‘4am in the morning’

A day to myself.

It’s been so long since I’ve had one of those…

All day yesterday- truly one of the longest days of my life (that whole ‘time is relative’ thing again)- I kept thinking that ‘if I can just keep standing until tomorrow…’

I have a day off.  I’ve given it to myself- and firmly told myself that I needn’t do anything today that I don’t want to be doing.  I have the rest of the week to get things done and to gear up for the start of my new job (!) next Monday.  Today is for quiet and rest and the beginning of the recovery of my resources- which are a little tapped out right now.

We hosted a lovely celebration of Dad’s life yesterday.  So many wonderful people coming together to speak about him- either as part of the ‘formal’ celebration (it was hardly formal in any traditional sense) or during the reception afterward.  So very many wonderful people.  Friends, family.  People I hadn’t seen in, literally, decades– yet who took some time out of their day to share their memories of Dad- and of Mum- and of my sisters and I when we were but wee things.

I am quite drained.  Emotionally, certainly, but physically as well.  I’m not sure what that’s about.  I feel like I’ve been running marathons or something- and I sure as heck ain’t no runner.

But I don’t do idleness well.  After sitting on the couch this morning- catching up on local news (why do I DO that to myself?), I’m itching to get something accomplished.  There are lists to be made (oh, how I love lists)- of thank you cards to be sent, tasks that need accomplishing as a means of getting going on the realities that require attention after such a loss (the legal, the financial, the day-to-day things that need de- or re-constructing)… so much still to be done.

I’m not sure I have the requisite concentration level at the moment.

But this time of transition is about more than the great loss of Dad.  That’s the biggest thing, of course, and the one that it is hardest to wrap my brain around.

But…

For the first time in over 5 years I am not looking for a job.  I am not checking the myriad online job boards I have bookmarked on the laptop, or researching potential employers to better explain my suitability to join the organization in a tailored cover letter, or adapting my CV yet again to better convey the reasons why I would be an asset to the company.

I’m sort of at a loss.

Those who say that looking for work is a full time job know what they’re talking about.  And, for years, I was doing so whilst working a full time job.  And volunteering at my Museum.

Did I mention I don’t do idleness well?  Especially enforced idleness- even if I’m the one acting as the enforcer.  I told myself that today is just about chilling.  Not sorting through papers, not catching up on chores, not taking things to the dry cleaners.  Just vegging on the couch.  With a book.  Or catching up with my WordPress peeps.  Or a movie.  Or some music.  Hanging with the cats and with me.  With no one else around.  There hasn’t been much of an opportunity for that in the past few weeks.

I know this is a temporary thing.  I will be kept on my toes once the new job begins- lots to learn, people to meet- and I hope to pick up the volunteering again- slowly, and possibly in different ways than before- as I settle into a new routine.  I’ll be back running and feeling like there aren’t enough hours in a day in no time- of this I have no doubt.

So today is supposed to be about time for a little reflection and to catch my breath and sort through my own head a little.  Even though I was there when it happened- peacefully, and with the three of us at his side- I still have moments when I just can’t believe that he’s gone.

There is much to be taken on board.  Much of the ground beneath my feet has been rendered somewhat treacherous for the gaps in the foundations.

Ever since the Shuffle Daemon managed to shake me out of the total lack of clarity I was feeling after Dad died (as least insofar as I claim any real return to clarity.  I remain in more of a fog than is usual- even for me) I’ve been letting Mike Oldfield help soothe the jangled nerves.

Sometimes this is a little counter-intuitive.  Much of music is pretty much the opposite of ‘soothing’.  His hugely elaborate Tubular Bells (1, 2, 3 and the Millennium Bell) and Hergest Ridge albums feature movements that can shock you either awake or into awareness with their power.  The guy- and his talent (he plays all guitars- bass and otherwise- organs, glockenspiel, mandolin, bells- tubular and otherwise- and timpani.  Basically all the instruments)- are pretty staggering at times.  He was 19 when he recorded Tubular Bells.  19.   NINE-bleeping-TEEN.

But, in addition to the wondrous orchestral masterpieces, he has a number of songs that are more in keeping with the ‘singles’ that you might hear on the radio (radio still exists, right?)- with vocalists and everything.

