I’ve
been a professor since I was 23. My
journey to these ivied halls of paradise was convoluted, with a wonderful band
of conspirators serving mentor roles along the way. Somehow, in the first
grade, I became involved with the Methodist Church in small-town Kentucky. The
smells of Sunday school became intertwined with the smells of the first
grade—crayons, new books, old musty books, and chalk intermingled with food and
body odor—and these smells contributed to a sensual experience that continue to
define my relationship with “things academic.”
The Methodist Church, as I experienced it
in the 1950s and 1960s, was about personal exploration, not evangelism, or hell
fire and brimstone. One of my first mentors, Rice Sutherland, through the
Methodist Youth Fellowship, introduced me not only to the notion of foot
washing, but also to the Passover Seder. Imagine an ignorant 13-year-old boy
like me in a segregated southern town being exposed to a major Jewish
tradition. This was part and parcel of a theme that began in the first grade
and carried through my life—exploration of the world of ideas and beliefs for
the sake of understanding.
Rice Sutherland also found money to
support sending me to camp in the summers. At the time I was embarrassed about
this and did not like the idea of being so poor as to need charity; it did not
stop me from accepting it, however. The experiences at this camp were instructive
and became part of another theme—getting out of my hometown and exploring the
world.
If Mrs. Sutherland was instrumental in
shaping the exploration of things spiritual and religious, Mrs. Rayburn, my
school’s music teacher, offered me an opportunity that shaped my academic life.
At 13 I was a big kid, fat really, but tall as well and not prone to things
athletic. It caused a few fights. For some reason, when Mrs. Rayburn asked if I
wanted to play the coronet in band, I really wanted to do it. My family had no
money, but somehow my mother, another of my mentors, pushed the envelope,
convincing my father (from whom I inherited my depression) that we should find
the monthly rental fee needed for me to play this instrument. This was a
turning point in my life.
In my early teens, I was very shy,
preferring to spend time alone with a book to time with others. My father found
this annoying and frequently yelled at me to “put the damn book down and go do
something”. With the acquisition
of the coronet, I began to do things. My brother in law was a sergeant in the
local Army reserve unit, and convinced his colleagues to let me play Taps on
Memorial Day (Decoration Day it was called then) at the county court house. I
was scared to death. In front of about 35 Army guys in the high school gym, I
practiced one evening. It was awful; I missed every single note, and wanted to
crawl into a hole, with my books, never to be seen again. No one laughed. No
one yelled at me. One guy who had played trumpet and bugle before pulled me
aside and taught me to use the valves on the coronet rather than rely
exclusively on my armature. On Memorial Day, David Barnhill, an accomplished
trumpet player, and I played Taps at the Webster County Court House in Dixon,
Kentucky. Perfectly.
It was not the last time I was to
dramatically fail in public, but the experience in the gym was the most
dramatic failure I had had to that point, and the fact that I did not give up,
took advice, and turned the experience around to a larger success, set me on a
path. In high school, I forced myself to participate in debate and forensics,
even though it scared me to death. Mrs. Hooks allowed me to travel with the
team, and encouraged me even though I was not great. I owe her a lot.
I also competed in music even though both
legs often shook so much I thought I’d fall down. Picture a fat kid with a
Sousaphone strapped around his neck with violently shaking knees. In the eighth
grade I was five feet seven inches tall and weighed 170 pounds. The Sousaphone
player was graduating from high school. I was the guy most suited to carrying
this very heavy old instrument. Mrs. Rayburn asked me to give up my coronet
career in favor of the bass horn. I accepted, and in doing so set the stage for
the rest of my life.
For reasons I have never determined, Mrs.
Rayburn became more than my band teacher. When I was in junior high, she asked
me to sing solos between the acts of high school plays. I accepted, and sang
what I’m sure were painful to hear renditions of “Autumn Leaves” and such.
Picture that same fat kid with knees shaking singing love songs. Usually, when
I walked off the stage I had no memory of having sung—from the first look at
the audience I “blacked out”. These were petrifying experiences, and ones that
shaped me tremendously.
Thank you Mrs. Sutherland, Mrs. Rayburn, and Ms. Hooks and
Mrs. Dorris. You taught me what
strong women look like. I wonder
where I'd be without you.
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