Goodbye, Zachariah

I wasn’t able to get to the History Department until late in the evening. It was a strange time to visit. Most of the professors were gone for the day, the lights were dimmed, and the few students who liked to use it for a study space were absent. So it was deathly quiet, something that suddenly unnerved me and I lingered in the doorway.

The computer desk on my immediate right was vacant. There was always someone sitting there, either a student hastily printing something from the copier beside the desk or a student fulfilling a work commitment. Past it was the wooden door to the parking lot stairwell and to the left of that was a nook with a window. A blue armchair was tucked into that nook; there was usually one student occupying it but the seat remained vacant tonight. On the wall to the left of the chair was a cork board filled with notices and a comic about ancient Greek historians arguing about giant ants.

Usually, up until closing time, the office remained a place of excitement, conversation, and laughter. It was a place in which everyone knew each other and the students called the professors by their first names. Well, I never did but that’s beside the point. People were comfortable here, even me: it was my home on campus and the people in it were like family.

Slowly, I leaned in and looked down the corridor on the left hand side. There were two dim, orange ceiling lights on. On the right side were two doors; Professor M’s was the first office and the second was an adjunct office. To the left was Professor F’s and Professor V’s office. Professor F’s was the only one that was open and a yellow light glowed from within.

I walked in, my shoes thudding on the carpeted floor. Stopping in the threshold, I saw Professor F sliding some papers into his book bag. His office was small; a desk in the center covered with paperwork and little knick-knacks that I never committed to memory. Papers were tacked onto the wall, there were filing cabinets, a bookshelf stuffed with maritime history texts, and a couple chairs for students.

“Professor?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He looked up and smiled instantly.

“Zachariah, good to see you.”

This made me smile. He had begun calling me that throughout the year. In all my rough drafts and emails, he affectionately called me Zachariah instead of Zackary. Just more of his humor to insert into his critiques and messages. I liked it, even if he insisted on spelling it with a ‘ch,’ instead of my, ‘ck.’

Professor F stood up straight and walked a little closer. “Hopefully, you’ve eaten a decent meal since I saw you.”

I rolled my eyes. Professor F liked to tease me about my diet, which he had become keenly aware of since the terrifying beginning of the semester.

At the school I went to, students must complete a 4000-level course entitled the ‘Senior Seminar,’ during their final semester. This is the defining moment of your student career and you had to achieve a passing grade. If you failed the course, you failed to graduate. The gravity of that was something that sank in long before the course actually began.

I can’t speak for what the other Senior Seminars were like. For History Majors like myself, we had to undergo an in-depth research project based on a creative thesis. The culmination of the project was a 20-30 page thesis paper and a circa-15 minute slideshow presentation based on your findings. Each one of us knew that the best way to get a good grade was not only a well-written paper, a composed presentation, and a competent lecture, but to pursue a unique topic. Uncover something new or explore a thesis that hadn’t come up in class before. That was the key to a winning grade.

Held on Fridays, the class was three hours long and divided into two sections. The first hour and half was spent learning about what makes history tick. When did the recording history begin? How are records kept? In what ways are records, stories, and personal accounts passed down, translated, and interpreted? What kind of sources are reliable, which ones aren’t? What separates primary and secondary sources and how to pick and choose them?

After a break for lunch, we’d journey to the campus library to have a brief lecture in navigating library and online databases. Only then were we free to conduct research and work on our papers. You had to spend your time reading complex documents, requesting books, darting up from the computer labs and sifting through the shelves, dashing back down to take notes, create your reference sheets, and begin composing your paper.

Compared to any of the coursework I did before, it was the most intensive. The weight of what this work represented was constantly hanging over my head. I felt it whenever I sat down and began to type, whether that was in the library or my own computer back at my dorm. Through many late hours, with my eyes burning from white screen glare, fatigue digging its claws into my mind, and my sleepy girlfriend begging me to finally come to bed, I worked. At times, my eyes blurred over and all I saw was the essay in my mind’s eye. Meanwhile, my fingers danced across the keyboard, operating by muscle memory.

I was more than intimidated, I was scared. Even though I was an above-average student, I wasn’t a scholar. After four years of already demanding work, I was exhausted and barely putting effort into my electives. By then, I learned enough tricks to skim through my required readings and still achieve on exams. But I knew I couldn’t afford to do that with this course. There was no final exam to prepare for. All this class was steadily amounting to were a paper and presentation. Failure in either meant no graduation and more debt to retake courses.