The Shuffle Daemon seems sort of stuck in the way in which it is rolling out these songs for my listening pleasure.  In addition to the song I wrote about the other day- and included in the post I wrote about Dad, which I managed to read at the celebration yesterday- two others keep popping up, both featuring the wonderful vocals of Maggie Reilly.

Family Man tells the tale of the unsolicited attention that a gentleman receives whilst in a bar one evening- and his insistence that he isn’t ‘that type of guy’.  Nothing, really, to do with any of the memories I have of Dad, of course (but, as I noted the other day, our parents were people before they were parents, so who knows…) beyond the title.  Dad was certainly a family man.  We were the centre of his world- of that there was never any doubt- and my Mum was the love of his life.

Hall and Oates did a cover version of this song- which changes its tone quite completely.  At the end of their version the family man in question succumbs to the lure of the ‘lady of the night’- although it was too late to manifest his illicit choice.  And the quintessentially 80s video is so endearing in its cheesiness.  The clothes.  The production values.  That moustache!

And then there’s this song.

This lovely live version of the song- while lacking the crashing Oldfield-esque guitars of the album version- highlights the sense of loss that the lyrics evoke so beautifully.

It’s hard to choose a favourite from amongst the works of this guy.  Heaven’s Open is up there- for many of the reasons I discussed the other day- and for all the new associations that it has brought to me this week.  His artistry makes it reallyreally hard to pick one song above the others.

But Moonlight Shadow.  Moonlight Shadow.  I can remember the first time I heard it- and the many many many nights I’d sit in my bedroom listening to it on repeat.

‘The last that ever she saw him, carried away by a moonlight shadow,
He passed on worried and warning, carried away by a moonlight shadow,
Lost in a riddle that Saturday night, far away on the other side,
he was caught in the middle of a desperate fight, and she couldn’t find how to push through.

The trees that whisper in the evening, carried away by a moonlight shadow,
Sing the song of sorrow and grieving, carried away by a moonlight shadow,
All she saw was a silhouette of a gun, far away on the other side,
He was shot six times by a man on the run, and she couldn’t find how to push through.

I stay, I pray, I see you in heaven far away,
I stay, I pray, I see you in heaven one day.

Four a.m. in the morning, carried away by a moonlight shadow,
I watched your vision forming, carried away by a moonlight shadow,
Star was glowin’ in a silvery night, far away on the other side,
Will you come to talk to me this night, but she couldn’t find how to push through’

Some have suggested that it was written in response to the murder of John Lennon (despite the lack of correspondence between the timing of the events of that tragedy and those in the song), and Mike has allowed that it may have had some level of influence.  He had arrived in New York the day of the murder, and was staying a short hop away from the Dakota where Lennon’s profound voice was silenced.  Mainly though, he was thinking about a film he had loved about Harry Houdini (starring Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh), particularly about attempts to contact the late illusionist after he had died.

Like Mike, I am fascinated by the life and times of Harry Houdini- particularly by his attempts to expose false spiritualists who made money from the pain and loss of others.  I loved that about him.  That, and the close connection the guy had to his mother, and the loving relationship- which encompassed both the business and the personal- he and his wife Bess shared throughout their life together.

This song resonates, for me, personally, on a very specific level.  Years and years ago, my grandfather (Dad’s Dad) was staying with us while Dad was out of town on business.  One night, very late, I woke up and heard someone moving around in the kitchen.  Grandpa was down there, opening and closing the refrigerator door and wandering pretty aimlessly.  I asked him what was up, and he admitted to feeling restless and if something was wrong.  I put the kettle on and sat with him at the kitchen table.  In my memory of the event, I glanced at the cuckoo clock my parents had brought back from Switzerland, noting that it was 4 am, just before the phone rang.  The phone call informed my Grandpa that his youngest brother had just died.

A couple of years later, my Mum woke me up to say that she and Grandma (who was staying with us while Grandpa was in the hospital- Dad was out of town with work again) had to go out for a bit.  I was in charge- although my sisters were sound asleep.  I dozed off again, but startled awake not long after, feeling as if something was wrong, but also overcome by the feeling that my Grandfather was with me.

Unable to fall back to sleep, I went upstairs (I was sleeping in the basement, since Grandma had my room) and turned on the tv- catching the late night replay of CBC’s Video Hits.  A little while later they came home- surprised to find me awake in the middle of the night- and told me that Grandpa was gone.  It was 4am.

