I found room 214 at the end of the hall on the second floor. Second semester, Freshman English, according to my schedule. Pursing my lips in a silent, resentful scream, I pushed the door open, walked in, and took a seat at an unoccupied table near the window.
I had believed that I could freely choose the courses I wanted to take at the university, so I had tried to avoid taking English. The truth, however, was that freshman English was a required course – no exceptions. Free will? More like forced choice.
The first semester, English Composition, had been as boring and irrelevant as I had feared. My assignment every week was to write a 500 word essay on topics in which I had little or no interest. Moreover, I was sure that the course instructor had been determined to give me a failing grade on every essay I submitted during the first month of the course. It would be many years before I would appreciate the cruel kindness that the instructor had extended to me.
I had flipped through the pages of my new textbooks on zoology, calculus and inorganic chemistry while eating breakfast that morning. The required text for English, Introduction to English Literature, remained sealed in its bookstore plastic. As I was preparing to leave my apartment for classes, it was the last book I picked up. Holding it limply in my hand for a moment I mumbled to no one in particular, “Jeez, another eighteen weeks reading what long-dead authors have written”, then stuffed it into my backpack.
Promptly at eleven a well dressed man with carefully combed black hair entered the room and set his briefcase on the desk. He pulled out his copy of the text and laid it on the desk, telling everyone that, although this would be the primary text, we were free to refer to any other resources we found valuable.
“Right, like an 800 page textbook won’t be enough” I mumbled softly.
The instructor introduced himself as Paul Harris, then turned to the blackboard and wrote his name in large letters. “Please notice that I have two ‘R’s in my name” he said with a broad smile.
“That’s awfully kind of you, sir.” My silent, sarcastic thought was strangely satisfying.
Mr. Harris then started talking about his intentions for the class. He would not be looking for “right” answers but rather how well we could express our reactions to and understanding of what each author had written.
“Wonderful, another first month of failing grades.” I slouched in my chair and, to be brutally honest, I remembered very little from the rest of the hour.
Just before the bell rang, Mr. Harris gave us our first homework assignment: Hemingway’s The Short, Happy Life of Francis Macomber. That evening after dinner, I reluctantly picked up the book and began reading. For the next thirty minutes the rest of the world vanished. When I finished, I could only sit there for a few moments in astonishment. Then I grabbed my notepad and began to reread the story more slowly, taking careful notes:
- A married couple were on a safari in Africa.
- The wife constantly demeaned her husband, belittled his cowardliness on the hunt, and tried to dominate him in their interactions.
- She wants to sleep with the safari leader.
- Then, when the husband finds the courage to face a charging lion, she “accidentally” shoots him.
I was clear that her claim that she was actually trying to protect him from the charging lion was a lie and made that the basis of my homework essay. Putting the finished piece into my notebook, I managed to ignored a brutally honest truth: I was using what I had learned in English Composition to express my thesis as clearly as possible.
Why did Mr. Harris start the discussion in the next class, not by asking for volunteers, but by directly asking me to read my essay to the class? There is no way to know now. Perhaps he somehow picked up the vibes of my passion for the story.
When I finished, Mr. Harris smiled faintly then said, “Very well written and quite compelling. But I have a question for you. You rattled off the title but didn’t say anything about it. What is the title of the story telling us?”
It seemed like a strange question. Wasn’t it obvious? I answered in a puzzled tone that it meant his wife killed him while he was still young.
“Do you think he really had a particularly happy life, even though it was short, based on what we are told about him in the story?” I had to admit that he didn’t.
“Was he ever happy at any point in the story?”
I thought for a moment, then said he was perhaps happy when he finally found the courage to face the lion charging at him.
“And how long was he happy?”
There was an eternal moment of silence, then a flood of recognition that “short” modified “happy” rather than “life”. Mr. Harris nodded in recognition and appreciation of my shocked, almost paralyzed face. After a moment, Mr. Harris asked me to read my essay again.
The certainty and confidence of my first reading dissolved. My new doubt and questions about his wife’s motives were reflected in the tone of my voice. It was hard to believe it was the same essay.
After class, I asked Mr. Harris if I should rewrite the essay. He smiled kindly, then said, “No, you expressed your perspective well and clearly. That’s what is important. Put your energy into today’s assignment.”
I couldn’t wait to get home that night and get started.
