While I was at UTC working on my master's, I heard Rudd and Cantrell and Kato and others talking about Chattanooga State, heard them say Developmental Studies needed teachers. I volunteered. But my novice enthusiasm for quantum mechanics, for the heady Renaissance of returning to school, my eager engagement with my teachers had given the impression that I would be too distant from our students, unable to communicate with them. Henri Frederic Amiel once wrote that "The great artist is the simplifier." The ability to get to the heart of the matter, to make the complex simple, is one of the qualities our division has esteemed.
Rudd decided to take a chance with me. My first class was EN070. The students ranged in age from 17 to almost 70. Every day (or so it seems) after that 8:00 a.m. class, I sat in the Writing Center, happily babbling to Judy Boles about my class. I can still see the bemused expression she wore as I blathered on.
About a year and a half later, Reeda Carter called me at home one afternoon. "You probably aren't interested, but there is a one semester term position available this fall." When Dr. Hooper interviewed me, he talked about the importance of being supportive, of genuinely caring for students, going the extra mile, making ourselves available to them. I filled out my application, received the appointment, quit my job, and took up residence on the second floor of the IMC with five other term adjuncts in a roughly 15' by 8' cubicle we shared. Tina Cannon and I shared a desk. Early in the mornings, Karen Hedgecorth and I swapped teaching techniques, and in the afternoons, I stood, half in the aisle, half in our cubicle, rattling on about Scarecrow and Mrs. King, science fiction, education, and counseling with June Whatley. In those days, the floor was noisy, filled with a steady hum of activity; everyone into everyone's business; office chat, tutoring, and classroom sounds blending into a rhythm of energy that either distracted people or carried them through the day. I was in heaven.
One afternoon at lunch that semester, Becky informed me that Joyce Smith had told her, "Stifter's okay. I think he is going to do just fine." I was part of the team. A year later, I accepted a full-time position, when Debbie Rudd moved to Liberal Arts (She constantly reminds me how much I owe her).
Over the next several semesters, we arranged the cubicle walls of our offices, then rearranged them again in preparation for our move into our soon-to-be remodeled building. I think we all felt a sense of justification and pride as we moved into our new offices with real walls and doors that locked, but my first weeks in my new office, I missed the hustle and bustle. In a subtle way, I felt that those crisp walls distanced us from each other, and maybe, others felt it, too, because it was about that same time that we began looking at ways to integrate our efforts in the classroom across the disciplines we each teach.
Since the remodeling, I have developed a habit of camping out in people's offices. My last year in the Senate I think I spent more time in Sara's office than in my own. I remember a feeling of dislocation this past fall not making my daily trip down the corridor.
I often drop in to talk to Becky in the mornings when she arrives, and we talk shop. A few weeks ago she wandered into my office one morning. The role reversal felt strange. I'm not used to the other shoe dropping although Larry Lewis often wanders into my office to debate. Susan Bartley recently showed me a map of the math folk's new offices. I guess I'm going to have to wander over there to scout out the land.
A few weeks ago, we met downtown as a division to discuss goals. If there was one thing that was clear that evening it was the fierce loyalty we feel for each other. I don't recall all the quotes we shared that night, but I do remember people quoting Linda Reaves, and one of her more famous quotes, "On Monday morning, I will still be teaching English."
I think that loyalty explains the grief we all feel at leaving the division. Beyond the advantages to be gained through the integration is the sense of loss.
* * *
There was never any doubt that Debbie Waggoner was dying. At the end of summer, I stood in the parking lot while she told me her treatment left her feeling better, able to eat, come to school, talk to students. She needed to come, I think. The following spring, the division held a party for Eric Mills, a baby shower. I was sitting at the conference room table when I looked up and saw Debbie in the hallway, supported by her friends, because for a moment she didn't have the strength to stand. Then she stepped away, entered the room, made her way around the table to an empty seat by me, and talked to Eric about the baby. A few nights later we sang hymns for her passing. As we were leaving, Jill stopped me, but I couldn't talk. It wasn't Debbie I was crying for. I was crying for her husband Charlie, for her family, for her friends, and maybe most of all, for myself.
* * *
Next semester will find us a little farther apart. We will have different challenges to face, expanding purposes and responsibilities. We will miss each other. But now is a time for passing on to new loyalties as well as for holding on to old ones. There is work that needs to be done.