After Dad was moved back to hospital from the rehab clinic where he had seemed to be making solid progress, I found myself waking up in the middle of every single night.  Each and every time at 4am.  After the first couple of nights I didn’t even bother checking the clock.  I’d settle in on the couch, cell phone beside me, awaiting the phone call I felt would inevitably come.

When the call did come, it wasn’t at 4am.  For the first time in weeks I had slept through my own personal witching hour, until the nurse called me at 5:30.  As I called my sisters and arranged to pick them up to head to the hospital to be with Dad, a big part of me was honestly thinking that this couldn’t possibly be it.  It wasn’t 4am.  We had passed the ‘danger time’.

I don’t know why Mike Oldfield chose 4am as the pivotal time in his most wonderful of songs (I also don’t know why he included the redundancy ‘4am in the morning’– but I’ve tried to let that go in the name of artistic licence and lyrical metre) but it has always served to very personally connect me to the song.

4am is random- even when I look at my own experiences of that particular time of day/night.  It does serve to reinforce my awareness that we are all connected- to those we love and to those in the larger world who have had the same types of experiences- of family, of love, of loss- and that we all seek to share those experiences in the best ways we can.

Mike Oldfield is a musical genius.  He expresses and shares that genius through his songs.  My family and friends contribute their own forms of genius on a daily basis- sending their strengths and insights out into the wider world, and teaching me as I am touched by their examples.

So, even though it is my ‘day off’, I can let myself get away with ‘working’ since I am still taking my own prescription to chill and try to absorb all that has happened lately.  Writing, for me, can be work, certainly.  But it is also therapy- and the way I sort through my own feelings and experiences as I attempt to make manifest the gift of my life- and share the things that I have learned at the feet of teachers greater than myself.

PS- Even though I have run on more than long enough (even for me, this post is extremely long-winded), I need to thank all of you- here in my WordPress world- for the beautiful messages of condolence that you have offered in the past few days.  Anyone who claims that the online world is lacking in humanity or any sense of real connection certainly isn’t hanging with peeps like you all.  The messages are lovingly received with gratitude.

And a special shout out to Rachel at Rachel Carrera, Novelist for her kindness in nominating me for a couple of lovely blogging awards.  As usual, please, if you are so inclined, take some time to browse her site, and those of the other wonderful writers that I am lucky enough to interact with regularly here at colemining.  People are awesome.

#iammargaretmary

 

I spent some time- almost 10 years- as an Undergraduate Instructor (Part-Time Professor, Sessional Lecturer… the nomenclature varies with the school) at a number of universities here in Canada.  It says as much on my ‘About‘ page.  If you have checked out some of my musings hereabouts you likely are aware that I do have something of a tendency to, well, lecture– for lack of a better term- at times.  It comes naturally.

N.B. THIS is going to be one of those times.  Fair forewarning.

You’ve also likely gathered that I am not, currently, teaching.  And that this is in spite of the fact that I LOVE being in the classroom, and hold those experiences as among the best of my life thus far.  In addition to the life-long friendships that I established with cherished mentors, I keep in touch with a number of former students.  I celebrate their victories (academic and otherwise) and empathize when the row they’ve chosen to hoe turns out to be more obstacle-filled than expected.

I understand that last bit all too well.  It’s not easy being an academic these days.  And certainly not an academic in the Humanities.  This is my personal experience speaking, along with the witnessed experiences of close colleagues, friends and former mentors who have come up against the same shift in values that I have dealt with.

I personally know people who struggle to make ends meet on Sessional salaries (approximately $7200-$8000 per course per term, when last I looked at Universities here in Ontario) that, even when maxed out, still don’t amount to substantial earnings.  Especially when you consider that Sessionals rarely, in my experience, secure even two courses per term.  And since, despite the incredible work load associated with preparing, presenting and marking for more than two courses a term (with classes of as many as 300 students), those salaries generally don’t include benefits.

Here in Canada we are fortunate- with our Universal Health Care medical concerns are generally not financially crippling.  But prescription costs, dental bills, eyeglasses (to compensate for the strain we put our eyes through reading all our weighty tomes) are, in the main, not covered if you are not a tenured or tenure-track Professor.  And when the rotation of courses means that there isn’t anything available for you to teach for one term, or two terms, or three terms… employment benefits can be difficult to come by.

