But What About The Rest Of It?
As a parent with two sons in college, I spend a great deal of time focusing on academics. I say things like, “How was your class?” and “Who’s your favorite professor?” And my sons generally answer me, telling me about their classes and their professors.
But when I look back on four years of college, my memories of classes are limited to a very, very few.
I remember one day in Creative Writing – with the wonderful Dr. Crist – where students were led, 100% blindfolded, outside and around campus. The activity heightened our awareness of our other senses, to teach us how write with details that were beyond visual.
When I walked out that door wearing a blindfold, it was the middle of winter. It had been winter forever. But until I walked out the door without my vision, I hadn’t realized that winter has a smell. It’s something I think about every winter now, even though Dr. Crist died 20 years ago.
I remember another day in American Literature when Dr. Gloria Malone said, “That’s it for Ray Bradbury; next week we’ll be starting a new work.” And then she dismissed the class.
But I had read that Ray Bradbury story in high school; it was one of my favorites. I’d learned about the massive amounts of symbolism in the opening scene; every sentence sagged with hugely symbolic descriptions. And she hadn’t even mentioned symbolism! Maybe she forgot?
I walked up to Dr. Malone, meekly as was my way, and asked. “But what about the rest of it? What about all the symbolism in the first part, about the hose and the … well, everything? What about all of the meaning behind what he wrote?”
Dr. Malone smiled. “Ah yes,” she said. “Well, this is an introductory course. I’m afraid not everyone would be able to delve into the deeper meanings in an introductory course. It’s just a bit too much depth at this level.”
But we discussed this when I was in high school, I wanted to say, and it wasn’t too much even then. But I said nothing. I nodded, and I left. I minored in English but I didn’t learn a single thing about literature.
I remember showing up to countless morning – and afternoon – classes with my head pounding, dry-mouthed and crusty, wishing I could be back in my bed recovering.
And while I had some classes I truly detested, the worst for me was taking a night class. By the time I took Public Relations – the career to which my dad devoted his entire life – I wasn’t able to stay sober all the way to 7:00 p.m. I went to class drunk more often than not, and when I wasn’t there drunk, it’s because I wasn’t there at all.
My dad made a national name for himself in both public relations and higher education – so my Public Relations professor, Harry Paidis, knew the Keith Moore. A friend told him I was Keith’s daughter and he nearly croaked. By that time, I’d become nothing more than a walking wet noodle.
By the last semester of my senior year, I slept through my final exam in Shakespeare and I escaped with a D- in the class. That was memorable. I certainly did not deserve a passing grade.
The other hundred credits I took? I barely remember them at all.