The first time Professor Wilson ended class early, we all thought it was a joke.
It was spring semester, not long after midterm in our Literary Criticism class. Every other time our class had met, he’d kept us right up until the last minute, so we weren’t prepared for him to break tradition the way he did.
On that particular day, he had embroiled us in a debate about Walt Whitman’s poetry for about twenty minutes when someone quoted a line from “When I Heard the Learned Astronomer.” I don’t recall who quoted it or what point it was supposed to prove, but I remember a strange look come across Professor Wilson’s face. The next thing we all knew he was packing up his leather book bag and telling us that we’d continue the discussion at the next class. He went to the door, stopped to tell us to continue the assigned readings on the syllabus, and then left.
We all laughed quietly but stayed in our seats. You have to understand something about our class. Most of us were seniors, and all of us were English majors. We’d been trained by all of our teachers, Professor Wilson included, to look for meaning everywhere. So we sat and waited for him to return to class and make his point. I fully expected him to stroll back in and somehow connect what he said and did to Whitman’s work. In fact, I remember racking my brain, trying to figure it out myself. After five minutes, I was still trying to remember the rest of that Whitman poem when someone got up to see if he were waiting out in the hall.
He wasn’t in the hall. Someone checked outside. He wasn’t on the stoop or on the benches. Someone got up the nerve to call his office. He wasn’t there either. We didn’t know what to do. Someone suggested calling the dean – I don’t remember who – but the idea was shot down. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, even the most studious and suspicious of us decided that he actually wasn’t coming back. He had actually meant for us to leave when he did, but we had stuck around. We’d been conditioned, someone said, comparing us to a bunch of dogs needing a bell to tell us what to do. We left, laughing at ourselves and trying to guess why he had stopped class over an hour early. You see, we still were seeking meaning, looking for symbolism – we just couldn’t help it. I told everybody that he would probably explain it all to us at the next class and probably assign us an essay about it. Everybody laughed. Then, I headed over to the library to get a head start on the reading.
Professor Wilson didn’t explain it though. I expected someone to ask, but no one did. Maybe they believed me about the essay and were afraid to. Or maybe they didn’t want him to know that they couldn’t figure it out. I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t want to look stupid in front of everybody. So we all just let it drop.
Then, a week later it happened again. This time, we were talking about Emerson and the transcendentalists. We’d reached the halfway point of class, when he usually had us get up and stretch to get blood flowing up to our brains. Instead, he looked at us strangely and started packing up. He told us the same thing he had before and left just as quickly. A few of us went to the window this time. We saw him leave the building and walk across the Drill Field, in the opposite direction of the cafeteria and the faculty offices. Where he was going, we had no idea, but he walked briskly and didn’t look back even once.
We still waited. For about ten minutes, we laughed and talked about class ending early again. We made up reasons, most of them silly and many of them pretty scandalous, so I’m glad that Professor Wilson didn’t walk back in that day. Then, we all left, calling out a few late corny jokes – I didn’t want to waste the time, so I went to the library again to read.
The third time he left early was the very next class. We had barely started analyzing a Dickinson poem when he packed up, said goodbye, and was gone. We did the same as the last time. We watched him walk away, we waited ten minutes, and then we left. But we didn’t laugh or joke around though. Most of us used the time to read. A few whispered to each other, but that was it. It was really weird. And when the first of us got up to leave, the rest of us followed out quietly. I went to the library again, but I didn’t stay long. I just couldn’t concentrate on nineteenth century poetry.
I mean, the whole thing was just odd. At least, that’s how I felt. I had no idea why he was doing this, stopping class early all of a sudden. I remember instructors and grad students doing it all the time in the core classes I had back in my freshman and sophomore years. But upper level lit courses didn’t work that way – at least none of my other ones had, and I’d even had Professor Wilson for Modern English Prose and Poetry last semester. He’d worked us to death and had been entirely predictable and efficient.
So why the change? I had to admit that I had no clue.
