dubbed it “the sweat lodge.”

The black-robed near-graduates fill the tarp-covered arena floor, awaiting their diplomas.  They flap at their already sweaty faces with cardboard paddles emblazoned with the college logo. The atmosphere is somewhere between that of a NASCAR race and a church service.  The crowd is so big that even when Pomp and Circumstance begins to play, no one really quiets down.  People cheer and wave like they would at a sporting event.  Once in a while, an air horn blasts.  It is not a solemn occasion, nor is it stuffy (other than the temperature).

Because I teach entry-level classes and prerequisites, it is unusual for me to see any recent students in the crowd.  Although technically we offer only two-year degrees, few of the students who enroll in English 111 their first quarter finish in two years.  Many can attend only part time.  Many have their two-year plans interrupted — by babies, financial exigencies, illness, or any number of other inconvenient hurdles.  Many of them transfer and will earn their degrees elsewhere.  Many will simply disappear.  Of course it is important for me to be there, but would any of my students know the difference if I weren’t? Do they even remember me by now?

The ceremony is roughly the same every year. The benediction and President’s welcome are followed by the conferring of Professors Emeriti.  (No honorary two-year degrees granted, folks. Sorry.)  Then the keynote speaker addresses the class.  This year it was one of our Senators, who apparently thought he was somewhere else when he joked about the graduates’ parents being glad not to have to pay tuition anymore. I have no idea what the numbers are, but his little quip got not so much as a chuckle.  Probably fewer than 10% of those assembled have someone else to pay their bills.  Everyone looked at him as if he were daft. That he went on to quote Socrates, MLK, and Joseph Campbell in the space of the next three minutes (his theme:  “follow your dreams.” Truly original and inspiring!) made me wonder if he’d just Googled “inspirational quotes” on his Blackberry ten minutes before the ceremony.  And when he ended his speech by congratulating the class of 2001 (that is not a typo) I cringed.

While our keynoters are usually much better prepared and less — well — vapid, the best part of the evening is after the diplomas are handed out.  The college President, a big man with a booming voice, does what I’ve come to regard as his commencement schtick.

“Stand if you are the first member of your family to graduate from college.  Stand if you were ever told that you ‘weren’t college material.’  Stand if you started here more than five years ago.  Remain standing if it’s been more than ten years.  Twenty…” and he goes on until only one or two people are standing, and talks about goals and persistence and perseverance.  The crowd goes wild.  More airhorns.

I have a love/hate relationship with this scene.  Last night, I was sitting next to my department chair, who is constantly being hounded by the administration about our passing rates.  Why aren’t they higher? What can we do to improve retention rates?  Those who worship the almighty “completion rate,” that number we are constantly trying to improve and that dogs our every decision, do not regard this sort of longevity kindly.  At some point, we counted some of these very people among those we had failed to “retain.”

But they came back, and this night is for celebrating. This night is about the ones who have made it, however we count them. Some sail through; some struggle and repeat classes and suffer false starts.  But the 842 graduates here, and the many hundreds more who opt not to sweat it out in the arena, did it.  They did it.

And so did I.  I made it through the piles for one more year. I submitted my grades.  I convinced at least one guy that reading poetry wasn’t for sissies (although he made me promise not to tell anyone he said so) and another that he had something valuable to say.  One student told me my class had changed her life.  Another said I’d made her glad she wasn’t an English major.

And so it goes, as does my love/hate relationship with commencement.  The odd mix of solemnity and rowdiness in the arena embodies all the good and the bad of my job, the successes and the failures of my students, the hopefulness and cynicism that are constantly at war in me.

When the ceremony is over, we faculty file out the back doors of the arena, peel off our regalia, and drop them into enormous cardboard bins to be returned to the rental company.  Black robes, jewel-toned hoods and mortarboards lie in heaps as though their occupants have melted out of them, which is not too far from the truth. During the ceremony last night a thunderstorm passed over, as one does most nights this time of year. When I pushed open the doors and headed out to the parking lot, the heat of the day had dissipated, and a cool breeze washed over me.  Summer had commenced.

March 19, 2011

Jeanine: the bereft

When I started teaching college twelve years ago, I had very few avenues through which to communicate with my students outside of class. As an adjunct instructor, I had no office or campus phone number. I didn’t have a cell phone. I didn’t even have my own email address, and since most of my students did not have an internet connection at home, it wouldn’t have done me much good if I had. So, I had to do the unthinkable: I gave out my home phone number.

