What Could I Do?
My English minor required a class I desperately did not want to take: Shakespeare.
I’d like to say that, thanks to the iambic pentameter, grand metaphors and the deep significance of Shakespearean drama, comedy, and poetry, I learned to appreciate Shakespeare in spite of my incessant drinking. I’d like to say I fell in love with his clever wit long before I reached my forties.
But I did not.
I was a full-blown using alcoholic with a passion for cocaine. Shakespeare was just another long-dead guy who should have been able to use modern American English.
So I went to the class sometimes, and sometimes I did not go. Sometimes I made it to class but slept through the entire hour. I didn’t know what was going on; I didn’t even read the cliff notes versions of the works we were studying.
It was spring semester of my senior year. I didn’t care if I did the work or not. I just wanted to graduate.
My grades reflected my attitude. Every now and then, Dr. Chapman would pull me aside and say “blah-blah-blah,” and then I would do a little something. Sometimes.
He consistently reminded me: “You’ll need to pass the final exam or you’re not going to pass the class.”
We both knew that failing meant I wouldn’t graduate in May, so I did the bare minimum.
And then I didn’t even do that.
The night before my Shakespeare final, I pulled out everything we were supposed to read and I started reading. I hadn’t read anything, so I had a lot of catching up to do.
I started to read poetry, because it was shorter. But I didn’t understand Shakespearean poetry. I sure didn’t understand the plays. Still, somehow, I thought I could catch up real quick.
After “studying” for two hours, I quit. I figured I’d pass if I read the study guide a couple of times … while I was hanging out with Bonnie, who was also “studying.”
So I took some papers into Bonnie’s room, leaving my books behind, and Bonnie and I started “studying” together. Then we went to The Hood and drank until the bar closed.
Apparently I passed out at my desk with my face on my books because that’s how I woke up, parched as usual, head throbbing. My eyes barely open, I lit a cigarette and glanced at the clock.
My Shakespeare exam was over.
I’d slept through it. And I slept three additional hours, too.
I was not going to graduate from college.
What could I do?
I raced around asking people what to do. Someone said: “Call Dr. Chapman.”
So I did. I rambled on about some completely fabricated emergency that had caused me to miss the exam and how I was sure I was going to do well if only I’d had the chance to take it ….
I actually expected my professor to tell me I didn’t need to take the exam; I wanted so badly to get away with my blunder.
With barely a word of response, Dr. Chapman said, “You can take a make-up exam in two hours. I assume you can be here for that.”
He hung up.
His kindness was the only thing allowing me an opportunity to graduate.
Two hours later, head still pounding, I plowed through the make-up exam. I did not do well. But I somehow escaped the consequences of my own stupidity and drunkenness. Again.
I got a D- in the class, my lowest collegiate grade, and secured a minor in English, too.
I was going to graduate after all.