I dreaded the next class. I didn’t know what to expect. I read the assigned poems and stories on the syllabus but really couldn’t remember much. I hoped that he wouldn’t call on me, and part of me was kind of expecting him to not even show up. He did show up though, and he did call on me. I embarrassed myself, but I didn’t care because as it turned out, he stayed for the entire class. I was relieved. I could tell everyone felt like me– we all seemed to hold our breath whenever he got near his book bag, but he didn’t pack it up until the very last minute of class. I felt mentally exhausted by then, so I decided to break routine and go back to the dorm to take a nap instead of studying at the student union.
The next class went well, too. And the next. He kept us debating and criticizing, wearing us out. Everything had returned to normal. I just chalked up his eccentric behavior to the professorial equivalent of spring fever and figured that it had run its course. We were approaching the last month of the semester after all, so it was buckle down time for everyone.
Then, it happened again. This time during an essay exam.
He’d given us all these quotes and asked us to incorporate them into an essay about one of the themes we’d discussed in class over the past week. I was barely halfway into it when I noticed him fidgeting at his table in the front of the room. When he started pacing, I really had a hard time focusing on my exam. I noticed a few other people frowning, too, and I wondered if anyone would be brave enough to say something. When he went to the window and began drumming his fingers on the sill, a hand – not mine – did go up to get his attention. He didn’t see it – he was looking outside – so I faked a cough to get him to look around. He didn’t. He kept drumming his fingers and looking outside.
Another hand raised, this one closer to him. Someone else coughed. I scuffled my feet. The girl next to me sneezed. A pencil tapped on a desk. He was oblivious. Then, someone behind set off a cell phone – a risky move since Professor Wilson had named them as his number one pet peeve, but effective because he spun around instantly before it had more played than half a second of “Sexyback” by Justin Timberlake. Whoever had played the ringtone shut if off, but I expected the professor to be mad. A few more hands went up, but he ignored everything.
Instead, he went right for his book bag and told us he needed to leave. He made it to the door before someone asked about the exam. He gave us a strange look and told us to slide it under his office door or bring it to the next class. Then, he was gone.
Stunned, I acted on impulse and stood up, shoving my exam into my own book bag. “I’m following him,” I announced as though that were the only logical thing to do. “Anyone with me?”
It was a small class, only fifteen of us, but I’m still surprised that they all came with me. I imagine that we looked pretty silly, too, our whole class trying to follow our professor and make it look entirely natural. We spread out a little so that we weren’t all bunched up and noisy, but I know we looked weird. I led the way. I had no idea what I was going to say if he turned and confronted me, but I felt compelled to know where he was going.
We trailed him all the way across campus, past the book store, past the dorms, past the faculty parking garage (which was a relief), past the courtyard and fountain that some prankster always filled with laundry soap. Finally, he stopped at the edge of campus, near the Agricultural Fields. A Civil War memorial stood there, a low stone wall and pillar built from the debris of a hospital that had been a precursor of our campus. I’d been there a few times, had read the plaque, had even researched it once for a freshman orientation paper. I hung back now and watched Professor Wilson. The rest of the class did the same.
He put his book bag down and took out a few notebooks. My first thought was he was going to do some writing or maybe catch up on some grading, but he surprised me again. He set the notebooks on the low wall and then climbed up onto it himself. Then, he lay down in the sun on top of the wall with his legs outstretched and his hands clasped behind his head. The notebooks were his pillow, I saw.
And I saw that he knew we were there. He craned his neck to the side and winked at us. The closer elbow beckoned, so I walked up to the wall with the class not far behind me.
He had a huge welcoming kind of smile on his face. His eyes squinted because of the bright April sun.
“I wondered if you all would ever show up. Now find a spot. I’d like to hear someone recite that Whitman poem. Anyone up for it?” he said cheerfully.
Someone was. Me, surprisingly. And we all managed to find a spot, some perched on the wall, some on the ground, one brave person even scaled the pillar while I spoke Whitman’s words and we finally picked up where we’d left off.
