Letter to Professor S.
Dear Professor S.,
I am sure that you don’t remember me. I was an unspectacular freshman in way over my head. I am writing to say, “Thank You.” I never told you (didn’t know at the time) how much your class would change my life. I got put in your class just by chance. It was the last English class left at the end of a long day of registration. Perhaps (probably) I wasn’t prepared. I’d never read much poetry, hadn’t had the intro class, never had a college writing course, but I showed up. Showed up not knowing what to expect.
You called me Mr. Paris on my first day of class. Many have done the same since, but you were the first to do it without condescension. Don’t know why, but it meant a lot to me. I was being addressed with respect, as an adult. I was honored and scared. Must I now live up to this newly proclaimed adultness. Wait a minute, I didn’t ask for this. I knew right from the beginning that I wouldn’t be coasting through this class.
You spoke to every student that day, asking each about his history, what classes they had previously taken, why they took this one, favorite poet and the like. As you went from student to student, each was answering with their long history of study, love of poetry and long list of poets that I had never heard of. It seemed like each persons list would inspire a few minutes of talk on related poems or poets. Everyone was coming together, speaking the same language. Then it came to my turn. I was honest. It was the only class available, never studied any poetry, and mentioned the only poets that I could think of, Frost and Poe. Then I shrunk into nothing as no one said anything. Nothing. Silence. Silence. Silence. And then you moved on, and I was forgotten.
I spent most of my time in your class curled up in my embarrassed ball of myself. Never said anything in discussion, but listened. Listened and wrote down every poet that anyone mentioned. Then I went home and looked up everyone of them at night. I was learning about Elizabeth Bishop, Bukowski, T.S. Eliot, Auden, Williams, Hughes, Plath, Ashbery, Stevens, Dickinson, and Dylan Thomas. Sestinas, villanelles, and sonnets, odes and free verse. For someone who had never read any of these, it was a mindful. I was stuffing as much as I could in hope of catching up to the rest of class. I never did, but it didn’t matter, I was hooked. I was hooked on poetry.
I am writing to thank you for getting me hooked. For taking this eighteen year old searching for something more than physics and showing him the world. Not just he world that is, but what an artist can create. The me that left your class was different than the one who entered. I knew that I was one of those creatives that I had been reading about. I would never be satisfied with the normal life, normal friends, and the normal path.
The journey that was started that class has kept me searching for almost twenty years. I don’t know where I would be if I hadn’t had your class, but I just wanted to let you know that I am happy that I did. I am happy that I met you. I might not have made much difference in your life, but you made a big one in mine.
Thanks,
Brian