My class met in the evenings, so when my phone rang as I was getting an early dinner on the table and shoveling squash into the baby’s mouth and trying to keep my clothes clean until class time, I could count on it being a student with a last minute question or excuse. (Once, my phone rang at 11:45pm. It was a woman who’d been absent for three weeks wondering when might be a good time for her to turn in the paper that had been due earlier that evening. I told her “never” and went back to sleep, but that’s another story.)

One day I got a call at about 8:30 in the morning from Jeanine, a perfectionist who attended every class, met every deadline, and seldom got less than 95% on any assignment.

“I’m not going to be able to turn my paper in tonight, but I’ll have a friend bring it.” She sounded flustered but businesslike.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“My husband died,” she said, as matter-of-factly as if she’d been telling me that her car had broken down.

“Oh, Jeanine. I’m so sorry. When?”

“Just now. I’m waiting for the coroner.”

“What?”

“I’m waiting for the coroner. I just found him about five minutes ago. I don’t think I’m going to make it to class.”

I stammered my condolences, told her not to worry about a thing, that I didn’t need her paper that very day under the circumstances and she could just call me when she was ready to come back to class, but I could tell she wasn’t listening.

“Ok. I’ve got to go. I have to tell my family.”

I hung up the phone, trying to imagine the state of shock someone would have to be in to make such a call. It was as though she had immediately started running a checklist in her head, one that she was making up as she went: Take care of business. Make the easy calls first: 1) call coroner; 2) call English teacher.

Jeanine had told me about her husband one evening while we were on a break during the three-hour class meeting. She had been married for twenty years, since she was nineteen. She was studying to be a nurse; after all, she had been a caregiver for half her life.

The accident happened two weeks after her wedding. Her husband had been gravely injured. Shortly after she moved into the house they had bought together, she had moved a hospital bed into what would have been the dining room. In twenty years, she had never slept for more than four hours at a stretch, because she had to get up to check on him. I don’t remember the details of his condition. He was not on life support, but apparently there were things that could go wrong, things that Jeanine had to monitor, medications she had to administer. He was responsive, though. He could smile at her, respond to her touch. She read to him and sang to him. He was, she told me, her Honey Bunny.

I don’t remember exactly how he died. When I spoke to her a few weeks afterwards, Jeanine told me she had been up until the wee hours working on her research paper and had checked on him before turning in, but when she got up the next morning, he was dead. She wondered aloud if she had been so distracted and overtired from working on her term paper that she had done something wrong, forgotten something. And I (irrationally, I know) wondered if that meant I was somehow to blame, or (more rationally) if she blamed me. Everything is such a delicate chain of cause and effect: if the deadline had been different, if I’d given her more time in class, if I had not made the paper seem like too big a deal, maybe he wouldn’t have died. But of course, that train of what-ifs is infinite. I don’t know what the autopsy showed. It could have been an infection. He could have aspirated. It didn’t matter. He was dead just the same.

Jeanine came back to class about two weeks later. The quarter was almost over, and there was a lot of work to make up. I offered to give her an incomplete.

“Why not take your time? I’ll work with you on what you missed. We’ll get you caught up. There’s no need for you to do this right now.”

“What else would I do?” she asked. Her eyes welled up. It was the only time I ever saw her cry. “I have no idea what to do with myself. I have so much time, so much freedom.”

I waited while she dabbed at her eyes.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I mourned my husband twenty years ago. The man I married died in a car accident when he was twenty years old. But I loved this man, too. People always told me how brave I was for staying with him. Now they talk about how I can finally move on. But I need to grieve him again. He was my baby. I took care of him. I don’t know who I am without him.”

When gravely disabled or ill people die, it’s easy to say that it was a “blessing.” We hear platitudes about their suffering being eased or about their caregivers being released from obligation or about their being at peace. It’s all true on the surface, I suppose, but there’s something about those phrases that disregards the relationships that are born from loss or tragedy or illness or injury. It’s an especially complicated sort of grief.

When Jeanine started school, it had been something to do for herself. She knew that she would never be able to take a job as long as her husband needed her care, but since she was already an experienced caregiver, she thought that perhaps she could learn how to do her job better, and to prepare herself–as family and friends had urged her–for a time when he no longer needed her. She never imagined that time would come so soon.

Jeanine finished the quarter on time. She got an A. I never saw her again. I imagine she finished her nursing degree, probably with honors. She grieved her husband’s death for a second time. By now, she has probably made a whole new life for herself. I think of her now and then. I hope she is happy.

*An edited version of this post was featured on The Story with Dick Gordon, an American Public Media production that airs on NPR stations nationwide. Please listen here. The episode starts off with an interview with one of my students.

