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When I was a freshman in Engineering at Lehigh University in 1961-62, at least two of my courses had large lecture sections once per week; the other two days of the week were reserved for smaller recitation sections. I remember both lecturers because they were flamboyant, memorable platform personalities: Joseph Dowling in History, and John Wheeler in Physics. But, with one exception, I remember none of the names of my recitation teachers.
The name of that exception (please note that I do not wish this word to imply that this person was exceptional -- though in the simple act of singling him out, I suppose I make him so) was John Fox, who taught one of my recitation sections in History of Western Civilization.
I'm afraid that poor Fox (this word should not be taken to mean that I in any way shape or form feel sorry for him (why, it then, did I use it?)) had the appearance of a non-entity: he was short, pear-shaped, with no neck. He always wore a dark navy three-piece suit in a department where casualness was the rule (was he trying to compensate for physical and intellectual inadequacies by distinguishing himself in dress?)
I remember some other unfortunate physical characteristics about him (is this turning into a Fox hunt?): his voice (he talked in a whining lisp),...
Wait a minute -- what am I doing? Am I attempting to make a negative case against someone because of his physical attributes? Who do I think I am -- Dickens? My best weapon against this tendency (not used often enough, I'm afraid) is to ask myself a simple question: how would you feel about this person if you found out that he was, say, a talented composer? At that point the physical characteristics would become irrelevant, and then I could begin a criticism based on the kinds of choices he has made: the quality of his thought, how he treats other people, and so on.
Am I having my cake and eating it too here? After all, I just laid out all of the poor man's physical limitations, and then absolved myself of any blame by nobly stating that I would overlook them. What kind of person would do that sort of thing? (A sly one -- said the fox.)
Let us, then, start all over with Mr. John Fox. I believe I am in my rights to point out his jet black hair slicked straight back on his head with an abundance of hair tonic, giving him the look of a 1950s-era Southern politician.
We students had heard that Mr. Fox was a seventh grade social studies teacher working toward a graduate degree at the University. Now far be it from me to condemn a person just because he is a seventh grade teacher! I do not really remember my own seventh grade social studies teacher. But a few short years ago while I was teaching mathematics in a middle school, I knew a superb sixth grade Social Studies (and English) teacher -- one who was able to engage the kids to think about a wide variety of critical issues from world history. So it is not the grade level at issue here; rather, the character and quality of the teacher.
What do I remember about Mr. Fox as a teacher? Only one interaction with him comes to mind; but it is decisive and damning. We had been reading Plato's Republic, and Fox was questioning us on what we found out. I recall that I was feeling heady because I had actually done the assignment -- and my copy of the book was all marked up with notes in the margins to prove it. Fox asked another question:
"According to Socrates, what are the three kinds of virtue -- Ted?"
I hastily glanced through all the notes that I had written in my book. "Well, Sir, I seem to have found only two virtues -- are you sure there are three?"
Fox (picks up his rank book): "Well, Ted, I'm just going to have to give you an 'F'!"
I was dumbfounded. Here I was at a (supposedly) good university, and my instructor was behaving like a bad seventh grade teacher. At that time I did not yet have the self-confidence and knowledge to answer back to my teachers -- that would come a decade later. So I just sat there and seethed. In point of fact, I had complete and utter contempt for Mr. John Fox.
I decided to boycott one significant part of the History of Western Civilization: if doing the required reading lead to this result, I would simply stop reading. After all, what difference would it make?
Actually, I'm afraid the truth is sadder and drearier than that. I didn't boycott the class at all, for the simple reason that it wasn't in my nature to do such a thing -- at least not yet (see 'Assignment'.) I tried to keep up with all the readings, but it became too onerous. Not only did we have readings from a text, but there were individual books to read as well by Aquinas, Mill, and Marx, to name but three. When you add quasi-abstruse readings in English Composition, plus Chemistry, Physics, and Calculus assignments (in those days Engineering majors took five major subjects each semester), I simply could not do it all. Bluntly put, I was in over my head academically. (I recall pulling an all-nighter to study for the final exam in Western Civ: I fell asleep during the test.)
Here was the irony: Plato had been the finest moment for me -- the moment when I had all the right in the world to feel wounded and unjustly treated. But that was early on; after that it was all downhill: I received a well-deserved 'D' in that course, and it was not the fault of Mr. John Fox.
