Learning What Not to Do

Sometimes the toughest mentors are the ones we remember the most.

Take my professor of political studies for my freshman college seminar. I don’t recall his name so I’ll call him Professor X. He was a visiting professor from South America, blonde, blue eyes, with a tanned, leathery face. He was intelligent, opinionated, and gave mesmerizing lectures with a certain boundless energy. I was often riveted by what he had to say—and respected his opinions. He also respected us, even if he could be a little tough on us.

In this class we studied the structures and histories of revolutions around the world, reading books like Theda Skocpol’s States and Social Revolutions. One of our earliest assignments was to give a persuasive speech on what characterized an event as a revolution. Always interested by American history, I chose the American Revolution, knowing that it would not only be fascinating but of course would easily “qualify” as a revolution.

That afternoon at class, I volunteered to go first. I gathered my cards in front of me. I nervously rushed through my ten-minute “persuasive” speech and sat down. The students smiled. Professor X breathed a heavy sigh.

“No! No, no, no!” he practically shouted.

I gulped.

He then proceeded to rip apart my paper, my argument, and my entire thesis. The other students started to slide under their seats in fear. At the end of class he took me aside and said he would allow me to re-do the paper in two days. Two days! At that moment I decided I’d rather get a horrible grade than go through that again. But I had little choice.

I returned to my dorm room and sobbed. I’m smart! Who the hell is he to tell me it was not a persuasive argument? I shook with anger and humiliation. Why did I come to this horrid place anyway? I blamed it on Southern California: the unending sunshine, smog, and eternal fakery. This odd place just did not agree with me, so I was not performing. That was it.