The Education

I’m not really the college type. But my parents said if I want to ever make money, I need college. And they paid my way.

I nearly flunked out. Probably would have if not for Easton Westerly, the history professor. Everyone’s heard of him. He was well loved by all, but me.

I basically majored in foosball and slough. Made money at foosball. It kept me in Spaghetti-o’s. In certain circles, I was a star.

The school’s reputation was good. That was mainly due to the prolific author in residence, Prof. Easton Westerman.

If ever a professor was a celebrity and household name, he was it.

Regardless of the forum, Students and people came to see his lectures. There was often an overflowing crowd, with lots of free loaders filling the seats.

I hate history. I didn’t want to take his class. But it was required. This being my last semester, I had to make time for it.

And Westerman. The Professor.

Doubt he even knows what a foosball table is.

Students, or should I say his fans, told me their idol’s books had been translated into fifty languages, more or less. Imagine being not read in fifty languages.

I had to buy one for the class. Lots of pages. Reading’s not really my thing. I’m sure it’s good.

Back to Westerman… What an ego. He acted like he’d seen the whole parade. Everyone either loved or hated him. I hated him.

The chatter in the cafeteria was insufferable. On and on they talked. Blah, blah, blah… So adoring, you’d think he was a god. He could not conceive of being wrong about anything.

I made a joke. “Those who fail to learn the lessons of history are condemned to reread it.” No one laughed. I thought it was hilarious.

Another student sought to inform me. “History doesn’t repeat, but it rhymes.”

I said, “I’d hate to be the poet who has to rhyme some of the stupid crap in this world.”

For one of Westerman’s assignments, we had to imagine ourselves in some famous person’s shoes. Our essay was to answer what motivated them? What alternate choices did they have? In the context of their times, how could we do things differently? Or how not?

As subjects, Westerman suggested people like Caligula. Napoleon, Simon Bolivar, Junipero Serra, Brigham Young, Frederick Douglass and George Washington Carver. (Didn’t he have something to do with cherry trees?) Never heard of most of them. Guess they were in his book.

I wrote about Chef Boyardee. I like pasta. Westerman had no sense of humor. He flunked me.

One day, after class, Madelaine, my girlfriend, broke up with me.

I said, “You can’t. We have history.”

Madelaine said, “We have history class, dude. But you have no history with me.”

I tried to argue but she wouldn’t have it. “What…?”

She didn’t even let me speak. “History? What do you know of history? Hopes? Dreams? Your bank balance?”

I thought of my check book. Well balanced.

She said, “You think history’s boring.”

“Unless your hero tells it, of course.”

“Westerman makes history come alive. Not a list of statistics. He describes flawed human beings struggling with their demons. They’re real, it’s like he raises them from the dead.”

“I heard about that. Like he puts Pinocchio into a box and out comes a real boy…?”

“You’re ridiculous. I’m talking about seeing historical figures as flesh and blood. Not boring facts. Men and women who bleed.”

Here, we were, about to graduate and she dumps me. I’d thought everything was great between us. Now untethered. I retreated to what I knew best. Foosball.

That night, I dominated. No one stood a chance.

I noticed a guy watching me. Wearing a suit, he stood out from the crowd. I’d seen him on campus but never talked to him.

He introduced himself as a dean of the History Department, Charlie Something-or-other.

We sat and he pulled some papers from his jacket.

“I know you’re struggling with your grades. Do something for me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

I knew what he wanted. “You want to hire me to teach foosball? It won’t be cheap.”

He stifled a laugh and leaned in.

“You think you’re the first mediocre student to get a break?”

“What’s your point?”

“I could change things for you. Does the word ‘valedictorian’ interest you?”

“What are you talking about? I don’t make speeches. Get someone else.”

“Or I could double your GPA.”

That would mean I’d have almost a 4.0. Better than 3.0 anyway. Was this guy serious?

I said, “You could do…? No way. It wouldn’t be true.”

Smirking, he settled back. “And what is truth? No one cares how you got it. All that matters is the certificate, what your resume says.”

“But how?”

“We need a reality check. A scandal. Some way to bring Westerman back to earth. He’s gotten too big for the school. Can’t afford to lose him.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Forget the truth. The stench of a sullied reputation lingers long after the so-called truth comes out. A stained reputation is sticky. Once tarnished halos never shine brightly. No one will poach him. Our humble college will be his anchor.”

“I don’t get it…”

“Look… Are you even going to graduate? You may have to repeat a year.”

“No. I need to get out of here. Can’t hang out here forever…”

“Better to leave with credentials, than start from scratch.”

I never saw this opportunity coming. One thing I learned from history, is it records decisive action.

I nodded.

The dean had my complaint all ready. I scanned it. Pretty damning. None of it true. I signed it.

Done.

~

Easton’s final lecture for the semester was unorthodox. Our final exam consisted of each student telling of a time when they met a challenge and overcame it. Some of the students had been through hell.

My turn came and I talked about winning a foosball tournament. Everyone laughed.

We still had time and Easton opened up for questions. He called on me.

I tried my joke about rereading history.

He said, “Do you have a question?”

I said, “Professor Westerman, there are limits to these accounts we’ve covered in class. History books are only summaries of broad themes. Who won. Who lost. And biased details tailored to those conclusions. There’s so much left unaccounted for. There isn’t space for, nor interest in, say, that leaf fluttering to the ground outside.”

Everyone looked out the window. They watched hundreds of leaves falling.

Easton smiled. “Good point. Books can only highlight the peaks and valleys of our human experience. Of course, events get reinterpreted over time. And we shouldn’t forget the starting points.”

No one spoke. I struggled to follow up.

Easton continued. “For instance, a butterfly in the African jungle, fluttering its wings. It cannot know it just triggered what will soon become a catastrophic hurricane swirling across the Atlantic.”

Some students chuckled at the famous analogy.

He pointed out the window. “…And that leaf fallen to the ground… Is an image of every leaf… and every man, and even the empires. It grew, was vibrant and vital. At the highest branch of the tree, it took in the sun and exchanged energy with its roots. But, inevitably, as with everything, it falls.”

Wow. He made me think.

A buffet followed. Easton wouldn’t accept payment. He toasted the class and wished us well in our careers.

I felt convicted for my actions against this man. My diploma was officially paid for and received. I learned how the world works by doing the bidding of those who envied him. I betrayed his trust.

Walking back to the dorm, I paused to sit beneath the tree we mentioned in class. I watched leaves fall like a slow shower. First one, another, and hundreds. Each took its own route to earth. Some swooped, or spun. Others, caught in an updraft, seemed to hover. They made their final journey last.

Soon my legs were nearly covered with leaves.

Rain began to fall. I didn’t move.

It was an education.