I remain on the mailing list of one of the Public Unions I was involved with as a Sessional Lecturer, and yesterday I a received an email with a very disturbing linked story.  A disturbing American story, but the situation at Canadian universities is far too comparable.  Also included was this response from Inside Higher Ed, an American website that offers news, opinion and information about job opportunities in the realm of higher education.

Take a second to click the links.  I’ll wait.

How is this possible?

I was well-aware of the insecurity of the job description.  I have read numerous articles about the “Road Scholars”- those academics who travel between universities in different cities to make ends meet until landing tenure track positions (or giving up the career path for reasons of exhaustion and emotional defeat).

I actually was crazy delusional committed enough to my academic career path for a time that I commuted from Toronto to Ottawa to teach a course there for a term.  A WINTER term.  Did I mention it was in OTTAWA?  Where it snows.  A LOT.  One term was enough.  Between gas prices/train fares and the time needed for the commute, it was starting to COST me money to teach my classes.

I admit it.  I gave up.  When reapplying for my job every four months- generally with uncertain results- began impacting my health (to say nothing of my credit report), I gave up.

Unlike Margaret Mary Vojtko, I had options and could afford the relative luxury of giving up.  I am young(er), healthy and I have an incredible support system surrounding me.  I have been able to figure out next directions and work toward revised goals and still keep a roof over my head and food in the refrigerator.  It hasn’t always been fun, but I have never had to choose between paying the rent and buying groceries.

I can’t say the same for friends who haven’t given up.  I know of many who have had to rely on Food Banks and other valued community services to get through the rough terms.  That makes me very angry.

What makes me very sad is that neither I, nor anyone else I have had the privilege of working with over the years, chose academia and university teaching for the big pay cheques.  I chose to pursue my doctorate as an expression of my love for my subject matter and the importance I place on education.

Education for its own sake rather than as a means to an employment end.

I have always felt a strong pull toward the classroom- I continue to be surrounded by teachers- and firmly believe that a strong grounding in learning how to read and write critically and with analysis, research skills that can lead to the development of independent thought and opinion, and the exploration of the great works of human history, literature, art and music are key elements in creating responsible citizens who participate in our democratic processes and concern themselves with issues outside of themselves.

Not everyone out there agrees with me.

I have had far too many conversations with those who see the study of the Humanities as little more than ‘dilletanteism’, with no ‘practical’ application in the ‘real world’.  I won’t go into my responding rant (perfected through the number of times I have had to employ it) at the moment, but suffice it to say that this sort of attitude lies at the very heart of a number of the things that I have mentioned here, in this forum, in the past.  We aren’t critical enough in our thinking or analytical enough in our responses to the wider world around us.  Without being able to quote specific statistics but drawing upon my experiences and those of others I know and hold dear, the decline in the emphasis on the importance of studies of the Humanities is surely directly linked to our current level of intellectual laziness.

As I say, a rant for another day.

Likewise I’m not going to comment on the behaviour of the Roman Catholic authorities and their dismissal of the facts of the case.  I will say that it is interesting that a representative of the labour union that was attempting to organize the non-contract/tenured professors (a move that was stopped by the institution’s claims of ‘religious exemption from federal labour regulations’) seemed to care more for Margaret Mary’s welfare than the religious institution that had employed her for 25 years and then unceremoniously terminated that employment.

Sigh.

Margaret Mary’s story hit very close to my home.  Even though I am no longer involved in that world, I know and deeply respect many of those that are.

As Daniel Kovalik (said union representative) noted in Colleen Flaherty’s article:

“As amazing as it sounds, Margaret Mary, a 25-year professor, was not making ends meet.  Even during the best of times, when she was teaching three classes a semester and two during the summer, she was not even clearing $25,000 a year, and she received absolutely no health care benefits.  Compare this to the salary of Duquesne’s president, who makes more than $700,000 with full benefits.”

In the last year, he says, Vojtko was reduced to ‘abject penury,’ following a course load reduction- she was teaching one class, making $10,000 annually- with huge medical bills stemming from her cancer treatment.  She could no longer afford heating, so she worked at an Eat n’ Park restaurant at night to stay warm.  She tried to sleep during the day at Dusquesne (University), when she wasn’t teaching.

