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In 1965 I earned my bachelor's degree in English from Iowa State and thanks to my nearly straight-A record in the study of the language and literature of English I won a National Defense Title IV fellowship to study English at Indiana University in Bloomington, where my boat to the Doctor of Philosophy sprang its first leak, my instruction in English there so different from Iowa State where I had risen like a meteor and felt like a star. In my two years at Indiana I could inspire not a single teacher to take any personal interest in me. Sobered and dragging a C bitterly behind me I swam off a Master of Arts and counted myself lucky. Then, from the fall of 1967 through the spring of 1970, I taught English at little Upper Iowa College in Fayette, Iowa, where the desperate young men in my classes needed passing grades to maintain their student deferments and avoid the draft.
Competition was fierce.
Intense.
Literally a matter of life and death.
War.
One afternoon of finals week I dropped by the office of a friend and colleague in the business department to ask if he wanted to stop for a beer at the local tavern before we called it a day and headed home. When I arrived, Mr. Good—his real name—was standing in the hall just outside his office, his arms folded across his chest, where he listened impassively to the pleas of a young man who had just learned that he had failed his course in business. In those days it was customary to post student scores on the final examination and final grades for the course on the wall beside the door of a faculty member's office. Most professors protected student identities by using last, first, and middle initials or the last four digits of social security numbers, but more than a few faculty—of whom I was one—simply posted grades beside the full names of students for all to see. Mr. Good, like me a young instructor only two or three years older than the seniors we taught, employed an elaborate grading system by which students received points for attendance, for class participation, for homework assignments, for collateral reading, for short papers, for pop quizzes, for a term paper, for four or five major examinations, for the midterm examination, for the comprehensive final examination, and for any number of extra credit activities besides. A total of two thousand points were possible, I realized as I waited, and the young man pleading with Mr. Good had earned 1199 points, one point short of a D, a mere .05 percent of the total possible, and had failed the course. Already on academic probation and struggling this semester in his three other classes as well, the young man literally begged Mr. Good to relent, to give him the benefit of the doubt, to award him just one extra unearned point, and to pass him with a D. Otherwise, the student explained, oblivious of my presence at the scene, he was certain he would flunk out and be drafted and sent to Vietnam to kill communists.
"No."
Mr. Good remained adamant.
"No."
Suddenly, to my astonishment, the student dropped to his knees on the hard marble floor and, kneeling before his instructor, he folded his hands and fingers together in the attitude of prayer, his eyes wet with tears, he looked up at Mr. Good to beseech him, and he implored.
"Only one point!"
He wailed.
No.
Unmoved, Mr. Good shook his head no.
No.
"One point, Mr. Good, please, I beg you!"
No.
"Just one lousy point out of two thousand, I beg you, sir, please!"
No.
"Why?" the boy whined.
"I never change a grade," declared Mr. Good.
No.
The young man stopped his entreaty as if he had been slapped. He rose to his feet, turned, and left without a word. My friend tidied his desk and he and I walked the three blocks to the bar to share a cold beer or two. I didn't blame him at all. Many times I had been equally ruthless and cold. We young male faculty, safe from the draft and in only our first year or two of college teaching, prided ourselves on what we believed were our high standards and on what we called academic rigor. In retrospect, I look blind, arrogant, and stupid. I learned to hate the war and the two persons I thought primarily responsible for it—Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon—with a passion. It seemed only a few months later that my colleague Mr. Good received a postcard from Vietnam. On it there had been no message, no note, just the signature of the young man who had knelt and begged for one point.
Drafted.
War.
Competition was fierce.
Intense.
Literally a matter of life and death.
War.
One afternoon of finals week I dropped by the office of a friend and colleague in the business department to ask if he wanted to stop for a beer at the local tavern before we called it a day and headed home. When I arrived, Mr. Good—his real name—was standing in the hall just outside his office, his arms folded across his chest, where he listened impassively to the pleas of a young man who had just learned that he had failed his course in business. In those days it was customary to post student scores on the final examination and final grades for the course on the wall beside the door of a faculty member's office. Most professors protected student identities by using last, first, and middle initials or the last four digits of social security numbers, but more than a few faculty—of whom I was one—simply posted grades beside the full names of students for all to see. Mr. Good, like me a young instructor only two or three years older than the seniors we taught, employed an elaborate grading system by which students received points for attendance, for class participation, for homework assignments, for collateral reading, for short papers, for pop quizzes, for a term paper, for four or five major examinations, for the midterm examination, for the comprehensive final examination, and for any number of extra credit activities besides. A total of two thousand points were possible, I realized as I waited, and the young man pleading with Mr. Good had earned 1199 points, one point short of a D, a mere .05 percent of the total possible, and had failed the course. Already on academic probation and struggling this semester in his three other classes as well, the young man literally begged Mr. Good to relent, to give him the benefit of the doubt, to award him just one extra unearned point, and to pass him with a D. Otherwise, the student explained, oblivious of my presence at the scene, he was certain he would flunk out and be drafted and sent to Vietnam to kill communists.
"No."
Mr. Good remained adamant.
"No."
Suddenly, to my astonishment, the student dropped to his knees on the hard marble floor and, kneeling before his instructor, he folded his hands and fingers together in the attitude of prayer, his eyes wet with tears, he looked up at Mr. Good to beseech him, and he implored.
"Only one point!"
He wailed.
No.
Unmoved, Mr. Good shook his head no.
No.
"One point, Mr. Good, please, I beg you!"
No.
"Just one lousy point out of two thousand, I beg you, sir, please!"
No.
"Why?" the boy whined.
"I never change a grade," declared Mr. Good.
No.
The young man stopped his entreaty as if he had been slapped. He rose to his feet, turned, and left without a word. My friend tidied his desk and he and I walked the three blocks to the bar to share a cold beer or two. I didn't blame him at all. Many times I had been equally ruthless and cold. We young male faculty, safe from the draft and in only our first year or two of college teaching, prided ourselves on what we believed were our high standards and on what we called academic rigor. In retrospect, I look blind, arrogant, and stupid. I learned to hate the war and the two persons I thought primarily responsible for it—Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon—with a passion. It seemed only a few months later that my colleague Mr. Good received a postcard from Vietnam. On it there had been no message, no note, just the signature of the young man who had knelt and begged for one point.
Drafted.
War.
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