Article April 14, 2014 Issue

The answers I needed

Janice Behrens

When I was a college freshman, I took a course in English literature about the comic novel. I wasn’t there very long before I realized I didn’t like the professor. He didn’t talk about the reading material like my other professors did—he spent most of the time making rough remarks about certain aspects of the material or his outlook on life. I didn’t leave the course before the permitted time to drop it, so I was stuck on the class roll.

When I turned in a mid-term exam paper and was given an F, I went to talk to the professor. He told me my paper was unacceptable because it had typos and was messy. I recognized it wasn’t my best effort and asked him if I could do the paper again, but he said no—my only recourse was making a good grade on the final exam. He also suggested he didn’t want to be bothered with what students thought or had to say and, furthermore, using colorful language, told me to get out of his office.

I felt hate for this man. I thought he was cold and heartless, and I decided I just wouldn’t attend any more classes, and that suited me just fine until one day the moment of truth came. It was almost time for the final examination. I realized I hadn’t read any of the required books, and to make it worse, one of the women in my dorm who was in my class came to my room in a panic. She had attended all the classes and read all the material but told me that no one ever passed this professor’s final exam, even the most gifted of students.

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The answers I needed

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