“When this was discovered by the university, the police were called in to eject her from her office,” Kovalik says.  “finally, in the spring, she was let go by the university, which told her she was no longer effective as an instructor- despite many glowing evaluations from her students.”

Please note that Margaret Mary was 83 when she died, earlier this month.

As Mr. Kovalik also notes, ‘adjuncts now make up well over 50 percent of the faculty at colleges and universities.’

Despite ill-informed commentary to the contrary, we do not treat our teachers (at any level of the educational system) with the respect and dignity they deserve- especially given the importance of their role in furthering the education of the next generations of community, institutional (medical, educational, not-for-profit and etc.), business and political leaders.

In addition to his statement that freedom is impossible without education, Epictetus maintained that the understanding of our ignorance and gullibility needs to be the first subject of all study.  With this self-knowledge we can begin to discover and incorporate knowledge that has come before us, and use it to develop our own ideas and solutions to problems.

Strong teachers facilitate this process.

We need them.

Desperately.

This a reality that is reaching critical mass.  The life of Margaret Mary Vojtko is a shameful illustration of the imbalance between the compensation received by teachers and that received by administrators in educational systems both here and in the US (the same can certainly be said for the disparity between the wages of workers and the salaries of CEOs in the business arena, but I’ll leave discussions about that sort of thing to Bill Moyers- he’s my favourite voice of reason in that particular realm).

I WAS Margaret Mary.  I left the world of the university when the ‘paying of dues’ on the road to career success seemed less and less likely to lead to anything like a liveable payout.

I quit.  I admit that.

I know a lot of people who defiantly remain on the road, and one or two of them could well end lives of educating, mentoring and facilitating the development of pivotal skills, in the same ignominious manner as did this life-long teacher who positively impacted the lives of countless students.

It’s long past time for us to re-evaluate our societal priorities and set up a rest station on this road- an exit that offers a break from the long haul, to grab a cup of figurative coffee and have just a little bit of leisure time to shore up reserves before getting back in the classroom to aid in the retention of freedom about which Epictetus spoke.    Almost 2000 years ago.

I just hope that there are still enough people out there who have been fortunate enough to have been exposed to the analytical and critical thinking tools- like those suggested by Epictetus- required to address and rescind such inequities.

If we don’t make systemic changes SOON, there certainly won’t be in the years to come.

Papa Kaz- Part 2

I have always been surrounded by storytellers.  Some of them aren’t aware of their gift and others pass it off as ‘just telling stories’ and never pursue the art beyond their incredibly fortunate immediate circle of friends and family.

Sometimes they are our elders- those with experience of the world and their immediate environments, having lived through times we now consider history and who tell tales of those times to those of us privileged enough to listen  Other times they are younger folk- with imaginations that are rich with images and symbols that are both universal and unique.

I have previously written about some who have influenced and entertained me through their stories in song and myth-making writers whose stories entertain, enlighten and inspire my own creativity.

I will continue to write about those bards among us- the ones who are able to make a living from the stories they tell- and who live to tell their stories- but the unheralded storytellers in my life deserve to have a little of their own Interworld ink.

————————————————————————————————-

… When he retired he chose to do so completely.  No Emeritus for Kaz.  He bequeathed to me his library- of books, maps and slides- which still hold pride of place among my own collected works here in my living room.  A friend-  another of his precious protégés- and I took him for lunch and Scotch (his poison of choice) on his last official day at the university.  The meal went on for some time, as he regaled us with tales of his time in Germany and in the classroom in the Roman Catholic high school in Queens.

We remained in touch as I completed my course work and worked on the dissertation that ate my life.  He was always there to listen to my frustration with the writing process- or the university bureaucracy- and he managed to talk me back from the edge more than once.

Then, the weekend after I (finally) defended my Doctoral thesis, he and his lovely wife joined friends and family for a champagne and hors d’oeuvres gathering.  He offered the first toast- expressing his pride in my accomplishment, especially in light of the fact that I chose a subject and approach that was challenging and outside of the norm, and congratulating me for taking the more challenging path, as seems to be my wont in all things.  Then he called me a ‘real teacher’ and told those assembled that, in addition to my drive for excellence in research, I ‘belong in the classroom’.

