Horse Feathers

Recently, I learned that one of my favorite college professors passed away. He taught history, including a course called “Great Issues in American History.” It was one of only a handful of classes that I looked forward to attending during my four years of higher education. While the professor was modestly left leaning, he welcomed free and open discussion. That’s what men and women of the left encouraged once upon a time. They championed free speech and rigorous give-and-take. No one felt muzzled in his class or any other that I can remember. For what it’s worth: Microsoft Word editor underlined in blue “men and women” and suggested, “A gender neutral term would be more inclusive” like “people.”

American history—warts and all—was laid out to us in vivid living color without editorializing. Our professor, too, maintained a curious aura, like he somehow stepped out of the past. He was that authentic and right for the job. When the man sported a considerable beard, he could have effortlessly blended in among General Grant’s staff at Vicksburg.

In those bygone days—the early 1980s—college students weren’t easily offended, identity obsessed, and walking-and-talking victims, nor did they try historical figures in contemporary courts and find their lives and times irredeemable and unworthy of examination. I recall one classroom discussion revolving around the Civil War and slavery. I don’t remember the context of what inspired a Caucasian fellow to proclaim that one couldn’t compare the horrors of the Holocaust to what slaves endured in bondage. Not surprisingly, his viewpoint didn’t sit well with an African American peer who visibly seethed and offered a rebuttal. Our unflappable professor calmly listened to both sides and the class and life went on unimpeded. Nobody had a meltdown and made a beeline to a safe space in the Campus Ministry a flight below. The brother who ran that place always seemed strange and a bit scary to me. Nobody was reported. The school newspaper didn’t publish a story about the back and forth and demand heads on a platter and groveling apologies.

Another favorite professor of mine—also deceased as most of them sadly are—taught economics. I enjoyed her classes because she was at once provocative and approachable. She didn’t appreciate being labeled a “socialist” and preferred “humanist” instead. This prof was a bona fide feminist, too, who, I suspect, might be branded a “TERF” in the here and now.

I distinctly recollect taking an elective with her in my major. There were only a dozen students in the class. One day, the discussion involved women in the workplace. A male student from Nigeria interjected at some point, saying—in so many words—that a women’s place was in the home. The reaction from the professor and just about everybody else was prompt and dismissive but meted out good naturedly with no lingering hard feelings. Obviously, this chap came from a vastly different culture. He received, though, a well-earned earful from Americans in a quintessential bastion of free expression back then—the college campus. Nobody was triggered and that was the end of that.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)