But perhaps what was most daunting for me was my friend and mentor Professor F himself. He was the most well-liked academic in the History Department. He was in his middle-age, with permanent black and white stubble, a little gray to his short, gelled, dark brown hair, eyeglasses, and a square, academic face. Intelligent, down-to-earth, witty, personable, and affable, he won our hearts very easily. But he was highly professional and a strict grader. Personal relationships didn’t hold any sway with him and I have many memories of students he was close with bargaining for points on essays or exams. Professor F never budged and I never tried to negotiate scores.

Even harsher were his grades on essays. Every year, I had at least one course with him and he made it very hard to achieve with my papers. Actually, he was the very first history professor I had, teaching a first-year seminar class on the Transatlantic Slave Trade. That was his bread and butter, as his lifelong concentration was the history of the Atlantic World. So nothing would get by him, especially a mistake or a weak attempt at writing.

I learned very quickly via my first paper that he was a tough grader. In high school, I was a proficient essayist and nearly every paper I produced received an A. Even my final paper for senior year scored an A. Here I was, fresh, energetic, and confident, only to receive a B- on my first essay. A culture shock indeed and a very humbling one at that. It was a lesson I never forgot.

So I attacked my essay problems, studied his criticisms, scientifically approached my own faults, and got to work. But every time I took a class with Professor F, my essay grades were consistent. B-, B+, B, B, B, B-, B+ B+, B, B+. Essay after essay, B grades seared into my brian, the taunting A grade dogging me all those months and all those years. It seemed like no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. As difficult as that was, it was actually exciting. It was a personal challenge and I sank my teeth into it. I feasted on his feedback and took every opportunity to crack the obstacles he set before me.

But beginning Senior Seminar with that kind of record under Professor F frightened me more than anything. Worse still, I was concentrating on Atlantic history too! Whatever I knew, he’d know even more intimately. I poured everything I had into my work to come up with a unique topic even he never touched on and one he couldn’t possibly give a B to. I was going to earn it fair and square.

And that night I walked into his office, I was there to find out just if I got that A.

That's not what we talked about, though. “I’m sure they’ll have plenty of baby food for you at Senior Week,” he teased.

“Still going with that joke, huh?” I asked, walking in a little further.

“I think it’s pretty funny.”

“Thanks to you, all the girls have been lecturing me about my eating habits like they’re my wife.”

“I thought they knew you already had one of those.”

“Not yet,” I chuckled. Professor F knew I was planning to marry my girlfriend. “I already catch enough flak from her about it.”

“Poor girl. It’s going to be a lifetime of chicken tendies.”

“Hey, I eat other kinds of chicken, too. Remember the spicy chicken dish?”

In late Winter, Professor F decided to take us to Plymouth Plantation. It’s a historic site in my home of Massachusetts where you can study how the Pilgrims lived and how they interacted with Native Americans. Almost all the workers there are in character, speaking in older language, using ancient tools, making canoes out of tree trunks with fire, and dressing in period clothes.

It was supposed to be a fun break from studying and I decided to go. A couple of students who had cars drove us from Boston; I rode with John, the class clown, Sarah E., my best friend, and Liz, who was quiet and I hadn’t had a class with since freshman year. We all met up at the site and had a pretty good time. Everyone liked to see the fluffy baby sheep and John made us laugh while he used a pair of stilts he found. Professor F brought his two sons and they were very funny. It was interesting to see him acting like a dad, not just to his kids but to us as well.

It was all fun and games until it was suggested we all eat lunch out. My heart dropped. I have a limited palette, which is code for ‘fussy eater.’ I’m picky with my food and drinks so eating out or finding something in the cafeteria was always a struggle for me. I struggle with everything, from taste, to texture, to consistency.

While everyone steadily reached a consensus, Professor F came over to me. “What do you think? Are you up for Mexican food, too?”

“Uh...I guess.”

“Not your style? Well, I’m sure they have burgers or something.”

“I...um...don’t eat burgers...”

“Oh, well, they’ve definitely got salads.”

“Uh, I'm choosy about salads...”

He laughed.

“What do you eat, boy!?”

“I like chicken.”

“Well, they’ll have chicken there!”

I thought this was going to be a horror-show but as it turned out, the restaurant we chose had a spicy chicken dish with brown rice that was really tasty. But Professor F wasn’t going to let it go. “Hey Zack, sorry they didn’t have chicken fingy’s and fries.”

“Hey, I eat stuff other than chicken!”

“I eat dinner with him almost every night,” Sarah chimed in. My attention snapped to my friend and I hastily shook my head. Laughing, she turned to the rest of the table. “He’s so picky he either gets pizza or grilled chicken with fries every night from the cafeteria.”

I muttered to myself while the class debated my health and nutrition. Professor F just laughed.