No higher praise.

I think I felt more accomplished in that moment than when I was told that I had successfully defended the thesis and when I took that walk across the stage to collect the piece of paper that marked the achievement put together.

Or any time since, really.

Fast forward a number of months and much had changed.  I’d moved back to my hometown after a period of personal crisis and was looking for new directions.  I received word from a close friend we held in common that Papa Kaz had cancer.  And that the prognosis wasn’t great.

That night I wrote him a long letter, recalling my most treasured moments in his classroom and in his presence, trying to describe what his guidance and continual support means to me and how I still feel his influence whenever I get up to teach.  I attempted to put into words the impact he made on me- as a student, a researcher, a teacher and as a person.

Despite the care I took with the letter, I knew it fell short and that I would have to do better.

Doing so would require returning to a town I had no interest in visiting and facing down some memories I’d have preferred to keep buried.

But this was KAZ.

He looked weakened, but in no way diminished, as we sat on his front porch and talked for hours.  He knew he didn’t have much time left, yet his voice was as strong as I remembered.  He told me stories of what he had been up to in the past while, of his family, and flashbacks to his years in Germany and the characters he met there- some of which I had heard before, but still greeted like old friends as we revisited the tales together.

But most of all, he continued to advise me.  I was thinking about going back- yet again- to school.  To get a Master’s degree in Teaching and the membership in the Ontario College that would come along with it- all with a view to an eventual government job writing policy and setting educational standards.

He reminded me that I belong in a classroom- but that the classroom doesn’t have to be a traditional one, or even a physical one.  He also reminded me that a true teacher continues to teach, regardless of circumstance or specificity of career direction.

He continued to lead me by his example.

Although we ended the conversation with his assurance that we would hang out again when he came on a visit to Toronto, that was the last time I would see him.  The cancer he had fought for far longer than anyone expected claimed him half a year later.

My current Sitz im Leben isn’t really one where I thought I’d find myself.  I am still searching for the next direction and a job that will provide some meaning while permitting me to contribute something of value to those around me.  Not a fun process, but each day I have to get up and keep trying to get it figured out.

People who have been gifted with a life filled with wonderful characters like Papa Kaz are not allowed to squander those gifts.

I will find my classroom, whatever form it might take, and follow his example- as best I possibly can- and continue telling the stories that describe our humanity.

Just like he taught me.

I’ve mentioned before that Cat Stevens has one of those voices that is as familiar to me as members of my own family and closest friends, and that he remains a beloved tutor in the ways of the world.  He helped, in a very real way, to set me on my particular road to find out.  His wisdom, expressed through songs of timeless beauty, reminds me of Kaz, and the lessons he sometimes had to force into my stubborn head.  I may still struggle with the teachings, but I never fail to hear his voice when I do so.

And more often than not, I still end up following his advice.

Just sit down, and take it slowly.

Will do, Papa Kaz.  Will do.

Papa Kaz- Part 1

I have always been surrounded by storytellers.  Some of them aren’t aware of their gift and others pass it off as ‘just telling stories’ and never pursue the art beyond their incredibly fortunate immediate circle of friends and family.

Sometimes they are our elders- those with experience of the world and their immediate environments, having lived through times we now consider history and who tell tales of those times to those of us privileged enough to listen  Other times they are younger folk- with imaginations that are rich with images and symbols that are both universal and unique.

I have previously written about some who have influenced and entertained me through their stories in song and myth-making writers whose stories entertain, enlighten and inspire my own creativity.

I will continue to write about those bards among us- the ones who are able to make a living from the stories they tell- and who live to tell their stories- but the unheralded storytellers in my life deserve to have a little of their own Interworld ink.

————————————————————————————————-

I am very lucky.  I know this, and probably don’t articulate it nearly enough.  Especially lately.  I have been quite caught up in dissatisfaction in one key area of my life- career concerns- which, while it is a legit sense of worry and stress, should not detract from the good fortune that is my main lot in life.

I am fortunate to be loved and supported in my choices by family and friends that continue to stand by me.  I was supported in my drive to continue my education, in a field that wasn’t likely to get me into the Fortune 500 at any point.

Education, and its importance, has been a staple ever since I can remember.  I’ve been surrounded by educators- whether career teachers or by teachers by nature- and I have had the privilege of teaching others at various times in my life.

