A semester ending

It is with sadness that I realized that as the end of September approaches, so does the end of the first semester in U.P. It has never been something I had to consciously think about, as in years past Dad himself would always share the little tidbits about his life in the academe, and the scholastic year was something he liked to keep us updated about.

What was to be his second to the last semester of teaching, I can almost imagine him as he used to be about this time of the year — half-stressed thinking about all the exams and papers he had to grade and plenty excited to realize that he had succeeded in teaching what he could to another batch of students. In our family it became a sort of rite of passage for each of his children to help check his exam booklets (when we were younger it had been my Mom), and I never failed to marvel at the effort he expended in giving exams that he felt did justice to what his students should learn from him.

Later as he grew on in years and I could see him change albeit slightly from the once-vital, very energetic man who was my Dad, I would ask him why he would not take out the essay portion of his exams, so that we could check the exams ourselves and he would not have to be so stressed all the time. I think I remember him giving me that ‘poor child’ look (which he did when he felt like I was opting for the less-deserving, i.e. easier route ) when he said that as a teacher to young minds it should never be about what is easy for him. His students, he told me, were sent by their parents to study in U.P., believing that if they did their children would make something worthwhile with their lives, much as he and my Mom did with theirs. As the professor who was entrusted with so many futures, it was incumbent upon him to live up to that responsibility. Besides, he said, how could he adequately judge his students’ thought-processes if he relied solely on objective questions to do so?

And so, up to last summer when I helped check his exams, I saw blue book upon blue book filled to the brim with essays and illustrations. For some reason I distinctly remember the day he neatly gathered the pile from my sister after she had finished checking the objective part, watched him as he put them in his bag and with that boyish smile and wink walk off to his office to perform what had been his routine for 45 years. I never would have thought that that was to be the last time I would ever see him do that again.

I sometimes feel sad for the future Psychology students of the University who would never know what it was like to experience his class (and I believe I am not just saying that because he was my Dad). But I guess 45 years’ worth of students — most of whom he still remembered by face, name, and even by their performance in his class to the very end — was more than enough for his life time. That the saying by Henry Adams of how a teacher affects eternity, how he can never tell where his influence stops, was oft-repeated during the wake and the eulogies by his students, can only make me hopeful that he will be truly remembered. In my heart I can only really hope so.