That wasn’t the end of it, though. I mentioned the class broke for lunch each time we met on Friday. We’d go to a secondary eatery on campus called the Muddy River Cafe, located in the academic building rather than the social hub.

I didn’t like eating there because they had even less options for me than the cafeteria. But there were only thirteen of us—the only thirteen history majors in our class of hundreds. We had been taking classes together for years, we were all friends, and I liked them all, so it didn’t feel right to go eat somewhere else. Besides, the cafeteria had longer lines and I actually wanted some time to sit.

Some days, when I didn’t want meat, I’d just order two grilled cheese sandwiches with fries. Professor F made a habit of sidling up to me while I was waiting at the grill counter. “Soooo....” he’d begin. “Whatcha gettin’ there, Zachariah?”

“Just a grilled cheese and—”

“Baby food!?”

That was his usual joke. Other favorites were, ‘chicken nuggies,’ ‘chicken fingy’s,’ and, ‘Fwench Fwies.’

The class thought it was hilarious. So did I. I’d bust a gut and try to tell him off, but Professor F would just laugh and continue his prodding. And then I’d laugh and we’d just stand in front of the grill and chortle away before chatting about some other thing. Then we’d join the table, where the three other guys would tease me and the girls would lecture me about my nutrition. That would evolve into several different conversations and we’d lose track of every point we were trying to make. It was so much fun.

That translated into the classroom. More and more, we stopped having serious, civil discussions. We’d crack jokes, babble about inane things, and debate certain topics in the library computer lab. We all became tighter as a group, helping one another, encouraging each other when times were rough. They were really supportive of me, especially. Everyone knew my girlfriend was struggling for my health and more than once, Professor F, seeing me distraught, allowed me to leave class to be with her. I’ve never forgotten that.

Working together and having fun, the air became lighter and the weight was steadily lifted. Our work became focused and passionate. This daunting project steadily became enjoyable and, as nervous as I was, I was eager to give my presentation and paper. I still wanted that A grade but I wanted to show I did my work well, not just to Professor F or the class, but to myself.

Professor F put his book bag aside and leaned against the side of the desk. “I wanted to tell you that you did a great job on your presentation, Zack. You went over a little bit but you got full points. To be honest, I kind of wished you went the extra step.”

I smiled but this made me feel a little disappointed. The class was divided into two parts; students who elected to write the 30 page paper would be giving their presentations in front of the entire department and other attendees. Even parents were invited. Their essay and presentation would be entered into the school’s archive and their names would be recorded in the school’s history, or something of that nature.

I was a Dean's List student twice-over with a cumulative GPA of 3.18. Burnt out by four years of work and unnecessary class requirements that did nothing but harm by grades, I elected not to push myself for the 30 page paper. Mine was the standard 20-25 page paper, although mine turned out at 26 pages of essay and 3 pages of references.

“Yeah,” was all I managed to say.

“Your work was very comprehensive. Well-written, well-presented. The narrative was great, both in the paper and the presentation. You moved at a clip, you were funny.”

“Really? All I did was talk about ships.”

“Yeah, you’ve got a good sense of humor. Everybody loved your presentation.”

Nobody had ever really told me that. Mine is weird and wacky, so I’m self-conscious about it. So much so I try not to crack too many jokes in public. But remembering I had the class in stitches with a few jokes sneakily disguised in my presentation made me feel proud of myself. It meant something even more to hear it from him.

His delighted expression shifted and he coughed a little. Professor F rubbed his cheek. There were bags under his eyes. “So, you’re going home, huh?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow. I’ve got one more final and then I’m going home.”

He nodded slowly, covering his mouth with his hand as he thought.

“They keep talking about how you’re not staying. I mean, are you really sure you don’t want to go to Senior Week?”

Senior Week was a week of events held for the graduating class. It was supposed to have parties, games, excursions, that kind of thing I think. I never looked into it because I didn’t sign up. School had lost its charms; I wanted to go home more than ever before.

Not only had I opted out of Senior Week, I put in the paperwork to exempt me from the graduation ceremony. There would be no cap and gown for me, no sweltering in the summer sun, no memorable photographs. My degree would be mailed to me a few months later without fanfare or accolade, just the way I like.

Earlier that year, Marcella, whom we called Marcie, asked Professor F, “Do you cry at graduation?”

“Not every time,” he said. “It depends on the class. With this class, yeah, I’ll probably tear up.”

I didn’t say anything in that conversation. At that time, I hadn’t told anyone I wasn’t going. When I finally did, my class was devastated and Professor F was taken aback. “But you worked so hard for this. Don’t you want to celebrate?’