February 20, 2011

Irene: the grandma

Filed under: Uncategorized — The Professor @ 2:25 pm
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Every so often, a teacher just gets one of those classes: a weird mix of people, an imbalance of genders, an odd time of day or a not-quite-right classroom. One spring quarter 6 or 7 years ago, I had a class that met all of those criteria. It was small for my school, which is to say there were fewer than twenty students who showed up regularly. (These days, with enrollment skyrocketing, it’s more typical to have 28-29 students enrolled in a section. But that’s a rant for another time.) Anyway, it was not looking good.

Of those twenty or so students, nearly all of them were young males–teenaged and young twentysomething guys who looked as though their parents had sentenced them to community college. They schlepped into class five, ten minutes late, looking like they had just rolled out of bed, even at two o’clock in the afternoon.

Thank God for Irene. She was not messing around, and was not going to have her time wasted by those little punks. She’d glare at them when they came in late like the disapproving grandmother she was old enough to be. She had retired from a long career as an autoworker, and thought it was about time to get her college degree. For her second act, she wanted to be a cop. You might think that goal was pretty unrealistic, but then you’ve never met her. She was no little old lady.

Irene was tall and broad shouldered, and had a deep, sandpapery voice earned by at least a pack a day (until, as she proudly told me, she had quit smoking after retirement). Her skin was tanned and as wrinkled as crumpled paper, but she moved like a much younger woman. She spoke up in class often, asked smart questions, and took notes furiously.

The day of the first draft workshop, she was in a group with three of the aforementioned young men. As I circulated around the room eavesdropping on their progress and checking drafts, I heard her say to one of them, “Why’d you only write two pages? It’s supposed to be at least three.”

The kid she’d addressed gaped at her like a fish and mumbled something about it just being a rough draft and not counting for a grade.

“But the professor said three pages.” She stared at him over the top of her reading glasses and waited for an answer.

From then on, a mutual grudging respect formed between her and the kids in the class. She became the ad hoc grandma of the teenaged boy crowd. Irene was not a great writer. She had plenty to say, but sentence boundaries eluded her. Fortunately, Caleb was in her group: a lanky, heavily tattooed, copiously pierced, Doc Marten wearing artist and a fabulous writer. She kicked his ass when he was late or absent, and he proofread for her. It was a perfect symbiosis.

When Irene turned in her first paper, she remarked that it had taken her longer to type it than it had to write it in the first place. And when she said “type,” she meant “type.”

“I’m thinking about getting a computer, but I don’t really know how to use one.”

I told her I thought it would be a good investment, but that she could get by without. Two weeks later, when her next paper was due, she handed in a perfectly-formatted computer-generated document.

“I bought that computer on Friday,” she told me. “Took me all weekend to figure out how to use it, but I think I’ve got it down.”

Her essays improved steadily as the quarter went on. One was about the night she went on a ride-along for her criminal justice class. I kept wondering why a woman her age would want to subject herself to such brutal hours and dangerous conditions, but she loved every minute of it. “I worked in a factory for thirty years. I’ve raised my kids. I could use a little excitement,” she told me. I could hardly argue with that.

By the end of twelve weeks, my ragtag bunch had become my favorite class. I was sorry to see them go. Irene said her goodbyes to her boys and to me, promising to keep in touch. I didn’t see much of her after that, but a couple years later, at commencement, I saw her name in the program. She was profiled, along with three or four other “nontraditional” students, in an article about student success. I watched for her as the 1200 or so students filed past the college president to receive their diplomas, and sure enough, when she was handed hers, a cheer went up from the other graduates in her major. She pumped her fist in the air as she went back to her seat, a grandmother, a retiree, and a graduate. Commencement, indeed.

*An edited version of this post was featured on The Story with Dick Gordon, an American Public Media production that airs on NPR stations nationwide. Please listen here.

November 22, 2010

Doug: the poster boy

Filed under: Uncategorized — The Professor @ 10:22 pm
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One week last spring, three of my former students made headlines. It was exciting, really. Most of my students disappear into their futures, and I never find out what has become of them or what they have made of themselves. Imagine my pride when I read in the local paper about Donny, who had become a Tea Party organizer! Clearly, he had crafted his rhetorical skills in English 112 sufficiently to persuade like-minded folk to protest the current administration and promote legislation that…that…well, does something. Something different from what those bastards in office are doing, right Donny? So, good for him. Except that he was in the paper not so much because he had organized a rally, but because he was promoting said rally with racist hate speech, and all of the pols who had signed up to speak had pulled out. (Oh, and because he had a restraining order against him for harassment. But so do I, so who am I to call the kettle black?)

