Can you remember a time when you were younger and, oh, such a kid? Perhaps a time when you thought that you would never reach the seventh grade and that all of the eighth graders were the coolest kids in the hallways, their lockers towering over you like pillars of reverence. The sixth grade was kind of a liminal period in my life. I was neither here nor there. I was volatile; just 11, chubby, bouncy and intense.
As the next few years passed, I changed in more ways than one; and, despite my disbelief, I was eventually transformed into an eighth-grade student. I was taller, I was smarter ( or so I thought), I was free of braces, and I was newly kissed for the first time. I was happy! This was a time when I saw within my middle school a huge division among my teachers, the school administration and myself. I was a student, and I did not rebel. My teachers expected a certain level of distance in our relationships, and they were always granted this by myself and other students.
At 14, I never would have had the courage to think of calling my teachers by their first name. God forbid that I should even acknowledge that they had a life outside of the academic building. How strange it was to me when I first saw my French teacher buying diapers in aisle three of our local Grand Union, or the time our school principle was first on the express check-out line ahead of me one Saturday morning, his cart filled with ice cream and Oreo cookies! An obvious signal that someone was having a slumber party! And what about the time my music teacher confided that she and my aunt Joanie had been best friends when they raided Clifton High and both played the oboe in the band.
Somehow I always forgot that these people, my teachers, who were always so important to me in my young life were just as important in someone else's life too. Later when I entered high school, I think I loosened up slightly, realizing that maybe I could befriend one of my teachers instead of gazing at them and daydreaming about what it would be like if I had my own grade book and lesson planner. And I did. Although I was pals with several of my teachers, there was one who became a confidante, a close friend. She was someone who helped me through high school. Despite our friendship and normal teacher-student relationship, I always called her Mrs. Jennings. A few times I had the nerve to tease her and uttered the first three letters of her name, but I never got the response I hoped for. She once told me that as soon as I graduated from high school I could call her Deb. But my response was ironic. As soon as she granted me permission, I no longer needed to be so precocious.
In high school, my friends and I used to pretend that we were on the same level as our esteemed teachers. I remember once sitting in our cafeteria talking about our math teacher Mrs. Orent. She was a fabulous algebra teacher. But she wore a lot of perfume. Within the confines of our own conversations (or so we thought), our teachers took on a whole new persona, a life of our own imagination. We talked about "Judy," and we complimented her. But as she entered the cafeteria one afternoon we were unaware of the loudness of our conversation or of the accuracy of her hearing, and she heard us. She turned around, and I am told that the look on my face was priceless. But she simply smiled and walked away. We roared in laughter. I am sure she did as well.
Now that I am in college -- well, almost leaving college -- I still don't know what to call my professors. Some are obviously used to being called Professor X or Y. These professors expect this title, and it is granted. But others prefer that students use their first names. I try to be mature and use first names. I want to liberate myself from feeling like a whimsical pre-teen in the eighth grade. But no matter how hard I try, despite my desire to push the words out of my mouth, I still feel flushed, and I get butterflies in my stomach, my throat begins to tighten, and my palms sweat just enough to make me uncomfortable with this scenario.
Students know that professors have first names; some of them are really nice names too. Why not uncover these names? Emancipate these names! I'd like to be able to have a conversation where I can talk to a professor about another professor without feeling like I have uttered a paragraph of 250 words, 40 of them being professor. So, yesterday when my philosophy professor said "hi" to me in an afternoon guest lecture, and I responded respectfully but in my usual hum-drum manner, I was duly inspired when she turned to me and said, "you can call me Ann." Little does she know the challenge she has bestowed upon me. But boy am I grateful for this momentous opportunity.