These teachers have all brought various things into my life- demonstrating, by example, the techniques and tendencies I most aspired to in my own classrooms.  Some of them have been storytellers as well.

After a number of years out of school doing various things, I went back to university full time.  I was unsure about direction- and exactly what I wanted my focus to be.  I took a variety of courses- Irish language, English Lit, Philosophy, and a couple of classes in Religious Studies- an interdisciplinary program that approached the study of world religions from  historical, literary critical, psychological, sociological, anthropological, women’s studies and philosophical methodologies.  Absent from the list was theology- and this suited me just fine.  I had already comfortably confirmed my non-belief and didn’t feel like being preached at.

In this first year in the program I met Papa Kaz.  He taught biblical studies from historical, literary- and rhetorical-critical perspectives.  He seemed to have been born in a classroom.

As our relationship developed- he would become my Master’s Adviser, and one of the two real mentors of my graduate studies- I learned that he had found his vocation in high school classrooms in Queens, NY.  Thirty years after coming to Canada, falling in love with a good Canadian girl, completing his Doctorate in Germany and raising a family upon his return, he still had traces of that accent and vestiges of the neighbourhood in his mannerisms.

The university environment was changing- there was increasingly less of a focus on teaching and mentoring as publishing and research excellence began to surpass the actual educational emphasis as a means of attracting external funding.  He remained committed to the idea (rapidly becoming outdated) that universities were about learning– and teaching the tools and habits that would follow students through their lives into whatever careers they might find themselves.

Each of his syllabi contained a caveat (that I subsequently used, with his permission, on each of my own) that explained that a university education was meant, among other things equally valuable, to prepare students for life in the working world.  That means devoting 40 hours per week to studies for full time students.  In addition to class time (3 hours/course/week, on average), assignments and readings were to be factored into the 40 hours, and, like the real world of work, sometimes students/employees would be required to put in ‘overtime’- when exams or major papers came up in the requirements.

Whether or not he believed that his students would go on to live lives enhanced by the specific subject matter he taught (he was aware that a lot of his courses were taken as electives by those who thought they knew it all from their childhood Sunday School classes), he DID expect that his students would complete his courses and move on with the ability to effectively budget time, read critically, analyse research sources and form their own opinions on the varied subject matter.

In the classroom and out of it, he told hilarious- and scandalous- stories about nuns and priests he met in his travels.  And hilarious- and scandalous- stories about the professional WWE wrestlers he met in an elevator in Toronto that one time (the Rock and Papa Kaz had quite the convo, apparently).  In order to illustrate Jesus’ use of parabolic language in the gospel accounts he created his own parables which he shared with his fortunate students.  Most memorable was the story of ‘Grandpa and the Dog’, which began with good intentions, and was a wonderful rambling tale of looking after both his grandchild and a new puppy, but one that never quite made the point that he was going for.  Even after the 20-or-so minutes it took him to compose and recount the ‘parable’.

I remember laughing hysterically- on more than one occasion- as both his student and then as his assistant.  Watching him at the head of a classroom was truly spectacular.  He wasn’t above hanging off the coat racks or jumping on his desk while yelling in incomprehensible German in order to emphasize a point, or just wake up a sluggish bunch of undergrads.

But he was more than an entertainer.  Pedagogically I have yet to meet his match.  All that comedy up there at the blackboard also made me recall the things he was teaching in an extremely vivid way.  The fact that he managed to keep a straight face when presented with some ludicrous questions and comments was testament to his compassion as much as to his true belief that everyone was teachable.

(How he kept going when asked, in all seriousness, ‘why, if the Romans wanted Jesus dead, they didn’t just shoot him’ I still can’t comprehend.  I would have been in tears- of either laughter or despair, not sure which- had I been the one in front of that particular classroom.)

He took his subject and his students seriously, but realized that learning was about life- and laughter- rather than just facts or memorized knowledge.  He never stopped advising those who he saw as truly engaged and committed to learning.

Papa Kaz cautioned me when I told him my planned course of study for my Ph.D.  He thought I was taking a road somewhat untraveled and not without its hurdles.  Nonetheless, he supported me throughout, especially when that road turned out to be as difficult as he had accurately predicted…

——————————————————————————————————————————————