An ‘F’ For Friendship Special Bond With Teacher Probably Wouldn’t Be Possible Today

It was 1970 when we first met. I was 19; he was about 50.

Every week we would sit through Student Council meetings I, a sophomore defender of student rights; he, a faculty advocate of common sense. I liked him right from the start everything from his three-piece name to his scholarly garb. He was a tweed-and-bow-tie sort of guy, a native New Englander who was built like a battleship. Shake his hand and you knew exactly where you stood. Hubbard Raleigh Jennings was a force to be reckoned with, and reckon we did.

Week after week, we would debate the merits of various student events which ones to fund, approve or dismiss. Which campus site would best suit a political rally? How late was too late for a weekend dance? Jennings and I agreed in substance on most matters; but left to the details, we would dicker endlessly as if it were sport. I think it was.

The following year, I spent both semesters abroad, paying little attention to my studies. Senior year I returned to pay the consequences: I had yet to fulfill the core curriculum for an English major I had missed several courses. As a result, there were large gaps that had to be filled before I could pass comprehensive exams at the end of senior year. Unfortunately, my faculty adviser was a man who loved books, not students he would be of little help.

A few days after returning, I went to see Jennings. “Welcome back!” he exclaimed, greeting me with his big battleship hug. For the first time, I was approaching him as student to teacher we were no longer sitting on a committee deciding matters of policy.

In no time, Jennings was taking charge of my academic life. First, he offered to become my adviser. He filed the papers and made it official. Next, he outlined my options for course work, suggesting which combinations would make the most sense. Among the courses would be Brit. Lit., a twice-weekly lecture for which Jennings was well-known. This was his forte and my weakest link.

Still there was the problem of my “gaps,” for which no particular course offered a solution. We would invent one: We came up with a list of Great Works, and formalized it as a full-credit independent study. Jennings agreed to supervise the effort. We would meet twice a week and I would submit eight papers during the term.

“Miss Silverman,” Jennings called out in Brit. Lit., “Can you describe the use of assonance in this sonnet?”

Probably not, I suspect, since my attendance in Brit. Lit. was somewhat less than diligent. His was an early morning class, mine a late night schedule. But Jennings had a plan for this problem, too: On the mornings of his class, he would call to wake me just a friendly reminder to please show up. Thankfully, Jennings knew not to be offended by my spotty attendance. He knew that, for me, his course was the broccoli in a balanced diet.

The real meal, it turned out, was the tutorial we planned together. There we plowed through The Faerie Queene, King Lear, Paradise Lost I had never encountered great literature in quite this way. We would be discussing some aspects of, say, Troilus and Criseyde some way in which she had slighted him. Jennings would get so worked up on Troilus’ behalf his eyes would well up, his face turn red. This looming tank of a man would just dissolve at his desk, contemplating Troilus’ wounded ego. He made you feel for Troilus in ways you couldn’t have imagined.

Come the end of the semester, I submitted my eighth and final paper for the tutorial. Jennings, in turn, submitted the following idea: He asked me to evaluate my own work and to recommend a grade for the term. He agreed to abide by my decision.

To be, or not to be honest was never the question. The question was just how honest I was prepared to be.

“For the work I’ve done,” I wrote in the evaluation, “I would give myself an A. But because of the work I didn’t do, I would give myself a B. The decision is yours.”

And with those words I threw the ball back into Jennings’ court, having evened up the score. For the first time, I had admitted what we both knew. He had trusted me to tell the truth; I had trusted him to be fair.

I don’t recall which grade Jennings ultimately submitted. What I recall was the strange joy of the whole exchange his, mine, the surprise of the encounter.

Looking back 25 years later, I wonder how this same relationship, with its quirky aspects, would play on campus today. I wonder if Jennings and I would have become such great friends, or whether we would have been subject to more contemporary scrutiny. Sadly, I suspect both.

MEMO: Joan Silverman is a free-lance writer who lives in Boston.