More often than not, we rarely think about the teachers who have left their mark on our way of thinking – not only for the better, though usually so. Sure, I often look back at that trigonometry teacher from high school who was also the track team coach, the guy who slept at his desk while we drew in our notebooks or wrote notes or whatever. But, I rarely think about the handful of teachers who changed the way I understand the world.
Today, I was reminded of two such teachers, which is why I write tonight – to tell that story.
I started my freshman year of college a confused kid without much preparation gained from high school for the college experience. I had chosen to a major in history, with the intention of moving into the field of teaching. I commuted to school – about a thirty minute drive each way – so, I didn’t experience the full life on campus college experience. At that age, I was reserved and quite and had a difficult time making friends.
In my first group of classes was the first level political science class, taught by Dr. A (I am not using their real names out of respect for their privacy). Dr. A taught with an enthusiasm that I had never seen in a teacher prior to that class.
The class was held in a spilt hall, with a partition wall covered in eight blackboard sections. After a normal lecture by Dr. A, those eight sections were covered in white scribbled names and dates and key words, all connected by a plethora of arrows and lines.
Once he opened his mouth, the information flowed forth in a fury of staccato stories and tangents that lead into circles of theory, philosophy and ideology. He spoke as a conductor waving his words as a baton, conducting an orchestra of ideas with the frenetic energy of a Stravinsky ballet.
I often left his lectures with notebooks strewn with indecipherable lines of notes made in a vain attempt to capture the sheer madness of Dr. A’s style. While, this may not seem to most to be the most effective method of teaching, I learned so much from those three months that I ended up taking another eight classes taught by Dr. A during my time in college.
Over the next three years, Dr. A would open my eyes to all manner of political theory, all manner of intellectual thought and a myriad of artistic expressions that would have normally escaped my notice were it not for Dr. A.
Today, while perusing the internets at work, trying to kill a little time, I wandered over to the web site of my alma mater, clicking on the history department link to see which of my profs still taught there some ten years later, and there was Dr. A’s bio page. I was pleasantly surprised at what I found there. Dr. A has been an active voice in the field of education and history, speaking out against the Bush administration and the war in Iraq.
I knew I learned something from that guy…
While clicking around on the site, I also found the page to another of my favorite profs, Dr. H.
I only had Dr. H for one class, a study in sub-Saharan African history. I entered that class a sheltered white kid with little understanding of African culture or history. Over the course of three months Dr. H showed me the amazing cultures – thousands of years old – that I was never told about in high school. He taught me of the tribal groups in Nigeria, their cultures and traditions.
Dr. H clearly loved the history of his homeland and it came across in his lectures. Often, class would diverge from the pre-planned lecture to a story about his childhood on the western coast of Africa, to his life in a small village – much like those described in the works of Elechi Amadi, whom Dr. H inspired me to read voraciously.
During the course, Dr. H traveled back to Nigeria to visit family, bringing back some of the staples of the Nigerian tribal diet to share with his students. He handed out kola nuts – if I remember correctly – for us to sample. This one simple moment stuck with me, the passion of this man for his subject was like no other.
Today, in my reading, I found that Dr. H had passed away in May of 2003, a victim of a car accident. A life dedicated to teaching history to the students who walked those halls was over far earlier than it should have been.
Today, I think back at how much my life changed through the efforts of these two men, and so many others whose classes I sat in – half hung over from too many nights of pot smoking. Today, I think about how different my life could have been were it not for the passion of these two men.
Today, I thank them for their effort and dedication. Tomorrow, I send Dr. A an email thanking him personally…
