Their Time

An old pal of mine asked me to do him a favor a couple of years ago and talk to a freshman composition class at the university where he was a dean. It would really help him out; his department had this new thing about getting local experts to visit classes to “enrich the learning environment,” or some such.

I fit only half the job description. “Oh, come on,” he said. “Community journalism and all that. It’ll be fun.”

I reported to the classroom at the appointed hour and introduced myself to the professor. She was an extremely fashionable woman, at least 30 years younger than me and 30 times smarter. She informed me at once that while my presence may be an administrative mandate, she considered it a waste of 20 of her 90-minute class time.

“At 20 minutes you’re done.”

“Unless there are questions.”

She smirked.

I learned too late that this was no ordinary freshman comp. class but an honors literature seminar for about two dozen top-flight students, most of whom had earned full or nearly full ride scholarships.

By way of introducing me, the professor said there would be a delay before their usual discussion and sat down at her desk in front of the class.

I stated my name, my job, and my mission to speak to them about the role of community newspapers in journalism. About three minutes in, a hand went up.

“Print is dead; what is the point of killing trees to produce something nobody wants?”

“Why is your publication relevant when things change so fast?”

“How is your business model even sustainable?”

It was a more interesting morning than I was prepared for, but after exactly 20 minutes, the professor stood up to thank me, and there was polite applause. I asked her if I might stay to observe, and she waved me toward the back of the room.

The class had just read “Things Fall Apart” by Chinua Achebe, a 1958 novel set in pre-colonial Nigeria that explores the effects of strict gender roles in a traditional, male-dominated society.

“Men in this story use the word ‘woman,’ or something worse, to insult other men. What does that say to the women around them? How does a decent person respond to that toxic masculinity?” asked the professor.

Every hand in the room shot up, except mine.

“Define ‘decent,’ ” someone said.

“You define it,” she answered. “In the novel’s world.”

“Define ‘woman,’ ” said someone else.

The students engaged each other, and the professor leaned back against her desk to referee.

“You think that…,” someone started.

“Uh-uh,” interrupted the professor, shooting them a glance

The person stopped, then started again. “It sounds like you’re saying…,” and went on from there.

I could see this class wasn’t so much about learning from books or even talking about them. It was about learning how to communicate, whatever the issue or provocation.

One girl said, “As a transgender woman, I have to say I see the same misogyny from the book right here in this very room.”

A young jock seated in front of me turned to her and said, “How can you say that?”

“Do you mean, how can I say that or how can someone like me say that?”

“What are you accusing me of?”

“Uh-uh,” the professor said.

“OK,” the jock sighed. “How am I supposed to react to you people?”

“I don’t represent anyone but myself,” the girl said. “I can only care what someone like you thinks about someone like me as a person, and I can’t really afford to even care about that.”

Another student piped up asking about the distinction between fear and prejudice in the novel, and I raised my hand. The discussion raged on while, still leaning motionless against her desk, the professor slowly slid her eyes over to mine and held them until I put my hand down.

When the bell went off, the professor assigned a 500-word essay on this discussion due the next day, then turned her back on the class to sit at her desk.

The jock in front of me launched out of his seat and made straight for the girl he’d argued with. I stood up and followed. The kid was 40 years younger and 100 pounds heavier than me. I thought maybe I could grab him if I had to and hope for the best.

“You and I are never going to see eye-to-eye on a lot of things,” he said to her. “But I really respect what you had to say.” He extended his hand, and she gracefully accepted and shook it.

Meanwhile, another girl slid up and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek and said, “Let’s do lunch.” Then she looked at the jock. “Come with?”

“Sure,” he said.

“I’m going,” said another kid. “Me too,” said another. By then, the rest of the class had drifted over, and we all headed out to lunch together.

“Mr. Olinger.” The professor had that same look in her eyes. I dutifully reported to her at the desk in front of the room. She stood up and leaned toward me in a friendlier manner.

“It’s their time,” she said.