Mr Hollins

Blogging is good fun. I received a comment from a school friend, Jon, of 30 years ago! We have not communicated since, but somehow he stumbled upon my blog.

Jon and I were roommates the year my father died. There were three of us then and we had a spacious suite. Maybe Jon realized how lucky we were, but I didn't. My father was dying and I was a basket of mixed emotions: self-pity, anger, curiosity, awakening, anger, angst--all that teenage stuff. I was drowning in a sea of existential questions, and worst of all, I was reading Sartre.

Besides, there was Mr Hollins, the evil teacher who was our homeroom tutor. He was a reactionary, a proud Vietnam Vet who thought killing communists was good sport. He despised me; I loved black music, fantasized about world peace, and in the idealism of youth, I was somewhere to the left of Che Guevara. In a word, I was despicable.

Mr Hollins once asked me what I wanted to study at college.

"Comparative literature!" I beamed proudly.

"Hah!," he scoffed, "there is no such thing! what the hell is comparative literature?"

Of course I had no response. I was stunned and silent, crushed by the weight of his intellect. I was just a stupid kid. I liked to read Dostoyevsky and Balzac. My hero was my father's cousin, who worked in a liquor store and read Shakespeare all day. All I knew was, if you want to spend your life reading authors of different languages, and somebody asks you, "what do you want to study," you respond, "comparative literature!" Ahhhh! ignorance is bliss!

I remember the morning my Dad lost his long bout with cancer. Mr Hollins came to wake me at 5:00 AM. He touched me on the shoulder, "There is a phone call," he said softly, "your mother; I'm afraid she has bad news."

He was sympathetic and it was the first and only time Mr Hollins was ever nice to me. I remember walking down those stairs so clearly. I had mixed emotions, again. I was both sad and happy: sad because my Dad died (what else could it be?) and happy because Mr Hollins had been nice to me. Such are the powerful effects of a teacher on a student. We teachers should always remember that.

When I got to the phone, my mother was bawling. I didn't even have to ask.

When I returned upstairs, Jon and my other roommate (can't remember his name) were nervous. It was an awkward moment for them. Pretend to sleep or wake up? Hug or don't hug? Cry or don't cry? It was probably harder for them than for me--I had been steeling myself for this moment for 6 months.

"My Dad died," I reported, and to rescue them from their embarrassment, I went to pack my things. Kindly, they came to help.