Spring Renewal Brings Academic Uncertainty

There is something very unique about strolling through a university campus as classes are letting out. The flow of people every which way, the sidewalks bustling with a youthful energy that while befitting a Spring day, is never out of place in the realm of academia regardless of season. Miles removed from any substantial urban center, universities stand as cultural meccas, drawing to them the brightest minds in the most diverse packages. So much promise. All the opportunity in the world within arms reach. On days like this, I have occasion to ask myself whether or not I'll be able to break free of her spell come graduation day.

Several years ago, I chose to pursue a career in Computer Programming. While sifting through the requisite weeds of the degree, I encountered a Composition professor by the name of Dennis Heinrichson. The man changed my life in a way that no other instructor has, and it was largely because of my time spent with Dennis, and my exposure to his class that I discovered that my true calling was to write. With a slight shift to the left; breath held and fingers crossed, I disposed of the programming and immersed myself in Professional Writing instead, certain that my true path had finally revealed itself.

That was two years ago. I am no longer attending community college, and have since migrated to the university. My writing has improved in that time, and I've even had a short story published. This blog in a way, has become a monument to my desire to write and as March 31st fast approaches I realize that it has been two years since it's inception. But the story does not end there, nor does my ongoing ambivalent affair with mistress academia. This semester I've had the privilege of encountering yet another master of the craft, someone through which I clearly imagine myself, thirty years hence.

This morning while waiting for my daughter's bus to arrive, she mentioned a project that she was involved with at school that would require her to speak in front of the class. She went on to express her misgivings regarding public speaking, and explained that doing so caused her to feel uneasy. I tried to console her by linking to my own experience, and assuring her that everyone feels that way to some extent, even her old Dad. Truth be told, there is nothing I would like more than to pursue a degree in Philosophy and spend the remainder of my days whiling away the hours scribbling obscure interpretations of this condition we dub "life." Only problem is, we all need a 9 to 5, and where Philosophy is concerned, that translates into one thing: teaching.

So it is that when you take a love of writing, and a penchant for philosophy; factoring against it a general disdain (if not complete loathing) for public oration... well you end up with a Professional Writing major I suppose. Which makes today's synchronic conundrum all the more funky. Yes, I am getting there in a round about way, hang in there and you will soon be rewarded with the point of this ramble. Having seen Sage onto the bus, I climbed into the Jeep, and made off for my own days curriculum.

While sitting there half awake waiting for class to begin, Dr. Goodson (the aforementioned turbo prof.) came over, and sitting down next to me asked what my major was. To which I replied Professional Writing. This caused the man to wince. He asked why. I elaborated. Again, a wince. Having had enough of his subtle cringes, I decided to inquire what his interest was in regards to. He told me that my essay The Underside of Urbane was very well written, and wondered if there was anyway that I would consider switching my major to English, and that he would like me to join his masters program. He layed it on pretty thick.

He explained that the English Department was an aging group, due in part to the lack of young people interested in teaching it. He shared with me his frustration that a large portion of the English Dept. faculty are not native born speakers of the language, because American/NW European interest is systemically waning. He went on to say that it was frustrating to discover people such as myself, and later learn that we have no interest whatsoever in a professorship, and even less enthusiasm for teaching English.

I was flattered, but didn't really know how to respond. It's one thing to arrive at the personal conclusion that you have no business instructing others, but an entirely different animal when you are confronted by a professor whom you respect, and he suggests that you do; as if your destiny is somehow wrapped up in the notion.

I'll admit, I entertained the idea for a bit. That's just not me though. Or is it?