If You Test Me, You Will Fail

I was absolutely certain Samuel Ihle was going to fail.

Not struggle.

Not stumble.

Fail.

Completely, spectacularly, publicly fail.

Looking back, I realize that certainty was probably the first warning sign.

People who are right tend to have evidence.

People who are wrong tend to have certainty.

My name is David Morse, Associate Professor of Journalism at Yale University.

Half English. Half Choctaw.

Owner of a ponytail that several generations of students described as "unexpected."

For nearly four decades, I taught reporting, feature writing, investigative journalism, and a seminar called Narrative Structure in Modern News Media.

I had seen every kind of student imaginable.

The brilliant prodigies who burned out before graduation.

The mediocre students who became exceptional reporters.

The charismatic frauds.

The hardworking grinders.

The students who could write.

The students who thought they could write.

By the time Samuel Ihle arrived, I considered myself an excellent judge of talent.

Which is why he irritated me almost immediately.

Not because he was bad.

Bad students are easy.

Bad students either improve or disappear.

No.

Sam irritated me because everyone loved him.

Dr. Chang loved him.

Professor Jensen loved him.

Professor Patel loved him.

Even old Harold Whitaker from the History Department—who disliked everyone equally—liked him.

Every faculty meeting seemed to include some variation of:

"Have you read Ihle's latest piece?"

"Exceptional work from Ihle."

"Remarkable instincts."

"Wonderful student."

Wonderful student.

Wonderful student.

Wonderful student.

It became a kind of academic birdsong.

You couldn't walk through the faculty lounge without hearing it.

Meanwhile, I would read his assignments and wonder if everyone had collectively lost their minds.

The kid could write.

That wasn't the issue.

The problem was that he never seemed to understand that writing involved restraint.

His first paper for me was supposed to be twelve hundred words.

He submitted twenty-three hundred.

Twenty-three hundred.

I remember staring at the page count as though it were a criminal confession.

When I finished reading, I wrote two words in red ink.

Too wordy.

Simple.

Direct.

Helpful.

Or so I thought.

A week later he submitted a revision.

Eleven hundred words.

I was impressed.

Briefly.

Then I started reading.

Now entire sections were missing.

Background information.

Context.

Supporting evidence.

Character descriptions.

Details.

I stared at the paper.

Then I wrote:

Please elaborate!

The following week he appeared outside my office.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

I looked up.

There he stood.

Tall.

Young.

Blond.

The expression of a man attempting diplomacy with a hostile nation.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

He held up both drafts.

"The first one was too wordy."

"Correct."

"The second needed elaboration."

"Also correct."

He blinked.

I blinked back.

Finally he asked:

"How can it be both?"

I folded my hands.

"Because writing is difficult."

His shoulders sagged.

I almost laughed.

Instead I pointed at a chair.

"Sit."

For thirty minutes we dissected the assignment.

Every unnecessary paragraph.

Every missing detail.

Every bloated sentence.

Every absent explanation.

When he left, he thanked me.

Thanked me.

Most students left my office looking as though they'd survived a tax audit.

Sam left smiling.

That should have worried me.

Instead it annoyed me.

The thing nobody understood was that I wasn't trying to torment him.

I genuinely believed he lacked discipline.

He reminded me of myself at twenty.

That was the uncomfortable part.

When I was his age, I thought every observation deserved preservation.

Every sentence deserved survival.

Every thought deserved publication.

My first editor cured me of that illusion.

Brutally.

Mercilessly.

Correctly.

I wanted Sam to learn that lesson early.

Before the industry taught it to him.

The industry was far less gentle than I was.

Years later, former students would insist I had singled him out.

Nonsense.

I treated him exactly as I treated everyone else.

The difference was that everyone else occasionally failed.

Sam kept succeeding.

No matter what I threw at him.

The first major confrontation happened during sophomore year.

Feature Writing.

Midterm project.

Students were assigned a profile of an ordinary person living an extraordinary life.

Most produced acceptable work.

A few produced excellent work.

Sam submitted a profile of a night-shift janitor who secretly restored antique clocks.

