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Requiescat in Pace, Praeceptor Meam

Posted by Editormum on 20 December 2015 in Uncategorized |

Rushing down the highway today, anxious that I would be late to his funeral, it suddenly hit me that, actually, I probably ought to be late. Just a couple of minutes. Sliding into a back pew, gasping for breath, and fumbling in my purse for a pen. Dr. Hazlewood would have expected it from me.

He called all of us students his “lambs.” I’m pretty sure I was one of the black sheep in his flock. But I came to love him. I never took the time to tell him. And now he is gone.

Dr. Bob Hazlewood was chairman of the English Department at Lambuth College when I arrived there in 1987, fresh out of high school and with absolutely no clue what was in store. School had always been easy for me, especially the literature and grammar parts of school. I had no idea how to study or to manage my time. And I was on my own for the first time in my life.

Green little me, a freshman in a junior-level class that was required of English majors and that was offered only once every four years. A class taught by the professor who scared the socks off of more Lambuth students than any other person on campus, including the academic dean. Because Dr. Hazelwood was fierce. Passionate. Strict.

I didn’t shine, that first semester. I was constantly late to Dr. Hazlewood’s 8 a.m. class in the history of English — a rigorous class that required remembering a lot of dates and famous names (repeat with me, fellow-students! “In 1066, William the Conqueror ….”), as well as esoteric tasks such as memorizing the Lord’s Prayer in Old English and the first 18 lines of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Middle English. Half the time, I would forget to bring my homework. Or my textbook. Or my pen. Or I would stumble through a recitation with such poor delivery that I’m sure he was convinced I’d never even looked at the text.

Looking back, I must have seemed like the most disrespectful, most addlepated, most impossible student he’d ever met. (Or maybe that’s just a bit of reverse hubris.) In any case, my struggles and failures that semester culminated in a confrontation in which Dr. Hazlewood informed me in no uncertain terms that I would never graduate from his department.

But three and a half years later, I did. And I missed graduating with honors by only a tenth of a point. Which probably served me right. But I earned the privilege of graduating from Dr. Hazlewood’s English Department. And it took me three full years, six semesters, to repair the damage I did in that first semester.

My faculty advisor clued me in, both to my own faults and to Dr. Hazlewood’s approach to pedagogy. Having been one of his students, she was also able to tell me that his declaration was not binding. That I could, if I worked hard, earn his respect and a place in his department. That he would extend grace and offer a chance at redemption to anyone who deserved it.

I took a lot of classes from Dr. Hazlewood in the next seven semesters. I tried hard to be on time, to have my books and homework, and to sit in the front row taking notes. I still have the notes, the textbooks, and the handouts from those many classes. But the class that stands out most was the class that cemented my redemption: Shakespeare’s Comedies.

We turned in our term paper topics early in the semester, and mine was approved. I wrote the paper. (The writing part of my classes I enjoyed, was fairly good at, and usually finished early.) Then Dr. Hazlewood asked me to see him after class one day. He had reconsidered and wanted me to choose a different topic. He asked me to turn in my revised idea before the next class. I was still desperate to prove myself to him, so I swallowed my resentment and dutifully stopped by his office the next day to submit my second choice of topic, which Dr. Hazlewood approved.

I then did one of the bravest things I have ever done. I hated the thought that all of the work I had already done was for nothing. So, as I was walking out of his office door, I turned and said, “Dr. Hazlewood, would you mind if I turned in both papers? I have already written the paper for the first topic, and I would like to know what you think.”

He was very quiet. I stood there for a long time, trying not to waver under his intense stare. Finally, he said, “Yes. But only the second one will count toward your grade.” That was fine with me. I really did want to know what he thought of that first paper, and I was thrilled that he was agreeing to read an extra assignment for me.

I treasure those papers. One of them earned a B, and the other earned an A. As his other students will testify, an A from Dr. Hazlewood was equivalent to the Congressional Medal of Honour. You had to work for an A. You had to show that you had truly thought about the assignment.

After that, I was no longer terrified of him. He was more cordial toward me. And he allowed me to graduate from his department.

After I left college, I realized that my advisor had been right about Dr. Hazlewood. He had never hated me; he hated my underachieving waste of my potential. He cared. He really did see us students as his lambs, and, as our shepherd, he wanted to guide us to being the best we could be.

I wish I had gone back and told him that I finally understood. That I had always respected him. That, black sheep though I was, I loved him. That he had impacted my life. That 25 years later, I still hear his voice challenging me to think. To listen. To grow. To give my all, my best.

That I treasure that voice more than anything else from my college days. And that my world will be a smaller, sadder place now that he is no longer here.

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