It was spring semester, not long after midterm in our Literary Criticism class. Every other time our class had met, he’d kept us right up until the last minute, so we weren’t prepared for him to break tradition the way he did.
On that particular day, he had embroiled us in a debate about Walt Whitman’s poetry for about twenty minutes when someone quoted a line from “When I Heard the Learned Astronomer.” I don’t recall who quoted it or what point it was supposed to prove, but I remember a strange look come across Professor Wilson’s face. The next thing we all knew he was packing up his leather book bag and telling us that we’d continue the discussion at the next class. He went to the door, stopped to tell us to continue the assigned readings on the syllabus, and then left.
We all laughed quietly but stayed in our seats. You have to understand something about our class. Most of us were seniors, and all of us were English majors. We’d been trained by all of our teachers, Professor Wilson included, to look for meaning everywhere. So we sat and waited for him to return to class and make his point. I fully expected him to stroll back in and somehow connect what he said and did to Whitman’s work. In fact, I remember racking my brain, trying to figure it out myself. After five minutes, I was still trying to remember the rest of that Whitman poem when someone got up to see if he were waiting out in the hall.
He wasn’t in the hall. Someone checked outside. He wasn’t on the stoop or on the benches. Someone got up the nerve to call his office. He wasn’t there either. We didn’t know what to do. Someone suggested calling the dean – I don’t remember who – but the idea was shot down. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, even the most studious and suspicious of us decided that he actually wasn’t coming back. He had actually meant for us to leave when he did, but we had stuck around. We’d been conditioned, someone said, comparing us to a bunch of dogs needing a bell to tell us what to do. We left, laughing at ourselves and trying to guess why he had stopped class over an hour early. You see, we still were seeking meaning, looking for symbolism – we just couldn’t help it. I told everybody that he would probably explain it all to us at the next class and probably assign us an essay about it. Everybody laughed. Then, I headed over to the library to get a head start on the reading.
Professor Wilson didn’t explain it though. I expected someone to ask, but no one did. Maybe they believed me about the essay and were afraid to. Or maybe they didn’t want him to know that they couldn’t figure it out. I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t want to look stupid in front of everybody. So we all just let it drop.
Then, a week later it happened again. This time, we were talking about Emerson and the transcendentalists. We’d reached the halfway point of class, when he usually had us get up and stretch to get blood flowing up to our brains. Instead, he looked at us strangely and started packing up. He told us the same thing he had before and left just as quickly. A few of us went to the window this time. We saw him leave the building and walk across the Drill Field, in the opposite direction of the cafeteria and the faculty offices. Where he was going, we had no idea, but he walked briskly and didn’t look back even once.
We still waited. For about ten minutes, we laughed and talked about class ending early again. We made up reasons, most of them silly and many of them pretty scandalous, so I’m glad that Professor Wilson didn’t walk back in that day. Then, we all left, calling out a few late corny jokes – I didn’t want to waste the time, so I went to the library again to read.
The third time he left early was the very next class. We had barely started analyzing a Dickinson poem when he packed up, said goodbye, and was gone. We did the same as the last time. We watched him walk away, we waited ten minutes, and then we left. But we didn’t laugh or joke around though. Most of us used the time to read. A few whispered to each other, but that was it. It was really weird. And when the first of us got up to leave, the rest of us followed out quietly. I went to the library again, but I didn’t stay long. I just couldn’t concentrate on nineteenth century poetry.
I mean, the whole thing was just odd. At least, that’s how I felt. I had no idea why he was doing this, stopping class early all of a sudden. I remember instructors and grad students doing it all the time in the core classes I had back in my freshman and sophomore years. But upper level lit courses didn’t work that way – at least none of my other ones had, and I’d even had Professor Wilson for Modern English Prose and Poetry last semester. He’d worked us to death and had been entirely predictable and efficient.
So why the change? I had to admit that I had no clue.
