After selecting classes for my freshman year, I realized that an elective I chose called “Intro to Listening” was regarded as the “easy” class around campus. Hearing these rumors, I expected to learn nothing of real value.
It wasn’t difficult to maintain my grade in this class, and I could pour all of my focus into the courses that desperately required it. Amidst the chaos of finals week, however, I uploaded a project in the wrong format.
Fortunately, I noticed my mistake during the professor’s office hours. As my grade was still unaffected, I hastily made my way to his office before the project would be factored into my final average and prayed for his leniency.
After opening his laptop, he told me to take a seat. He immediately began to ask about my other classes, not how I was performing in them, nor what they were called. Instead, he asked why I took them and if they made me happy.
I told him that I didn’t care for the content of my classes as I used to. I wanted to be done with them along with the rest of my education so I could get on with my life and finally experience “the real world.”
He recommended a poem to me. Not for extra credit, not for a grade, but because he thought it could help me find purpose in my education. It was “If–” by Rudyard Kipling. He specifically mentioned the excerpt, “If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;/
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim.”
The poem encouraged pursuing one’s goals, without letting obsession control one’s life by making a dream one’s “master.” As I thought about it, I decided that this was not a condition for achieving success; it was a condition for enjoying it.
I realized that I had focused on my dream of what my education could do for me rather than enjoying the journey of pursuit. I was not driven by the act of taking classes, but by the act of being done with them. Perhaps this was why I received little satisfaction from my efforts, as I had already planned my next four years and removed the excitement of unpredictability college can bring.
I was ready to leave with my new insight, determined to enjoy the rest of my education before it was over. When I asked him about how I could save my grade, he revealed that I wouldn’t need to and that the assignment was a drop grade. It was a fact he strategically withheld from me until I listened to his advice; I had an A in the class, meaning he sacrificed his time just to inspire a student he barely knew. Serendipitously, I left with far more than I was looking for.
It reminded me of the French novel “Les Misérables,” in which the peasant Jean Valjean is given shelter by a bishop. Despite the bishop’s generosity, Valjean steals his valuable silverware only to be caught by the police and quickly returned to the bishop. Instead of holding his robber accountable, the bishop lies to the police by telling them the silverware was a gift, insisting that Valjean also take a pair of silver candlesticks. This generosity sparks something deep within Valjean’s soul, inspiring him to become a better person.
The professor’s poem was his gift of silver to me.
