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R E C E N T L Y

The monk, the philosopher and the cynic
By Chris Colin
Christopher Hitchens torpedos the harmonious dialogue between philosopher Jean-François Revel and his son, Buddhist monk Matthieu Ricard
(03/10/99)

The end of student activity groups?
By Kenneth Rapoza
Christian student groups are using the courts to attack the legality of student fees and changing the free speech debate on campus
(03/08/99)

Thong wars
By Jon Bowen
When asked not to go bare-assed at the campus pool, a professor makes it a constitutional issue
(03/08/99)

Pop culture studies turns 25
By David Jacobson
When Ray Browne founded the first department to study "Star Trek" semiotics and cartoon aesthetics, he expanded the boundaries of academic study forever
(03/05/99)

Vices of the mind
By C.K. McCabe
How Kant blew my mind and changed my life
(03/03/99)

BROWSE THE
IVORY TOWER
ARCHIVE

TO SIR, WITH LOVE? | PAGE 1, 2
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"Stromberg is obviously very talented but at what remains unseen."

Three months later, at the end of the semester, Professor Frankel had indicted me again, this time by writing an evaluation that was part of my official school record. I reread the sentence in amazement, unsure if I'd been insulted or praised.

"Following her first deception this professor was never sure whether or not he could trust her."

What was he trying to do to me? I'd persevered through his class despite our "misunderstanding," telling myself I was doing the right thing by meeting his challenge. We worked intensively on my prose and by every indication I was excelling in his class. He even went so far as to encourage me when I didn't deserve to be encouraged. But now Professor Frankel had gone too far. In retaliation, I wrote an evaluation of him to his file. At my small liberal arts college, students and professors were expected to evaluate each other. It was part of the deal.

"Professor Frankel has crossed the line between personal and professional by trying to become too involved in his students' lives."

It was difficult to describe what I meant. His evaluation of me was insensitive and mean-spirited, but it was hardly a crime. Yet there was something else, something less tangible, insidious, like a peculiar smell in a room. Professor Frankel cared too much about me. He seemed to take my writing personally, though it had nothing to do with him. That he'd taken the time to write the scathing evaluation of me was a clue.

And yet that interest in me was also the reason he'd paid any attention to my writing. And in some way the act of writing the letter was still about my admiration for this passionate, eccentric man. Though we'd butted heads, I respected him for standing his ground. And this was what I was trying to do.

I signed it and submitted it to his department. I felt relieved to have the whole thing over with. I stopped writing and averted my eyes when we passed on campus. The years passed and I delved into my other studies: religion, anthropology, legal theory. I became enraged when a class discussed sexual harassment. I vowed to become a lawyer.

Three years later I returned to Professor Frankel's class.

I sat slouched in my chair at the back of the classroom hoping he wouldn't recognize me. He explained that it would be a class of literary journalism and we would be placing ourselves in "the thick of life." The assignment was to write a story about an epiphany we'd had. As before, we had 24 hours.

For once I knew exactly what I would write about. The previous summer I'd worked for a man named Joey Escovini at a shoe store. "Do whatever it takes to sell the shoe," he'd say, winking his good eye and staring at my breasts. "Whatever it takes." That summer had been torture, an exercise in tolerance and a firsthand lesson in sexual harassment. I had a lot to say.

I typed feverishly for several hours, then tiptoed up the stairs to Professor Frankel's office and quietly slid my story under the door. When I returned to my dorm room 20 minutes later the phone rang.

"Stromberg. This is Professor Frankel. Can you come to my office? We need to talk about our past."

"Our past?" I thought sarcastically. The next thing you'll be talking about is "our future."

But a few minutes later I sat before Professor Frankel in his office. "Stromberg. I need to know why you wrote this letter to my file," he said, lifting a sheet of paper from his desk.

I had expected him to apologize to me for the evaluation he'd written, and possibly to pummel me with the meaning of "truth" one more time. I'd all but forgotten about my letter. Besides, I didn't think I should apologize for what I'd written. I wasn't sorry. At the time, it had seemed like the right thing to do.

