Rest in Peace, Dr. Adera
It's a surreal thing to hold a syllabus in your hand for a professor who is no longer alive.
And to know that, as much as you wanted him to, he'll never be able to teach you this class you so dearly looked forward to.
And it's also surreal to know that while you and your classmates wondered why in the world your own professor didn't show up to the first day of class it was because he was no longer able to teach.
I didn't know him beyond my English department stalking and waving as he passed and acknowledging his precense and thinking to myself, "Cool, I'll have you next semester and actually be able to introduce myself." But, yet, it hurts.
When Danielle called me, I couldn't stomach the rest of my lunch, my palms were shaking, and I called home.
"How's class? How are you? Are you settled?" was my mom's greeting after not talking to me since I arrived back in Fredburg.
"Um...my professor just died." Bursting into tears ensued.
And I know that if I want to cry every time the school announces his death, it hurts ten times worse for all those who actually had the opportunity to get to know him.
But what hurts the most is seeing the pain in my professors' eyes. To hear Dr. Campbell choke up as he asks us gently to have a moment of silence for his beloved colleauge. To see Dr. Parker rush in 10 minutes late, face red, eyes swollen. Telling us the memorial services were just on the phone with her and she couldn't come to class until she composed herself. To know that Dr. Scanlon is hurting and how I'd love to call her home or her cell phone to see if she's alright but would have no idea how to say that.
And to have another professor hand out Dr. Adera's syllabus as he takes over our class with an apology that we're going to follow what Adera had planned but he, too, has no idea what to do beyond that.
Reading the thick syllabus Dr. Adera had planned for us with his intro into literature of resistance made me well in sorrow. He was ready for us. He never knew he couldn't come.
I haven't yet decided if I'm going to the funeral or not. I should out of respect for all my professors who are visibly sucking back tears to lecture us on lexicons and C.S. Lewis. But I feel funny since I never really got the chance to know him. Time will tell.
It's just been a surreal start to a new semester.
My prayers are for all my professors, Dr. Adera's family, and my pal Danielle who knew him in a capacity I wish I had the opportunity to share.
And to know that, as much as you wanted him to, he'll never be able to teach you this class you so dearly looked forward to.
And it's also surreal to know that while you and your classmates wondered why in the world your own professor didn't show up to the first day of class it was because he was no longer able to teach.
I didn't know him beyond my English department stalking and waving as he passed and acknowledging his precense and thinking to myself, "Cool, I'll have you next semester and actually be able to introduce myself." But, yet, it hurts.
When Danielle called me, I couldn't stomach the rest of my lunch, my palms were shaking, and I called home.
"How's class? How are you? Are you settled?" was my mom's greeting after not talking to me since I arrived back in Fredburg.
"Um...my professor just died." Bursting into tears ensued.
And I know that if I want to cry every time the school announces his death, it hurts ten times worse for all those who actually had the opportunity to get to know him.
But what hurts the most is seeing the pain in my professors' eyes. To hear Dr. Campbell choke up as he asks us gently to have a moment of silence for his beloved colleauge. To see Dr. Parker rush in 10 minutes late, face red, eyes swollen. Telling us the memorial services were just on the phone with her and she couldn't come to class until she composed herself. To know that Dr. Scanlon is hurting and how I'd love to call her home or her cell phone to see if she's alright but would have no idea how to say that.
And to have another professor hand out Dr. Adera's syllabus as he takes over our class with an apology that we're going to follow what Adera had planned but he, too, has no idea what to do beyond that.
Reading the thick syllabus Dr. Adera had planned for us with his intro into literature of resistance made me well in sorrow. He was ready for us. He never knew he couldn't come.
I haven't yet decided if I'm going to the funeral or not. I should out of respect for all my professors who are visibly sucking back tears to lecture us on lexicons and C.S. Lewis. But I feel funny since I never really got the chance to know him. Time will tell.
It's just been a surreal start to a new semester.
My prayers are for all my professors, Dr. Adera's family, and my pal Danielle who knew him in a capacity I wish I had the opportunity to share.