Many Lessons, One Mentor

The stories I heard, though they were only scattered, bordered on legendary.  He was a yeller.  He made obtuse statements that left people scratching their heads.  He didn't suffer fools gladly and had made people cry publicly on a few occasions.  One or two people even insinuated that he enjoyed pushing people to that extreme.  I was not a kid, but at 20, I was still very insecure and shy; to cry in public would be a horror.  Yet this was not something I could walk away from.  I would have to pass this test, pass several of them, in fact. 

No one in the mid-80's could get an English Ed degree from Northeastern without taking Dr. Robert McQuitty's Advanced Comp for Teachers course.  I had not only heard the stories; I had seen him around, too.  He was a tall, intense fellow, striding purposefully wherever he went.  I didn't doubt that the stories were true, so I decided that I'd play offense:  I would take him for an elective before I had to take Advanced Comp.  I signed up for a short story course and went to the first class with as much calm presence as I could muster.  Precisely at class time, he sailed into the room with his briefcase, placed it on the table next to the lectern, shuffled a few papers, and began what I can only describe as one of the most animated shows I've ever seen.  There was the same intensity, directed around the room at each of us in turn.  There was an amazing flinging about of arms as he made his points.  When he really wanted to emphasize a statement, he leaned on the table, his double-jointed elbows popping forward, with his eyebrows doing something not unlike a Groucho Marx routine as he spoke.  And yes, there was yelling---though not at anyone in particular.  I started snickering quietly not more than a minute or two into this routine because it was so patently obvious that it WAS a routine.  He was acting, and it was funny.  I looked around the room and saw that some of my classmates were also into it, although a few timid people were looking sideways at him as though he were an odd exhibit at the zoo. 

That was the day that Dr. McQuitty taught me that teaching is showmanship, that you have to get their attention from the start.  If you're outrageous, that's fine.  If you're funny, that works, too.  But get your audience right away and you'll be ready for the next step.

One day when I was in Advanced Comp, we got back a test we had taken.  I made a 99 on it, which I was very happy about.  I didn't struggle a lot with the grammar and usage part of the course, and that's what the test was on.  I looked it over and saw that I had lost a point for a comma that I either had used and he had taken out, or I hadn't used it, and he had added it.  As everyone was filing out after class, I went up front and said, "Dr. McQuitty, I have a question about my test.  You've taken off a point for this comma.  But isn't it optional?"

"Why, yes, it is," he replied.  I just stood there for a moment waiting to see if there was a trick to this I was missing.  Finally, he looked at me and said, "Nobody's ever made a perfect score on this test and no one is going to now!"  Maybe I said, "Oh," or maybe I wandered out, still trying to figure out what that was all about.  It took me a while to put that into perspective.

That was the day that Dr. McQuitty taught me that language and the usage of it can never be finite.  There is always, always some other way to look at the content of what we write, how we style it, how we phrase our message not just with words but with punctuation and presentation.  I look back to this day as the reason I chose him for my advisor for my graduate program.

My first semester of grad school in the spring of 1986, I was working full-time at McDonald's from 5 a.m. to 2 p.m., going to classes from 5-11 p.m., and then partying half the night.  I'd get a couple hours sleep at night and a couple in the afternoons.  I burned myself out in six months time.  That summer, I walked out of work one day and left town to stay with friends in OKC for a couple of weeks and regroup.  When I came home, I pulled a piece of mail out of the over-stuffed mailbox inviting me to be a graduate assistant the next year, to teach remedial courses under the supervision of Dr. McQuitty.  That offer and my succeeding experiences in the classroom changed my life in so many ways I couldn't write them all tonight, but for my purpose here, it made my career.

That was the day that Dr. McQuitty helped me put my life back on course.  I don't think it would be an exaggeration to say that job saved me and made me the teacher I didn't know I could be.  It wasn't until that first day teaching as a grad assistant that I really knew I was born to do it, not just choosing a default career.

There was the summer American novel course he arranged for me because I needed another English elective credit.  I read a different novel each week and then went to Dr. McQuitty's office and discussed it with him for an hour on Friday.  I felt woefully inadequate going in each week, knowing that I had nothing new to add to any discussion of the novels we talked about, but he never let me leave feeling that way.  He taught me to ferret out meaning for myself as well as for readers in general of a piece of fiction.

There was the single most joyous moment of my academic career, when Dr. McQuitty gave me back my master's paper that he proofread, and told me I didn't need to make any corrections. 

And there came a time when I myself was asked to teach Advanced Comp for Teachers, as well as Traditional Grammar, my favorite course I've taught at college level.  Who wrote the traditional grammar text?  Dr. McQuitty, of course.  I told him I couldn't do it, that I wasn't smart enough.  In that boisterous voice, he told me, "Of course you are!"  So I did it, because he said I could.  It was the hardest and most rewarding class I have taught or will ever teach.

Today I had the pleasure of helping celebrate his 80th birthday with some of his students from early in his career, when he taught at Nurnberg American High School in Germany.  No one would ever guess his age.  He's still as vibrant as he always was---laughing happily and easily at everyone's stories and cards and the antics of his grandson.  He took care to introduce me to everyone and make me feel welcome and answer my questions about German food and the politics of teaching there so soon after World War II.  When he said, "CJ was my student, and then she was my colleague," I scoffed, for who could look at such a mentor and ever feel equal to what he has done, and done for me?  We might have been celebrating his birthday, but I felt as though I got the best honor of the day with his introduction.  Today, then, was the day that Dr. McQuitty taught me the power of grace.