A few days later, I recognized on the front page a picture of Dick, a young man who was subsequently featured on several national news shows for having run off with his girlfriend to Florida. This would not have been newsworthy except for the fact that said girlfriend left her husband and baby one morning to “run some errands,” ditched her car in a parking lot, and set off a national manhunt, all in the name of love. How romantic! Perhaps you even saw them on The Today Show trying to explain why they had made it look as though she had been abducted. Dick had been a student of mine a year or so earlier. He had come to a few classes, turned in the first assignment or two, and then disappeared without a trace. So I guess I had prepared him for his future too.

Thank God for Doug. He made the headlines the same week, not of the local paper, but of USA Today, and not for nutty exploits, but for being one of the top twenty community college students in the entire nation.

I met Doug during his first quarter back at school in more than 20 years. He had been laid off (unjustly as it turns out, but that’s another story) from his manufacturing job due to an injury, and was starting over. This is a familiar narrative where I teach, but from the get go, there was something different about him. He was not intimidated; he was determined.

His first paper, though, was a bit of a mess. He had a lot to say, and he said it with conviction, but he also said it almost entirely in fragments and run ons. I expended an awful lot of ink before I finally just wrote “please visit the writing center,” which (I reluctantly confess) is shorthand for “there are too many errors for me to point out–get some one-on-one help.” Later I learned that he was shocked by this criticism. He had thought English would be a breeze. But instead of either rolling his eyes and resigning himself to C’s or blaming the messenger, he doggedly took every bit of advice I gave him all quarter. I never had to explain anything twice. He soaked all of it up like a sponge; not only writing instruction, but everything.

One day, we were chatting after class when he told me that he had once been a member of a notorious hate group. I hardly knew what to say to such a revelation.

“It was a bad time,” he told me. “I was running with a bad crowd. A lot of drugs, a lot of drinking, a lot of youthful rebellion.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know this about him. If you saw Doug, he might just fit the picture you’ve already imagined. He’s a big guy–not tall, but barrel chested, with a salt-and-pepper ponytail down to the middle of his back. I didn’t need to be told that he rides a Harley. His voice is deep and resonant; he has a booming laugh and kind eyes. This last part did not jibe with the past he told me about.

“Well, that was then,” was all I could think of to say. I’m glad to report that I have never seen a single vestige of that reckless young man. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined that conversation. Turns out he’s done a little good since then.

Doug and I didn’t agree about everything, but I know this: the man is a learning being. By the time he finished his degree last spring, he had not only rocked every class he took and racked up a shelf full of awards, but he was also running the honor society–not just for our school, but for the entire multi-state region. One day, while visiting the VA hospital, he got talking to a patient, a stranger who noticed the videos he had brought for a friend. Within a couple of months, Doug had organized a video drive and set up a movie library for the vets. As part of another service project, he spearheaded an effort to clean up the riverfront in our little industrial city. I can’t begin to list the good he has done in the community, but I can tell you that it’s humbling.

The only person truly surprised when he received national recognition was Doug. Sure, his Phi Theta Kappa advisors nominated him for the honor. I helped him to edit it his application. But he is the one who did every bit of good work, both in the classroom and outside of it. I heard him speak a number of times to large audiences about this honor, and he always began by saying that he didn’t do it alone. Despite his generally outgoing personality and big voice, on these occasions I was struck by his humility and gratitude. Even as he wore the half dozen pins and badges and medals he had earned, or showed off the trophies that were starting to accumulate, he seemed amazed that all of this had happened to him. But he was proud, too: so much so that he had to stop every now and then when he was speaking to keep his emotions in check.

The day after commencement last spring (at which he was a featured speaker, of course) he proposed to a woman that he met while going through the surgical technology program. He had landed a job within weeks of graduation, and has already earned at least one promotion that I know of. I’m sure I’ll see him in the newspaper again some day, but he might be hard to recognize without his ponytail, which he donated to oil cleanup efforts right before graduation. He has thanked me dozens of times for whatever role I may have had in his success, and I always answer by thanking him back. I hope he knows how very sincerely I mean that. I was truly honored to have him in class, and am proud to call him my friend.

I’ll be back with my bad snarky self next week time, but in the spirit of the approaching holiday and even as I avoid the endless amount of grading that has to be done as the quarter ends, I am thankful for my job. In a world populated by the likes of Donny and Dick, Doug reminded me of why I am a teacher.

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