Once the theater cleared, directing class began. It didn't feel like a class, though; it felt more like a funeral. Classmates extended their condolences. The professor, a gruff German who was short on stature and charm, looked at me and said, "How did this shit happen?"
At that moment, I yearned for a black hole in the universe to swallow me whole. How did this happen? How did my comedy become a tragedy? I had always pictured this day, my college career peak, as bright and sunny . . . not a dark and brooding thunderstorm.
I went back to my dorm and crashed. I mustered the strength to call my parents long-distance and report the awful events. I sobbed. My mother, wanting to comfort me but not sure how, said simply, "Honey, isn't it better to fail now than later in your professional career?" I hung up on her.
What career? Couldn't she see my professional dreams going up in smoke? How could she have uttered such a
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ridiculous statement? Leave it to a mother to think a little bandage could cure all!
Time passed. Life trudged on. And as I began to heal, I started to see the smallest, tiniest kernel of wisdom in my mother's statement. Yes, from my failure came an opportunity. An opportunity to examine my mistakes. An opportunity to study Woody Allen's films over and over again. I researched comedy in a deadly serious manner. I dedicated myself to understanding what was funny and why it was funny. Studied it like a student possessed. If only I could be given a second chance!
That chance came shortly after college. I was hired as a performer at a professional dinner theater, and after several months, I convinced the producer to let me direct a comedy I had written. This was a golden opportunity to put my newfound observations to the test. My cast and I worked diligently. The lights went up, and once again I crossed my fingersand this time I kept them crossed. The laughs came. They continued. They built. The comedy was a hit, and my career was launched. I had learned well from my collegiate mistakes.
Todaywith over 150 programs to my creditI've experienced both successes and failures. I continue to learn from my failures but don't take them as seriously. Nor do I take my successes too seriously, either. I enjoy them, learn from them, too, and move on. What's important is that we keep improving. Keep honing our skills. Keep striving to be our best.
I urge you to do the same. Don't let the low times keep you down. Learn from them and reach for the high times. Who knows, maybe the future holds an Emmy with your name on it, too!
David Wiemers
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The Thought Card
I often wonder how people survive childhood and adolescence at all, don't you? Children take so many risks and do so many crazy things that it's hard to see how they manage to get through it all. When they get to adolescence, it gets even crazier. Tossed around on seas of hormones, pushed and pulled by the winds of impulses, and drawn by the hope of hidden treasure in relationships with friends and others, adolescents can sometimes drown in all the confusion.
I must admit that I personally was still an angry adolescent in my first years of college. My anger was diffusethe world didn't please me in almost any way. My anger was focusedmy parents didn't please me at all. I chafed under my father's direction and correction.
Our finances were limited, so I chose to go to a local college and commute to classes every day. One day I had a serious fight with my father. I saw him as controlling me and wanted to break free. He saw me as rebellious and tried to reassert his authority. We both exploded in shouts. I stormed out of the house and missed my bus to school. I knew that catching the next bus meant I would be late to my education class. That made me even more furious.
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I fumed and sighed all the way to school. My mind raced with angry thoughts about my father. Like many adolescents, I was stuck in my egocentricitycertain that no one in the world had ever had such a terrible father or had to contend with such unfairness. After all, my father hadn't even finished high school, and here I was, a mighty college student! I felt so superior to him. How dare he interfere with my life and my plans?
As I ran across the sprawling campus toward the building where my class met, I suddenly realized that I didn't have the assignment that was due: a thought card.
This class was taught by Dr. Sidney B. Simon, one of the most unusual teachers at the school. His policies and procedures were unique, his grading policy revolutionary, his teaching methods unsettling. People talked about Dr. Simon.
During our first class, Professor Simon had explained, "Every Tuesday, you must bring in a four-by-six index card with your name and the date on the top line. As for what's on the rest of the card, that's up to you. You can write a thought, a concern, a feeling, a question or just plain anything that's on your mind. It's your way of communicating with me directly. These cards will be completely confidential. I will return them to you every Wednesday. You'll find that I will write comments on your cards. If you ask a question, I'll do my level best to answer it. If you have a concern, I will respond to that as best I can. But remember, this card is your admission ticket to class on Tuesdays."
On the first Tuesday of the class, I dutifully brought in my index card with my name and the date written carefully on the top line. I then added, "All that glitters is not gold." The following day, Dr. Simon returned the cards to the class. Mine had a penciled note: "What does this quote mean to you? Is it significant?" This comment made me
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uneasy. Apparently, he was taking these cards seriously. I surely didn't want to reveal myself to him.
