Books littered his office. This sounds like an
exaggeration. No. The four bookshelves he owned could not contain his thirst
for knowledge/referencing sources. Piles of books sat on the floor between his
desk and the second chair lucky enough to grace his small - no, modest -
office. I carefully tip-toed between them on any visible pieces of carpet I could
find. His curtains were drawn close, yet the sun found a way to illuminate his
office to a warm, reddish-brown hue. It felt oddly comforting like visiting an
owl, because they represent knowledge but also chill night time vibes.
Mr. Taron himself was not an unattractive man, slightly neurotic at first glance
yet oddly inviting, his hair and beard edging closer to the salt side of salt
and pepper. His round glasses highlighted his brown eyes and slumped shoulders.
I never dared to get close enough to him to realize if I was taller than him or
not, but it seemed a decent chance.
I
sat down in his second chair after a short email correspondence introducing
himself as my advisor. He joked that I might get moved to someone else, but
since I knew my major would be Writing we both knew that would be the case. He
asked me what classes I planned to take that semester and I let him know and he
wished me luck on my 8am and 9am courses.
“I’m
having some problems, though,” I told him. “I’m not sure what my minor should
be?”
“Minor…,”
he seemed to ponder. “Nothing in mind?” I nodded no. “I wouldn’t worry about it
then. No one’s really gonna look at that when you apply for a job.”
I sat across from his gobsmacked. My years at preparatory school, they stressed the importance of knowing your major and selecting a minor that would seem appealing. Yet this man hit me with a reality I had not considered. It seemed a little fishy. Was he telling this to all his students, or just me - the black one - because he thought I couldn’t handle it. Either way, I didn’t bother to challenge him and took the easy way out. Who was I not to take an excuse to fill my elective selection with a wide variety of topics that interested me?
~~~
By my sophomore year, I
grew concerned if my advisor liked me or not. It felt like I had to stare at
him 50ft prior to crossing paths with him in the hallway for Mr. Taron to
acknowledge me. It’s true, I never asked him how many students he was advising,
let alone teaching. It didn’t seem like my place to ask. But I did wonder what
he did in his free time, if he read the books decorating his office. Perhaps
that’s why he never invited me into his office more than necessary.
During our first of two meetings that school year, I informed him I was adding acting to my plate, mostly as an extracurricular but also a course here and there. He encouraged it, pointing to Shakespeare and Ionesco on his shelf. I think I even noticed a Wilson or two, but it was hard to tell. Then I asked him if there was any way he could put in a good word for me as an editor for the literary magazine, which he advised as well. Throwing up his hairy-knuckled hands, he informed me he had no pull in the politics, only in the financing of the publication. But again he wished me his best. I didn’t feel very guided.
~~~
Eventually I figured out
a trick. I’d finally taken enough prerequisites to enact my plan. Using my
experience designing the layout of the college literary magazine, I expressed
interest in his Writing for the Web class. His eyes seemed to light up as if I
suddenly scored a 87 after a career of earning 68s. Whether he knew I had a
blog or not, he looked forward to having me in his class.
Second on the agenda was
the matter of the traditional junior year internship. He turned to his desktop
computer and started clicking through folders when he assumed, “You have a car,
right?”
“No, sir,” I responded.
“I just use the bus or catch a ride with a friend.”
Mr. Taron’s excitement
deemed. “Oh.” This was an age before Uber and Lyft; perhaps another assumption,
but he knew I didn’t have consistent yellow taxi money. This internship would
also count as my sixth course of my usual five course load. It was my fault for
withdrawing from Psychology 101 my freshman year; he tried to hint that 9am was
early but it’s not like I could have changed it then.
After pausing for a
minute, I watched him close a folder and sit back in his padded rolling chair.
He folded his hands together and pressed his pointer fingers to his lips as he
scanned his desk. I sat there in silence awaiting his recommendations. Finally
finding the sheet he was looking for, he handed me a flyer for the Writing
Center. “You should contact them for your internship,” he advised. My eyebrows
arched as I received the flyer from him. Students worked or received help at
the Writing Center. I didn’t know anyone could intern there.
It felt like a pity favor. Or as if he wasn’t pushing me hard enough. As I interned at the Writing Center, my most fulfilling assignment was designing copy and flyers for them. Otherwise, two days a week for 3-4 hours, I sat and scheduled students for their appointments with tutors. It wasn’t until the last month that I did any tutoring of my own. However, those 3-4 hours allowed me to write consistent blog posts “on the clock.” They also allowed me to ponder what my favorite peers were accomplishing at their off-site internships: the experience and references they must be gaining. I could have cultivated my online brand without the college credit.
~~~
Having shown more
interest in the coding side of his class than the writing assignment side, I
hesitated to take another of Taron’s classes. However, Advanced Fiction called
to me, and from my memory of his office, he was the correct choice of the two
professors offering it. I saw many familiar faces, writers I admired and looked
forward to reading from. Honestly, if anything, his instructions and reading
recommendations were a background to a course that allowed us to appreciate
each other and hone our own voices. I think we could have run the workshops
ourselves.
A couple of months into my senior year, I walked back to my dorm from the library: a place I rarely visited. As I jammed to whatever my iPod shuffled to that day, I heard someone calling my name behind me. It was Taron. I stopped to see what he wanted and he invited me to continue with him. I noticed I could almost see the top of his head.
That year, a friend - Dwight Patrick - who
admired my work asked me to take over writing the HipHop section of the Music
section in the school paper, after being recommended for the position by my
writing mentor at the time Vincent McDonald. It was an honor in itself that was
starting to become a bit more overwhelming as each biweekly deadline passed. As
it turns out, Taron read the paper and wanted to talk about my column. Nothing
technical, but about the music itself. I had no idea he listened to rap let
alone current music. As it turned out, he didn’t regularly, but he was
interested in learning more. So for two minutes before we parted ways, I filled
him in on that artist of the week and tried to suggest other rappers I thought
he might enjoy. That was the one time he truly talked to me outside of a
learning setting; and it may have been one of the most joyous accomplishments
of my college career.
Word
~~
If you like what you read, please consider tipping the author.
No comments:
Post a Comment