I never took creative writing courses at university. I wanted to, but I was shackled to a double major in economics and finance, worlds far removed from literature. With only four free electives to spend, I squandered them on philosophy (which, in retrospect, I should have pursued outright). That’s a story for another day. I did manage to complete a couple of critical writing courses and a couple of literature courses, and those linger in my memory.
My critical writing professor was a lesbian feminist. She assigned us nothing but female authors – save one strange detour, when I was made to compare Gloria Steinem with Thorstein Veblen on economics. In our very first class, she asked for a handwritten sample, pen on paper, no dictionaries, no spellcheck. This was the late ’80s; such tools barely existed. My handwriting was atrocious then – as now –, so I resorted to all-caps block letters. She commented on the novelty. She was a marvellous teacher.
My first literature professor adored poetry, though I did not. He made the best of it. He also had a curious fixation on penguins and mocked the way I pronounced finance (short “i,” the way I still say it). He was equally amused when I once asked to “interject” – apparently not the word he thought I should have chosen.
My last literature professor was enthralled by all things American. Our reading list was composed entirely of American writers, perhaps some women among them, though I don’t recall. Before his class, their works didn’t quite resonate with me. Still, it was enjoyable. He also insisted that one must understand an author’s history to grasp the text, an idea Barthes would have scoffed at. He, in turn, scoffed at Barthes.
My favourite moment came at the end. After the term ended, he posted back our final essays. On mine, he scribbled two lines alongside the grade:
I’ll miss your sardonic humour.
My name is not David Grace.
I had typed the wrong name on the title page – borrowing one from a maths professor whose name stuck, while my literature professor’s did not. I still can’t recall his name. But I remember him fondly all the same.
Ridley Park 