The piece was magnificent.

I hated it.

Not because it was bad.

Because I couldn't find anything wrong with it.

I spent forty-five minutes searching.

There had to be something.

A weak transition.

An unsupported claim.

A structural flaw.

Anything.

Eventually I circled one paragraph.

One paragraph.

And wrote:

This section drags.

When papers were returned, he approached my desk.

"Which section drags?"

"The one I circled."

"Why?"

"Because it drags."

He stared.

I stared.

Finally he nodded.

"Okay."

And walked away.

No argument.

No defensiveness.

No wounded pride.

Just curiosity.

That somehow irritated me even more.

Students were supposed to fight criticism.

He collected criticism like baseball cards.

The rumors began during junior year.

Students whispered that I hated him.

Faculty joked about it.

One afternoon Professor Jensen cornered me near the coffee machine.

"You know the students think you're obsessed with Ihle."

"I am not."

"You assigned him three additional revisions."

"He needed three additional revisions."

Jensen grinned.

"He got an A."

"After three revisions."

"David."

"What?"

"You do realize most professors would have submitted his work to a journalism competition."

I sipped my coffee.

"I had notes."

Jensen laughed so hard coffee nearly came out his nose.

Infuriating man.

The truth was more complicated than hatred.

I couldn't stop watching him.

Not in a sinister way.

In a professional way.

Like observing a strange natural phenomenon.

Every assumption I made about his limitations turned out wrong.

I thought he relied too heavily on description.

Then he produced immaculate investigative reporting.

I thought he lacked discipline.

Then he became editor of two student publications simultaneously.

I thought he was too sentimental.

Then he delivered an interview so objective it bordered on surgical.

Every weakness vanished the moment I identified it.

As though criticism functioned as fuel.

I had never seen anything like it.

Most students improved gradually.

Sam improved immediately.

You criticized Point A.

Point A disappeared.

You criticized Point B.

Point B disappeared.

Eventually you ran out of alphabet.

Then came senior year.

The thesis.

God help us all.

The thesis.

Months of research.

Reporting.

Interviews.

Writing.

Rewriting.

Students routinely had nervous breakdowns.

Faculty occasionally joined them.

Sam proposed an ambitious project examining the decline of local newspapers in rural America.

Excellent topic.

Far too large.

Far too complicated.

Far too ambitious.

I said so immediately.

"It can't be done."

"It can."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's too large."

He smiled.

That smile.

That impossibly optimistic smile.

"Then I'll make it smaller."

I crossed my arms.

"Still too large."

"I'll make it smaller again."

I wanted to shake him.

Instead I said:

"Fine."

I expected disaster.

A glorious academic catastrophe.

The kind that proves a professor right.

For six months I waited.

Then the drafts started arriving.

Each one better than the last.

Research.

Interviews.

Analysis.

Narrative structure.

Everything worked.

Everything.

I became increasingly irritated.

Meanwhile the rest of the faculty became increasingly enthusiastic.

Dr. Chang practically glowed whenever the thesis came up.

One afternoon she found me reading a chapter.

"Well?"

I frowned.

"It's competent."

She laughed.

"Competent?"

"Yes."

"David."

"What?"

"It's brilliant."

I looked back down at the pages.

Unfortunately she was correct.

The defense occurred in May.

Warm afternoon.

Packed room.

Faculty panel seated at the front.

Students crowded the back.

Sam stood behind the podium.

Confident.

Prepared.

Infuriatingly calm.

He delivered the presentation.

Answered questions.

Explained methodology.

Defended conclusions.

Handled challenges.

Everything with that same maddening composure.

Then it was my turn.

The room became very quiet.

Everyone knew my reputation.

Everyone knew the rumors.

Everyone expected blood.

Including me.

I adjusted my glasses.

Opened my notebook.

And began.

For twenty minutes I questioned him.

Sources.

Methodology.

Statistical interpretation.

Interview selection.

Narrative framing.

Everything.

He answered every question.

Not perfectly.

Nobody answers perfectly.

But well.

Very well.

The better he performed, the quieter the room became.

By the end, even I knew it was over.

