Some people dream of a retirement life that is heaven; I think it is hell. I don’t want to retire. I am only 80 years old this year and have only been a university professor for 56 years. I’m a workaholic and I have every reason to keep working. My office is my Shangri-La. In a small space, it is a mini-museum of an entire career—containing 2,000 books, more than a dozen teaching and scholarship award plaques, many photographs, travel souvenirs from around the world, and various artifacts. Everything is organized and I know where everything is. I looked around and remembered. There are many things worth remembering. Students from across the institution sometimes come to this office just to marvel at the office’s perspective on careers. I once wrote an article about offices as teaching tools.
I’m a pretty average guy. My degrees wouldn’t raise anyone’s eyebrows – an undergraduate degree from a directionally named regional higher education university, a Ph.D. from my hometown Midwestern University. A trip to Vietnam and church-related travel around the world added some enthusiasm. I had some success in academia—books, tons of articles, some broader recognition and campus leadership roles. I’ve been a department chair for 35 years; “It’s a small place.” I’ve had some invitations all the way up to presidential inquiries. I have rejected them all.
I am a teacher, in the highest calling of human existence, and in the most suitable place for my practice. One colleague described our characters as “a slice of paradise that enters the earthly realm.” He is right. This is not what I do; this is who I am. When I started graduate school, there were many job opportunities in my discipline. My early predecessors competed for prestigious appointments and got them. From day one, I declared that I wanted a small liberal arts college where I could impact the lives of students. I have been accused of low ambition. “You can do better,” my advisor declared. For historians, however, things changed dramatically in the mid-1970s, when opportunities, both prestigious and otherwise, dried up. But I was lucky; my wish came true.
Teaching is about guiding students. I have my share too. At least in the majors, I remember almost all of them, now in the top hundreds. They did a great job. I’m committed to this. I remember from my first year, my first high-profile student received a prestigious national PhD. award. I was ecstatic. She retired many years ago as a distinguished scholar and provost. I’m equally enthusiastic about several of this spring’s graduates who have gone on to top graduate and professional schools and secured excellent career opportunities.
I’m proud to hope that I played a role in their growth. If I’m lucky, they’ll join me in regular visits, sending cards and letters, getting married (and divorced), having children, and visiting me occasionally. Maybe just to confirm whether the old man is still alive. I have a couple of second-generation majors and a couple of third-generation majors—and again, “This is the place.” I have stories about their parents and grandparents that are a little unsettling to their elders. I am a storyteller, and my source of stories is nearly inexhaustible. I’ve been through a lot of life and this is a tool to talk to a new generation of students. We traveled a lot, and every place we went, every book we read, every movie we saw, even every experience, I did it in a didactic way. How does this become part of my classroom and student learning?
I’ve heard the cliche that we should teach students how to think, not what to think. Yes, but we also have a greater responsibility. I’m not tolerant enough to accept that genocide is okay, that rape is okay, or that the world is flat and John F. Kennedy is still alive in a Dallas hospital. This is the opposite of intelligence. I have little patience for conspiracy theorists or blatantly immoral behavior, even though there is plenty of both. Our goals must be higher, our expectations must be more valuable.
But it’s not just a student problem. I hired several department members who were chosen to permanently achieve what we wanted to achieve. My job is to shape the norms and culture that make us successful and empower my colleagues to be their best selves. The greatest compliment I received in my career came from a department member who is now deceased, who declared, “His greatest strength as a leader was that he was so deeply committed to our success that he took as much pleasure in seeing our work succeed as he did in seeing his own succeed.” I hope I live up to this high honor.
I don’t like summer because my colleagues and students are not around. Don’t hang around the office talking about books, politics, philosophy, culture, teaching, and maybe some gossip. I find it hard to fathom what summer will be like year-round. I can only read and write so many hours a day, especially when I can’t see it in class. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that no matter your size, when you’re gone, your shelf life is short. Four years from now or three years from now, in many cases today, you’re just a name that a school kid who rides a lot may or may not have heard of, but regardless, you’re not going to directly impact them.
Not everything about academic life is idyllic. The pay may be less than ideal, frustrations exist, challenges are everywhere, and today my discipline, the type of institution, and the existence of the liberal arts are all threatened by internal and external forces.
I know one day my mission will be over. Health is unstable, the mind is fragile, and life is full of unknowns. I have witnessed this from colleagues of over 50 years. I know my weaknesses – back surgery, hearing, and gradual decline. Things can change in the blink of an eye. But as long as mind and body cooperate, I remain a teacher, which is the highest calling we mortals have. This is my piece of heaven, and I don’t want to give it up too soon, both for my students and for my sacred department office space.