The week progressed. The course met every day for one hour. Dr. Simon was quite brilliant. He taught by asking questions, raising issues that none of my teachers had ever raised before. He challenged us to think, and to think deeply. Social issues, political issues, personal issues all were grist for the mill in this class. It was a class in methods of teaching social studies, and it was far ranging. The teachers I had in high school taught social studies, history, geography, economics and so on, as rote subjects, lists of facts and names and dates to be memorized and returned to paper on exams. Rarely had anyone asked us to think.
At first, I thought he was going to propagandize us for or against something, but not Professor Simon. Instead, he simply asked us to think, explore, research, question and then come up with our own responses. Frankly, I became even more uncomfortable. There was something delightful, refreshing and inviting about his teaching, but since I had rarely experienced this style, I had no "coping strategies" to help me deal with him. I knew how to do well in a class: sit up front; tell the teacher how much you "enjoyed" the lecture; turn in neat, typed papers written according to a formula; and memorize, memorize, memorize! This class was clearly something different. I couldn't use these time-worn, time-tested methods to pass.
The second Tuesday came. I wrote on my card, "A stitch in time gathers no moss." Again, not trusting him, I covered myself with humor, which had always been my best defense against unwanted closeness. The next day the card came back with this note: "You seem to have a sense of humor. Is this an important part of your life?"
What did he want? What was going on here? I couldn't remember a teacher caring personally about me since elementary school. What did this man want?
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Now, I raced down the hallway, ten minutes late to class. Just outside the door, I took an index card from my notebook and wrote my name and the date on it. Desperate for something to write on it, I could only think about the fight I'd just had with my dad. "I am the son of an idiot!" I wrote and then dashed into the room. He stood, conducting a discussion, near the door. Looking up at me, he reached out for the card, and I handed it to him and took my seat.
The moment I reached my seat, I felt overwhelmed with dread.
What had I done? I gave him that card! Oh, no! I didn't mean to let that out. Now he'll know about my anger, about my dad, about my life! I don't remember anything about the rest of that class session. All I could think about was the car
d.
I had difficulty sleeping that night, filled with a nameless dread. What could these cards be all about? Why did I tell him that about my dad? Suppose he contacts my dad? What business is it of his anyway?
Wednesday morning arrived, and I reluctantly got ready for school. When I got to the class, I was early. I wanted to sit in back and hide as best I could. The class began, and Dr. Simon began giving back the thought cards. He put mine on the desk facedown as was his usual practice. I picked it up, almost unable to turn it over.
When I looked at the face of the card, I discovered he had written, "What does the 'son of an idiot' do with the rest of his life?" It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I had spent a lot of time hanging out in the student union cafeteria talking with other young men about the problems I had "because of my parents." And they, too, shared the same sort of material with me. No one challenged anyone to take responsibility for themselves. No, we each accepted the others' blame-the-parents game with relief. It was all our parents' fault. If we did poorly on
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tests, blame Mom. If we just missed getting a student-aide job, blame Dad. I constantly complained about my folks, and all the guys nodded sagely. These folks who were paying the tuition were certainly an interfering bunch of fools, weren't they?
Sidney Simon's innocent-seeming question punctured that balloon. It got right to the heart of the issue: Whose problem is it? Whose responsibility are you?
I skipped going to the student union that day and went straight home, strangely depressed, chastened. All evening I thought about it and about something my mother had said: ''The millionaire calls himself a 'self-made man,' but if he gets arrested, he blames his abusive parents.''
I wish I could say that I experienced a magic transformation, but I didn't. However, Dr. Simon's comment was insidious. It kept coming up in my mind over the next few weeks. Again and again, as I heard myself blaming my father for this or that, a little internal voice said, "Okay, suppose your father is all those bad things you said. How long do you think you can get away with blaming him for your life?"
Slowly, inexorably, my thinking began to shift. I heard myself blaming a lot. After a while, I realized that I had created a life in which I was not a central figure! I was the object of the action, not the subject. That felt even more uncomfortable than any feeling I had in Dr. Simon's class. I didn't want to be a puppet. I wanted to be an actor, not a re-actor.