“These events aren’t really my thing. Besides, I’m very tired. I’d like to go home as soon as I can,” I told him. Professor F smiled sadly when I told him that. Many times over the intervening months, he and the other students tried to talk me out of it. I didn’t budge. I knew it hurt their feelings and I hated myself for it, but I was going home.

I sighed and scratched the back of my head. “Yeah. At this point, it’s probably too late to sign up, anyway.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. His tie shifted a little under his arms.

I reached into my own book bag.

“I brought something for the gang,” I said, taking out two pieces of paper connected by a staple. There were names accompanied by small paragraphs running down both pages. “Could you read this to them? I wrote a little something about everyone in the class.” He began reading immediately, smiled, and laughed at a few. “It’s my way of saying goodbye,” I said shyly.

“Sure, I’ll do that next time we’re together.”

“I appreciate it. And I also wanted to say thanks.” I walked over and looked up at him. “You know...for everything.”

I hated saying that. It felt so ineffectual, so impersonal, like it didn’t describe anything that we’d been through. Four years of classrooms, essays, and projects, of him pushing me to work harder and improve on my work. Four years of chatting history, cracking jokes, swapping stories, exchanging ideas. Four years of mentoring, of being the pupil of this man, absorbing his knowledge, his wisdom, his life experience, and taking something away from it all. And that’s all I had to say? ‘Thanks for everything?’

I cleared my throat. “Just...everything you’ve done, it...it means a lot, Professor.”

Professor F stood up straight and nodded. Suddenly, he sniffed and his eyes began to glimmer behind his glasses.

“Well, Zachariah...” he said, his voice heavy and thick. And my first thought was, ‘oh no, not now.’ My chest became tight, my eyes grew watery, and I felt a tickling in my throat. He gathered himself and smiled very sadly. “It’s been uh...a very long time. You’ve been an absolute pleasure to have in my classroom. You’re an intelligent, hardworking, kind young man and I think you’re going to go very far in life. Very far.”

He reached out and I shook his hand. It was the firmest handshake I’d ever given someone. And he squeezed my hand very tightly, but it wasn’t painful. The motion was affectionate, brotherly almost, like he didn’t want to let go. Then I realized, it was I who didn’t want to let go. So we stood there for what felt like hours, in the glow of his office lamp, hands locked, eyes filled with tears.

When our hands finally dropped, he cleared his throat. “Well, I hope to hear from you in the future. Never be afraid to write me if you need some help or just to say hello. If you’re in Boston again, stop by sometime,” he said, reaching for his coat.

“Sure thing, absolutely, Professor. But, um, my essay?”

He jumped and went to his book bag.

“Oh yes, that’s right!” He hastily pulled out the thick paper and handed it to me. Professor F flashed me a proud grin. “You got an A,” he told me before I looked at the circled letter on the left side of the page. My eyes snapped up to him and my smile went from ear to ear.

“No way! A full A!?”

“Yeah, man!”

“I...I can’t...wow, thank you Professor.”

“Hey, you earned it. It was great, like a real story. You nailed it.”

“Thanks Professor F.” We shook hands again. “Thanks again, for everything. It’s been really awesome. Bye, Professor.”

“Goodbye, Zackary.”

I left his office while I was still getting ready to leave. He was still in there when I pushed through the department door. Him putting on his jacket was the last time I saw him.

Tramping down another level, I pushed through those heavy wooden double-doors and practically skipped down the ancient concrete steps. I walked off campus and onto the sidewalk next to the road. That Spring night over Boston was beautiful, just a purple blanket filled with twinkling white stars. A light breeze drifted over the river, making the trees sway and their leaves rustle. Even though cars were whisking by, I could still hear the river water trickling. Voices drifted and cascaded over the city. Horns honked, sirens wailed. Fresh, fallen flowers decorated the sidewalk. I could taste the warm air on my tongue.

Above me, the street lamps glowed orange. They were spaced far apart, especially on the hill leading to my off-campus dormitory. So as I walked, I was coming in and out of darkness, in and out, disappearing and reappearing.

In the miasma of emotions bubbling in my chest, I remember I was still holding the paper. I went to put it in my bag but I hesitated, then decided to slow down to read it in a light.

There it was, the letter A with a circle around it, to the left of my center heading. But I didn’t linger on it for more than a few moments. Below the heading, underlined, was ‘Zachariah.’ My eyes blurred with tears. I couldn’t read what he wrote to me on the front. It wasn’t a heartfelt goodbye or an admission of the challenges he presented me with. These were just his final notes on the paper, laced and imbued with affection and the pride he felt at watching me succeed. I knew that’s what it was and I couldn’t get past my name without sobbing.

I walked down that empty street, passing in and out the street lamps, those orange lights, like the ones in the vacant History Department, and I wept.