I dreaded the next class. I didn’t know what to expect. I read the assigned poems and stories on the syllabus but really couldn’t remember much. I hoped that he wouldn’t call on me, and part of me was kind of expecting him to not even show up. He did show up though, and he did call on me. I embarrassed myself, but I didn’t care because as it turned out, he stayed for the entire class. I was relieved. I could tell everyone felt like me– we all seemed to hold our breath whenever he got near his book bag, but he didn’t pack it up until the very last minute of class. I felt mentally exhausted by then, so I decided to break routine and go back to the dorm to take a nap instead of studying at the student union.
The next class went well, too. And the next. He kept us debating and criticizing, wearing us out. Everything had returned to normal. I just chalked up his eccentric behavior to the professorial equivalent of spring fever and figured that it had run its course. We were approaching the last month of the semester after all, so it was buckle down time for everyone.
Then, it happened again. This time during an essay exam.
He’d given us all these quotes and asked us to incorporate them into an essay about one of the themes we’d discussed in class over the past week. I was barely halfway into it when I noticed him fidgeting at his table in the front of the room. When he started pacing, I really had a hard time focusing on my exam. I noticed a few other people frowning, too, and I wondered if anyone would be brave enough to say something. When he went to the window and began drumming his fingers on the sill, a hand – not mine – did go up to get his attention. He didn’t see it – he was looking outside – so I faked a cough to get him to look around. He didn’t. He kept drumming his fingers and looking outside.
Another hand raised, this one closer to him. Someone else coughed. I scuffled my feet. The girl next to me sneezed. A pencil tapped on a desk. He was oblivious. Then, someone behind set off a cell phone – a risky move since Professor Wilson had named them as his number one pet peeve, but effective because he spun around instantly before it had more played than half a second of “Sexyback” by Justin Timberlake. Whoever had played the ringtone shut if off, but I expected the professor to be mad. A few more hands went up, but he ignored everything.
Instead, he went right for his book bag and told us he needed to leave. He made it to the door before someone asked about the exam. He gave us a strange look and told us to slide it under his office door or bring it to the next class. Then, he was gone.
Stunned, I acted on impulse and stood up, shoving my exam into my own book bag. “I’m following him,” I announced as though that were the only logical thing to do. “Anyone with me?”
It was a small class, only fifteen of us, but I’m still surprised that they all came with me. I imagine that we looked pretty silly, too, our whole class trying to follow our professor and make it look entirely natural. We spread out a little so that we weren’t all bunched up and noisy, but I know we looked weird. I led the way. I had no idea what I was going to say if he turned and confronted me, but I felt compelled to know where he was going.
We trailed him all the way across campus, past the book store, past the dorms, past the faculty parking garage (which was a relief), past the courtyard and fountain that some prankster always filled with laundry soap. Finally, he stopped at the edge of campus, near the Agricultural Fields. A Civil War memorial stood there, a low stone wall and pillar built from the debris of a hospital that had been a precursor of our campus. I’d been there a few times, had read the plaque, had even researched it once for a freshman orientation paper. I hung back now and watched Professor Wilson. The rest of the class did the same.
He put his book bag down and took out a few notebooks. My first thought was he was going to do some writing or maybe catch up on some grading, but he surprised me again. He set the notebooks on the low wall and then climbed up onto it himself. Then, he lay down in the sun on top of the wall with his legs outstretched and his hands clasped behind his head. The notebooks were his pillow, I saw.
And I saw that he knew we were there. He craned his neck to the side and winked at us. The closer elbow beckoned, so I walked up to the wall with the class not far behind me.
He had a huge welcoming kind of smile on his face. His eyes squinted because of the bright April sun.
“I wondered if you all would ever show up. Now find a spot. I’d like to hear someone recite that Whitman poem. Anyone up for it?” he said cheerfully.
Someone was. Me, surprisingly. And we all managed to find a spot, some perched on the wall, some on the ground, one brave person even scaled the pillar while I spoke Whitman’s words and we finally picked up where we’d left off.
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