Enter the Antagonist
I first met Mr. Tilldale that fall. He taught an advanced writing class; a class that I placed into through testing. There was always something that bothered me about him, even from the moment he walked into the classroom that first day. He seemed … well … off. There were times when discussing Dickens or Dante that he would be so caught up in his dissertations or rants that he appeared to be someone completely different. For brief moments, his skin seemed ashen, dry and cracked like a burn victim. Although it was the color of pure driven snow. I, of course, never mentioned this to anyone; I had no desire to be mocked. I think that others may have shared my ‘visions’ as well; his class was very unpopular, dropping from 20 students to only 5 within the first month. This could have been due to the fact that it was scheduled after 7:30pm or that his curriculum consisted of pain, tragedy and horror. I believe that each and every student, however, made the choice to stay or go because of the professor, though.
Many times in the last decade, I have asked myself why I, too, did not drop the class … or at very least stop going. The answer again is fear … I was afraid to fail … afraid to admit defeat. I refused to be forced out of this class … forced out of an opportunity that I had earned through many years of studying and an hour long essay it had taken to place me into this class. I was afraid of Professor Tilldale; but I was more afraid of failure. When most would have ran or hid from their fear, I confronted it. Each and every time he asked for feedback, my hand was the first in the air … oftentimes the only one. I confronted him on his theory that life was defined not by actions or experiences but by the quantity and quality of pain. Having been brought up in a safe, nurturing environment, I argued that to look upon life that way cheapens the joy that life brings … sure without pain and tragedy, peace and joy could not be truly appreciated; but each had to be tied to the other … allow itself to be defined by the other. It was a good argument, even if I say so myself, very Zen; Professor Tilldale, however, railed against it with his entire being. I was barraged with failing grade after failing grade, his comments calling me naïve and (my personal favorite) possessing an ‘innocence that only a simpleton of epic proportions could experience’.
Despite reading the assigned material and completing every assignment with care and well-designed arguments, Professor Tilldale was prepared to fail me. More so than that, he had initiated a review of my performance both in his class and on the original exam so as to force me to take a remedial writing class to fulfill my basic skills requirement. At first I was lost in despair, I felt powerless. He held the advantage … who would take the side of a freshman over that of a vested and respected professor? Something deep inside me rebelled, however. I refused to be consigned to a fate that was undeserved. I initiated my own review, that of his class and behavior with it. During winter break, I traveled all over New Jersey interviewing anyone I could find that had taken his class. On the first day of the Spring Semester, I marched to the Dean of Students’ office, armed with over twenty statements, every assignment I had written for Tilldale and a beautifully drafted letter, requesting an inquiry. The inquiry was granted and only lasted a month, owing to the fact that Professor Tilldale could not attend any of the hearings as they were all held at 3pm. My work was re-graded by a panel of writing professors and my grade changed to a B-. Tilldale, on the other hand, was dismissed from his duties. That semester held some pretty exciting things for me, so I promptly forgot about Professor Jefferson Tilldale. He, however, held a grudge.
Many times in the last decade, I have asked myself why I, too, did not drop the class … or at very least stop going. The answer again is fear … I was afraid to fail … afraid to admit defeat. I refused to be forced out of this class … forced out of an opportunity that I had earned through many years of studying and an hour long essay it had taken to place me into this class. I was afraid of Professor Tilldale; but I was more afraid of failure. When most would have ran or hid from their fear, I confronted it. Each and every time he asked for feedback, my hand was the first in the air … oftentimes the only one. I confronted him on his theory that life was defined not by actions or experiences but by the quantity and quality of pain. Having been brought up in a safe, nurturing environment, I argued that to look upon life that way cheapens the joy that life brings … sure without pain and tragedy, peace and joy could not be truly appreciated; but each had to be tied to the other … allow itself to be defined by the other. It was a good argument, even if I say so myself, very Zen; Professor Tilldale, however, railed against it with his entire being. I was barraged with failing grade after failing grade, his comments calling me naïve and (my personal favorite) possessing an ‘innocence that only a simpleton of epic proportions could experience’.
Despite reading the assigned material and completing every assignment with care and well-designed arguments, Professor Tilldale was prepared to fail me. More so than that, he had initiated a review of my performance both in his class and on the original exam so as to force me to take a remedial writing class to fulfill my basic skills requirement. At first I was lost in despair, I felt powerless. He held the advantage … who would take the side of a freshman over that of a vested and respected professor? Something deep inside me rebelled, however. I refused to be consigned to a fate that was undeserved. I initiated my own review, that of his class and behavior with it. During winter break, I traveled all over New Jersey interviewing anyone I could find that had taken his class. On the first day of the Spring Semester, I marched to the Dean of Students’ office, armed with over twenty statements, every assignment I had written for Tilldale and a beautifully drafted letter, requesting an inquiry. The inquiry was granted and only lasted a month, owing to the fact that Professor Tilldale could not attend any of the hearings as they were all held at 3pm. My work was re-graded by a panel of writing professors and my grade changed to a B-. Tilldale, on the other hand, was dismissed from his duties. That semester held some pretty exciting things for me, so I promptly forgot about Professor Jefferson Tilldale. He, however, held a grudge.