The process of growth wasn't easy or fast. It took over a year before people began to notice that I was taking responsibility for my own actions, my own choices, my own feelings. I was surprised at how my grades improved in all my subjects. I was astounded at the increase in the numberand qualityof my friends. It was equally astonishing how much smarter my father seemed.
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All through this process, I kept sending in my thought cards. Later, I took another course with this unique professor. I worked harder for him than I had in any other class I had ever taken. With each thought card came more unsettling questions for thought.
Several years later, I was surprised at my own progress. From a struggling, marginal student, I had become a successful student and then a successful high school teacher. I went from constant anger and constant avoidance of the necessary work in my life to become someone who was energized, excited, purposeful and even joyful.
My relationship with my father also improved dramatically. Instead of controlling, now I saw him as concerned and caring. I recognized that he didn't have "smooth" ways of parenting me but that his intentions were very loving. The fights diminished and finally disappeared. I had learned to see my father as a smart, wise and loving man. And it all started with a question, an innocent-seeming question.
Hanock McCarty
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I Passed the Test
I was just eighteen years old when I entered nursing school, easily the youngest member of my class. Consequently, I was the subject of a great deal of teasing and good-natured ribbing from my classmates, many of whom were single mothers and older women returning to school for a second career.
Unfortunately, I became ill one week and missed a crucial test on the subject of mental health. This was particularly important to me since I planned to enter the mental-health field once I became a full-fledged nurse. Being a serious student, I immediately scheduled a time to re-test and began cramming for this exam. My fellow classmates knew how important this exam was to me and encouraged me as much as possible.
On the day of my test, as scheduled, I came to the classroom an hour early where one of my instructors administered the test. It was indeed a difficult exam, with more than one hundred questions pertaining to brain development and the latest trends in mental health. My intense study sessions served me well and, in less than forty minutes, I passed the test with flying colors.
Anxious to share my test results with my fellow students,
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I ran to the hospital coffee shop where we students spent our free time with members of the hospital support staff. As soon as I entered the coffee shop, I cried out in a loud voice, "I passed my mental retardation test!"
As I looked around the busy coffee shop, I could not find any of my classmates. Instead, a group of maintenance men, with confused looks on their faces, rose to give me a standing ovation.
Paula Lopez-Crespin
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The Wicker Chair
During my senior year in college, I took a marketing class taught by a cantankerous old man. On the first day of class, he made some predictions. First, he said we would always remember his name. Visualize a jack-o'-lantern in the seat of a wicker chairand you will always remember Jack Wickert. Second, he said most people would fare very badly in this class because he had no patience with students who don't do the assignments and follow instructions. Last, there would be no more than three As out of the forty students in the class.
He made us sweat all semester. No doubt, we learned something about creative avenues for marketing products. He taunted and jeered at us and called us airheads. This was a night class. Everyone worked full-time. By 7:00 P.M., we were tiredimagine how we felt at 10:00 P.M. after being beaten up for three hours!
Mr. Wickert scheduled the final exam for the second-to-last week of the semester. We would review the results on the last night of class. On the night of the final exam, Jack Wickert told the class there was only one question. Then he stunned us all by announcing, "This is an open exam. You may look through your books, your notes or anything
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that will help. In fact, as far as I'm concerned, you may leave the room, go to the library, telephone your friends. You may do any research you like. There are a few things you may not do. You may not talk to or disturb anyone else in the class. You may not share your findings. And finally, don't bother me. When you finish, put your results on my desk and leave."
Then, Wickert proceeded to write the problem on the board: Develop a marketing plan for an electronic rattrap costing $150. (In 1977 dollars, that was the equivalent of one month's rent.)
About half the class immediately got up and left. I looked over at one of my friends. He arched his eyebrow, shrugged and shook his head. What a horrible thing to have to market. Who's going to spend a whole week's salary on one rattrap? If you really had rats, you were likely to be living in a slum and certainly couldn't afford this princely cost. If you could afford it, you lived where there were no infestations. And our grade depended on solving this problem.
I just sat there, staring at the blackboard. I knew there was a catch. What was the gimmick? Knowing Wickert, there was a trick to this. And the answer was easy. He just knew we'd be too dense to catch it. So, I sat there staring and thinking. Finally, I got it! The answer was clear. You couldn't sell it. Write the report, briefly explaining that this was not marketable, cut your losses, move on to something practical. So, I wrote it out on one page. I started packing up m
y things and looked up to catch Mr. Wickert looking at me with a smug, evil leer.
Chicken Soup for the College Soul Page 9