As Western Civ went, so went almost everything else: I was only saved from flunking out after my first year by an 'A' in Calculus.
And so twenty-five years passed after my ill-fated (since it obviously still affects me after all these decades) encounter with Herr Fox. What happened to me in those years?
In college I did better once I switched out of Engineering; but I could hardly keep up with the increasing abstraction of my major subject mathematics: there was, to give only the most extreme example, one course called Algebraic Topology in which I did not understand a single concept (I received a 'C'.)
I did manage to graduate -- and with Honors no less (which just goes to show how much that concept can be diluted.) And then? A Masters degree with more abstruse mathematics I barely understood and would never use. (At least by then I knew that I was constitutionally incapable of getting a Doctorate.)
And then came the wreckage of a career. I squandered two full-time college teaching positions (such jobs could be had back then with just the Masters degree), and then three more at the high school level -- mostly due to my mediocre teaching and assorted other peccadilloes. At that point it seemed as though I might have come to the end of my tenure as a teacher.
But I managed to land a job in 1984 as Adjunct Professor of Mathematics at Salem State College. Now it is true that this level is at the bottom of the professional barrel: the pay is poor, and there are no benefits (I had to teach about a zillion courses not only days but nights and both Summer sessions as well just to make a halfway decent salary.) In labor terms, I felt like a scab.
So what did I get in return for enduring that sort of ignominy? Pathetically, it was cachet. If someone were to ask what I do, the pride of being able to shrug my shoulders and reply with studied nonchalance, "Oh I teach at the college level." I found that occasionally the interlocutor would ask the name of the college; but never (thank goodness!) my faculty rank.
I had been teaching at Salem State for a couple of years when, one afternoon, I ran down to make some copies of a test I was going to give that evening. A man was using the Xerox machine when I walked in. I was looking at him from the back as he worked, and suddenly I was struck by some old familiar features: a dark navy-blue suit, and slicked-back jet black hair. When he turned to leave, I had no doubt as to who it was -- he had not changed in the least in 25 years (I wondered about that still-black hair (he said cattily).) I did not acknowledge him; rather, I contented myself to give him my best imitation of a withering (this seems to be the operative word here) look of scorn. But it was lost on him, since he did not so much as glance at me. Indeed, if he had looked, he wouldn't have remembered me; for to him I'm sure I really had been a nothing, a cipher.
When I lifted the cover to Xerox, I noticed that he had left the sheet he was copying. It had a letterhead which read:
"Professor John J. Fox, Chairman, Department of History."
He had done it: he had arrived. There he was, a full professor in a bona fide college, and department chairman to boot. He had achieved what I had never been able to achieve and most likely would never achieve despite my best (or worst) intentions. I don't know which emotion I felt the most at that moment -- jealousy of his position, or pity for the poor department which he headed. I also felt contempt for the system which would allow such a fool to achieve the highest position in his field.
But -- shall I confess? -- I felt as well an anger at myself for wasting my professional life in the way that I had, while a John Fox, no doubt by dint of diligence and perseverance (and, I added to myself snidely, a certain lack of imagination and risk-taking) steadfastly rose through the ranks to become what he was that day.
Oh well. At least I still had, undimmed after 25 years, my withering contempt for the man!
Or did I? There are few things in life more disturbing than having one's most cherished hatreds called into question. So it was with profound distress that I read the following account in an alumni newsletter a few weeks later:
"Ferna (Silva) Phillips, one of only five African-American students at Salem State College in 1968, was in her sophomore year there when frustrations and 'feelings of uniqueness' simply overwhelmed her. Heading back to her dorm one afternoon, she had decided she would call her mother and tell her 'I’m leaving here. I can’t find my niche, I just can’t find a place to feel comfortable.'
"As she headed towards her dorm, she crossed paths with history professor John Fox whom she had never met before. But for reasons neither one of them say they can explain, they started to converse. 'We ended up sitting down and talking for over two and a half hours. I told him, "I just want to go home, I don’t want to be here anymore."' What Professor Fox said next changed her mind, but also changed her life.
"'You do have value, and you do have worth. We need you to finish, and we need you to stay... not just for your family Ferna, but you need to do this for yourself.' That moment, she says, empowered her. She did call her mother that day, and she told her that she had met a professor who really cared about her."
By the way: I recently found out that Socrates talks about four virtues in The Republic.
(9 May 2008)
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