"I wrote that letter because I felt upset about how I'd been treated in your class. I was mad at you for what you wrote in my evaluation. I was just telling my version of things."

Professor Frankel was silent. He looked more sad than indignant, a shabby puddle of a man melting in his chair.

"Maybe my attempt to report the truth was misguided," I said. "You know about my problems with truth."

He gave no indication he found my joke amusing. Then, suddenly, a wave of confidence splashed over me. "I came to your class this morning because I think that I can learn something from you regardless of our past. The story I submitted is true. I don't know if it's good enough to get me into your class, but it's true."

"The story is good enough," Professor Frankel said, quickly. "You will find your name on my class roster."

Then, as abruptly as he would later excuse himself from the restaurant table after pronouncing his love to his former students, he changed the subject.

"Have you thought about what you will be doing for your thesis?"

"Oh. Yes. I mean no. I mean I've thought about it but no, I have no idea what I'm doing." I bit my lip, willing myself not to break down in his office. As the last few months of college rapidly approached I felt increasingly anxious about what I was going to do. Just as willing as I had been to turn him in as a quasi-harasser, I was now eager for his words of wisdom about my future. Despite all my sense of growing maturity -- I was still his student, hungry for his influence.

"I'd like you to consider writing your thesis in literary journalism. Write about whatever you'd like. Write about life. But don't waste your talent on bullshit analytical papers that you don't care about. The story you wrote for my class had so much power. Did you like writing it?"

"Like writing it?" I thought for a moment. "Like didn't come into it. I had to write it."

My answer was an epiphany. Suddenly, hundreds of stories filled my head. Professor Frankel had just spoken about education in a way I'd never considered. He wasn't interested in what I thought I "should" do. He was encouraging me to listen to my heart and trust my instincts.

"Stromberg, I'd like to head up your thesis committee. Think about it and get back to me."

Then he turned to his desk and began shuffling papers, an indication that our meeting was over.

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"Shall we order another bottle of wine?" Frankel said. The conversation had languished since he'd told us he'd fallen in love with us. "Why did you wreck everything?" I wanted to demand. But I remained quiet because there was a part of me that wanted to salvage our relationship, such as it was.

None of us wanted wine. Frankel became sullen. He pulled the silver credit card from his wallet. "This one's on your alma mater," he said bitterly.

Quickly, Astrid and Esther said goodbye and left.

"Don't be so nervous, Stromberg," he said, leaning toward me. "I don't bite."

I took a deep breath wondering what he'd say next.

"I'd like to see your apartment."

The real Frankel loomed in front of me, stripped of his professorial mystique.

"Take me to your apartment," said the drunken man. "I've always wanted to see where you live." I started to laugh. He didn't have access to my inner thoughts anymore. It was as if Frankel had taken my writings personally -- that by trusting him to read and comment on my inner thoughts, I'd been communicating a deeper affection.

"What's so funny, Stromberg," he said, irritably.

"Don't you get it, Frankel? You didn't fall in love with me. You fell in love with an idea. You've fallen for the romance of the proverbial student-professor relationship. But it's not like that for us. I'm not the person you think you know from reading my writing. And you're not coming to my apartment."

This is what I wish I'd said. But the truth was, I'd fallen in love with an idea as well. I'd fallen for the idea of Frankel as a perfect being, the ultimate professor: brilliant, inspiring, dedicated, harmless. But I'd forgotten that Frankel was human -- complicated as any person. And stranger than most.

"No, you can't come to my apartment," I said, shaking my head. "But thank you for dinner, Frankel, really. The rack of lamb was delicious."

Then we stood silently for an excruciating moment, taking each other in. But there was still a part of me that wanted to preserve the memory of the person I'd respected and revered. "I'm working on a story right now," I said slowly. "Maybe when it's finished I could send it to you and you could let me know what you think."

"I'd like that, Stromberg," he said quietly, looking away. "I really would."
SALON | March 12, 1999

Susanna Stromberg is a writer living in San Francisco.