My freshman year of college, my history professor was a hunched, wrinkled old priest. I went to a Jesuit university, and Fr. Sweeney was neither my first priestly teacher, nor was he my last. Fr. Sweeney made himself memorable on the first day by relating the musical Sweeney Todd and pulling a boy from the front row and threatening to slit his throat with a shaving blade. This came with pulling a pen close to the young man's throat to demonstrate what he would do. The words "meat pies" were mentioned enough to make the staunchest carnivore queasy.
Part of Fr. Sweeney's appeal to me was that he spoke in a murmur. He was probably in his late 80s at this point (he died a few years later at the age of 91), and reminded me of a grandfather. If you wanted to hear him, you had to sit in the front row of the class (I did), lean forward (I did) and almost read his lips (I did). He loved jokes, almost as much as he loved history. Every obscure historical factoid, he knew - and loved sharing them. If you taught him something he didn't know, he would respect you. If you listened to him, he would respect you. If you showed him you had a sense of humor, he would respect you. Yet, for a man who mumbled, he could hear anything. A girl in the back row texting - he could grab her phone before she knew what was happening. Two boys whispering in the back about how wasted they were going to get on Friday night - he would tell them to make sure they made it to the toilet, right before kicking them out of class for talking during lecture. He was a hard ass, but if he respected you, you had an ally.
I've written about writing here before. I am aware, as a writer, how terrible that sentence looks and sounds. I've mentioned teachers who nurtured my fledgling writing skills, who taught me the strengths I would need to keep going. It's probably also fair to mention, if you haven't already deduced, that these professors made me cocky. I knew, always, even if my facts weren't 100% accurate, or the paper was a day late, or anything else that may have challenged my grade, my writing would make up for it. I knew it because a few teachers had told me so. From high school on, I wrote like a college student - including waiting until the day before a paper was due to complete it. Fr. Sweeney, one of my first professors in college level writing, was the first to call me out on this.
The day he handed back our first essay assignment, he asked me to wait after class. He hadn't passed back my paper and made a bold statement in front of the class. "Some of you came into college knowing how to write. I hope you don't continue to coast. Some of you came into college having no idea how to string words together. I hope you learn." I looked up as he walked by my desk and he conspicuously hid my essay from view. The boy sitting next to me raised his brows, "What do you think it means?"
I shrugged. I knew I knew how to write. I assumed I was a coaster - but the other coasters had gotten their essays back, I thought. mine was the only withheld. I walked up to his desk after class and said, "You wished to see me?" He held onto my paper with both hands, looking at me. "Did you read the chapter in the book?"
"No, sir," I answered honestly. I hadn't had time, I was tired from my first semester in college. I had other papers, other assignments and, most importantly, parties.
"I didn't think so." He handed my paper back. "Don't do it again." He grabbed his cane and walked out of the room.
I looked at my paper. There were no notes written on the margins. Only a note at the bottom saying, "Facts are off, years are wrong. A."
I chased after him. "Seriously?" I waved the paper.
"Yes. The ideas were correct, the writing was superb. The details were just off. I like the big picture. Just read the chapter next time."
I read the chapter next time. In the paper, I included a footnote: "I read the chapter."
He handed my paper back the next time. "Don't be a smart ass" was written next to my footnote.
We had our final the second to last day of class, and he handed back our final papers on the last day. It was an in class essay. He walked by my desk and stopped. "You can write, you know that?"
"Thank you, sir."
"You've been told that before." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yes, sir."
"You could write the first day of class. Yet you're the only one in this class who has progressed. Never be complacent." He placed a small tortoise figurine on my desk. "Never be complacent."
He handed out class "awards" after that. He gave myself and three other students honors for writing. When the class called for speeches, Fr. Sweeney snapped: "They're writers, not speakers. Tell them to write." This statement stuck with me.
Yesterday, while looking through my room to box things up and decide what knickknacks, if any, I should take with me on my adventure, I saw this little tortoise. I smiled, being transported back to freshman year, the cocky little writer I was. I had finally learned to continue pushing myself at things I was naturally good at. It's a good reminder to have. It's a thing I still need to be reminded of. I put the tortoise in my pile of things to pack.
Never be complacent.
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