The verdict had already been decided.

Not by the committee.

By reality.

The kid had done the work.

There was nowhere left to attack.

I closed my notebook.

Looked at him.

And said:

"No further questions."

He nodded.

The defense concluded.

The committee deliberated.

The result was unanimous.

Highest honors.

Of course.

Afterward, students celebrated outside.

Parents took photographs.

Faculty mingled.

I considered escaping.

Then I heard someone behind me.

"Professor Morse?"

I turned.

Sam.

Naturally.

Who else?

"Yes?"

"I wanted to thank you."

I nearly rolled my eyes.

"For what?"

He seemed genuinely surprised by the question.

"For pushing me."

"I wasn't pushing you."

"Sure."

"I was criticizing you."

"Same thing."

"No, it isn't."

He laughed.

Then he said something that has bothered me for years.

"You know, I always knew you believed I'd fail."

I stared.

"Did you?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"And it made me work harder."

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Nothing emerged.

The irritating thing was that he wasn't angry.

He wasn't resentful.

He wasn't settling old scores.

He was simply stating a fact.

Like discussing weather.

I finally managed:

"You should know I didn't want you to fail."

He smiled.

"Really?"

"Really."

"What did you want?"

I considered the question.

For the first time, I answered honestly.

"I wanted to be right."

He laughed.

Not cruelly.

Not triumphantly.

Just warmly.

As though I'd finally solved a puzzle.

"That's fair."

Then he extended his hand.

I shook it.

And watched him disappear into the crowd.

Years later I saw his byline again.

Then again.

Then again.

Regional papers.

National publications.

Major stories.

Investigations.

Features.

Awards.

The usual trajectory of someone who stubbornly refused to fail.

Whenever colleagues mentioned him, they grinned.

"Your favorite student."

"He wasn't my favorite student."

"Sure."

"He wasn't."

"David."

"What?"

"We know."

I never bothered arguing.

There was no point.

The legend had already been written.

Dr. Morse, the villain.

Sam Ihle, the hero.

People enjoy simple stories.

Reality rarely cooperates.

The truth is that I never hated Samuel Ihle.

I feared him.

Not personally.

Professionally.

He threatened something I had spent years believing.

I believed talent had limits.

I believed strengths inevitably concealed weaknesses.

I believed everyone eventually reached a ceiling.

Then this irritating young reporter arrived and treated every criticism as a construction project.

Too wordy?

Fix it.

Needs elaboration?

Fix it.

Weak transition?

Fix it.

Research gap?

Fix it.

Structural problem?

Fix it.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The boy approached journalism like a mechanic rebuilding an engine.

No drama.

No ego.

Just work.

I had never encountered that before.

Most talented students relied on talent.

Sam relied on improvement.

That's a terrifying combination.

A few years before retirement, I found an old folder in my office.

Inside were decades of student papers.

Most names meant nothing anymore.

Then I found one familiar manuscript.

Samuel Ihle.

Sophomore year.

The clockmaker profile.

The one I'd criticized.

I sat down and reread it.

Then I found the comment.

This section drags.

I stared at it for a long time.

Finally I laughed.

Out loud.

Alone in my office.

Because the paragraph didn't drag.

Not even slightly.

It was perfectly fine.

I had been searching desperately for something—anything—to criticize.

Not because the work needed it.

Because I needed it.

I needed proof that he was mortal.

Proof that he possessed a flaw large enough to justify my skepticism.

Instead all I'd proven was my own.

I took out a pen.

Next to my original comment, I wrote a second note.

Twenty years too late.

Paragraph is fine.

Then I closed the folder.

Outside my office window, students hurried across campus.

Young.

Ambitious.

Certain.

I wondered which one would become the next Samuel Ihle.

The next student who made professors question themselves.

The next student who refused to fit neatly into expectations.

The next student I would underestimate.

Because if Sam taught me anything, it was this:

Being wrong about a student isn't embarrassing.

Staying wrong is.

And for far too many years, I was absolutely certain Samuel Ihle was going to fail.

That certainty turned out to be the biggest mistake in the room.

Mine.