A Tribute of My Own
PM
Kellermann
Three
AM. I sit staring at my
student’s paper, trying to think of some final words of encouragement.
How can I tell this student that her work lacks focus when my eyes
can barely focus on her words? I
have already written her three-quarters of a page of comments; what is
left to say?
My
friends tell me that I spend too much time writing comments on my
students’ papers, too much time responding to their e-mails and their
petty concerns, too much time playing the role of the kindly Uncle Kelley
to a group of befuddled eighteen-year-olds.
How do I explain what motivates me?
They haven’t seen what I have seen.
They didn’t know my sister Lynne; they weren’t at her funeral.
Hundreds
of Lynne’s students, past and present, came out that cold December
morning to pay respect to their teacher when they might have been home
studying for finals. An
editorial, simply titled “Tribute to a Courageous Life,” appeared the
next day in The Daily Targum,
the Rutgers student newspaper. It described the scene:
Lines
formed on either side of the casket, which fit snugly in the bottom of the
grave; the gathered slowly passed by and, shovelful by shovelful, covered
it with dirt. The day was
cold enough to merit a winter jacket—maybe a scarf, too—but no one
seemed to notice.
Lynne
Kellermann was buried yesterday.
The
writer should be glad Lynne never saw the editorial.
She would have been all over his case for writing in the passive
voice. She would have been
damned proud of him, too, for describing the scene so vividly.
I
think about my many conversations with Liza, Lynne’s protégé.
Lynne changed her life. The
effervescence in Liza’s voice when she spoke about my older sister, her
teacher, exuded a love that cannot be manufactured, it must be earned.
After Lynne died, Liza continued corresponding with my mother and
father. Her
letters—intimate, yet punctuated properly, as if she were writing to her
grandparents—assured my parents that Lynne’s legacy lived on in her
students. Fittingly, Liza
received the first Lynne M. Kellermann Award, a prize Rutgers awards
annually to the top student in the university’s Honors Program.
And
for every Liza, there were five Kelvins.
One
night in the early eighties, I milled about a dance in the Great Hall at
Livingston College. An
enormous room of cinder block, cement, and tile—the ceiling nearer the
heavens than the floor—the Great Hall served as a lobby and meeting
place. I looked up to the
second story overhang where the DJ was spinning “Superfreak,” scanned
down the long, gradual staircase, looking for familiar faces and/or cute
coeds. At the bottom of the
stairs, a colossal African American man with a shaved head and leather
blazer stood staring right at me. Six-six,
240, I recognized him: he was one of the stars of the Rutgers basketball
team. After catching my eye,
he approached: “You’re Lynne’s brother, aren’t you?” I nodded.
“Man, you
look just like her.”
Before
I could say, “She doesn’t have a beard,” he wrapped his arms around
me, squeezed tight, and lifted me into the air.
“Man,
I love your sister!”
Gasping
for air, I sputtered, “Thanks, Kelvin.”
“Do
you know, I never read a book until I was in her class? She made me read.
Goddamn,
she made me read! Man, I love
reading. I read every day
now. Your sister is the
greatest.” Hunched over
slightly to look me in the eyes, he went on for another twenty
minutes—arms flailing, voice rising, exuberance increasing with every
sentence uttered. When his friends walked by, he grabbed them by the collar and
hollered: “Check it out, this is Lynne Kellermann’s brother. You remember that prof I told you about?”
While
I remember feeling intense pride that night, in addition to bruised ribs,
I didn’t realize how long that scene would stay with me. Lynne’s impact on her students lasted long after they left her
classroom. If I could inspire
my students a fraction as much as Lynne inspired hers, every second of my
time would be worth it.
I
lost track of both Liza and Kelvin. Kelvin
played professional ball in Europe for a while; I like to think he’s
become a voracious reader. Liza,
I’m sure, is sitting on a faculty somewhere, recalling on occasion that
one special teacher who launched her on the road to scholarship.
I
look down again at my student’s paper; I begin to write: “While your
argument could use more focus, your writing continues to improve with each
paper. You might try . . .” I
continue writing comments for another fifteen minutes or so, offering
suggestions, techniques, and tricks that might help her writing. And then I add, “If you’d like more specificity, come see
me.” Almost as an
afterthought, I attach her grade in a scrawl so small she’ll need a
magnifying glass to read it: B-.
Weary
beyond comprehension, I pet my dog Obie and tell her that I’m going to
sleep. She doesn’t get up. Suddenly,
I’m struck by an urge: maybe I should check my e-mail to see if any of
the kids are having a problem with their next project.
Lynne
would have loved e-mail.
Last
updated
07 June 2014
pmk8@psu,edu
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