I lost a dear colleague and friend last week to the ravages of
pancreatic cancer.
His name is Fred Morris. Very few of you know of him. You should have. For
me, he was
a fellow traveler and kindred spirit. He tooled about in a motorized wheel
chair, but
stood so tall I really never noticed it. Sometimes he'd hobble around on
crutches, but
there was no hobbling of his spirit. I regret I could not be at the
"Celebrationof a
Life" memorial service on campus. At the time I was hosting a presentation in
the
"Witness To The Holocaust" program I had put together to compliment my course
on the same
dismal subject. Fred would not have wanted it to be any other way. I wrote a
few words
to him and sent them on for someone to read in my stead. Had I been there, I
would have
said how much he was an inspiration to me and how much my memory of him will
continue to
be a benediction to him.
We talked often. I'd bounce into his office to bounce teaching ideas
off him; he
would bounce ideas off me. We'd celebrate when a struggling student made a
small, giant
step and cry the loss when one stumbled and refused to get up and go on. We'd
cheer each
other on and encourage each other when the going got rocky for either one of
us. We'd
shore the other up when we weakened. Our conversations were often interruption
by a faint
knock, a slow opening of the door, a few fingers appearing that weakly griped
the door's
edge, a single, hesitant, peeking in eye of a student in need, and a needy,
inquiring "You
busy?" The student would be met by an inviting twinkle in his eye and
compassionate smile
on his face. Our focus immediately would shift. Nothing was more important to
Fred at
that moment--or any other moment for that matter--than that student. We'd look
at each
other. There was no "wait a minute" or "I'll be with you in a few minutes."
Be it
mid-paragraph, mid-sentence, or mid-word, I would quickly get out of my chair
and leave
with a "Later." And, would return in a day or two and pick up where we had
left off.
Now, there are no more "laters." Now, there's a hole in my day's schedule and
in my soul.
I did not have that one last "later," that one last conversation we
both so
desperately wanted. We had agreed it was to be a celebration of life, not a
bemoaning of
death; a joy of what had been, not a sadness of what would have been. We
scheduled to have
at discussion at his bedside in his home, but had to reschedule, and reschedule
again, and
again, and again until there were no more "and agains." It was not to be.
Both the
cancer, advancing at a blindly rapid pace, and the equally ravaging chemo
therapy
constantly and successfully conspired to deny us. I will miss our searching
talks about
each other, teaching, students, and life. I will miss his laughter and his
smiles. I
will miss his "ugly puss" and his beautiful heart. I will miss his love of
life. I will
miss his good counsel. I will miss his support and encouragement. I will miss
our loving
bantering in the hall:
"When are you going to play some good music on that boom box of yours?
You'll
chase the students out of the classroom with that noise," he'd yell out with a
guffaw.
"Hell, you'll kill them before they have a chance to hear these great
tunes if you
don't stop racing down the halls in that dragster wheelchair of yours," I'll
yell out in a
laughing retort.
Now, there will be no more of that.
I will miss his unconditional love of each and every student and his
endless faith
in each and every one of them and his boundless optimism for each and every one
of them.
Though our styles of teaching were different, our visions were not. We always
agreed
about what was at the core, or should be at the core, of we academics do. We
agreed that
if there is one central reality in all of education, it is this: every
student--every
student--regardless of major, GPA, SAT score, scholarship, physical condition,
tattooing,
athletic ability, gender, body piercing, skin color, accent, sexual preference,
ethnicity,
sorority or fraternity, special needs, etc is a sacred, unique human being. He
or she is
an invaluable piece of the future that is entitled to be treated with respect
and dignity
and consideration. And, nothing--not fund raising, sports records, research,
publication,
curriculum, institutional renown, title, reputation, resume--is more important
in academia
for the administrator, staff person, faculty member, and student than that
realization.
We always talked about how it's so easy to find fault with students.
It's easy to
treat them as an annoyance and intrusion. It's easy to dismiss them. It's
easy to cast
them aside. It's easy to criticize them and make them feel incapable and
unwanted.
Anyone can do it. It doesn't take much effort to do it. You don't need any
training for
that. What takes effort and skill, what takes patience and kindness, what takes
perseverance and commitment, what takes empathy and faith, what takes a lot of
hard work
and dedication, what takes consuming time and effort, what takes hope and love,
what takes
awareness and "otherness," what takes heart and soul is picking each student up
and making
him or her feel good about where he or she is, who he or she is, and what he or
she is
capable of doing, and who he or she is uniquely capable of being.
Many, far too many, academics don't understand that; many, far too few,
do. Fred
Morris did.
Fred was one of those rare people who left the world a better place
than he found
it and who has defeated the cancer by continuing to live on in the souls he
touched. He
will in mine.
Damn, I'll miss him.
Make it a good day.
--Louis--
Louis Schmier www.therandomthoughts.com
Department of History www.halcyon.com/arborhts/louis.html
Valdosta State University
Valdosta, Georgia 31698
(229-333-5947)
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