COLUMN: Teach students, not German or math

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by James Ling

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Among more established members of the Rice faculty and graduate students who studied English years ago, he may have been more often called by his title as professor. Then again, they probably affectionately called him George, too.

I remember those couple of weekends I spent by his bed in the geriatrics unit. Sitting next to him in that dreary room, I often remarked on how well he looked in spite of his age and situation. He is 92.

I could tell that George had been a great professor. I'll never forget what he said to me.

George and I talked about many things. His frazzled white hair and beard, strained eyes and frail voice were testaments to both his long and often difficult life and his long stay at the hospital. He often became very depressed as he related one melancholy family tragedy after another, and I tried my best to comfort him.

He was hospitalized a couple months earlier when he fell over in his son's front yard, tumbled into a gutter and wounded his head on the pavement; the injury caused a blood clot to develop along his brain.

George said that, before being transferred to transitional care from intensive care, he had been incoherent and forgetful.

That was a week or two before our acquaintance.

In spite of his condition, though, George often spoke as a mentor and in a fatherly way to me. And he usually tried to appear happy, though several times his face would betray intense agony from past memories.

I remember that when I had to leave, he said, "Good luck!" and we shook hands. Then we hugged. I knew I'd miss him when he was discharged.

When I got home, I jotted down the proceedings of our conversations on the patient roster.

As I now look back at my notes, I remember what he told me about his accident, his overwhelming family misfortunes (too personal to mention here), his past and his career as a Rice professor.

On one line, I have written down "Teach students, not teach German or math."

In reflection, I find it somewhat surprising that, despite his frail condition and advanced years, and alongside the personal hardships he so emotionally related, he felt it important enough to mention his teaching philosophy to me.

"Teach students, not teach German or math." At first, I was struck mostly by its eloquence. It was not until much later that the full force of his words hit me.

It wasn't George's philosophy on teaching. It was his philosophy on life.

Teaching wasn't just a job for him. It was a passion. He taught to teach -- with pride and sincerity.

Now, when I volunteer or do my chemistry homework or help out on some committee at Hanszen or even as I type for the Thresher , I think about what George said, and I think about how I should do what I do, instead of how I really do it.

Volunteer to help others, not volunteer to help my own transcript. Do chemistry homework (and try to do vector homework) to learn, not just to get a good grade.

Work on a committee to help my college, not to beef up my politico resume. Write to inform and encourage, not to earn some petty cash.

Even when I go to medical school and become a doctor, I hope I remember what George taught me. Treat people, not treat cases. Research to contribute, not research to compete.

Do it even when no one's looking. And do it with sincerity. Do it as George did it -- with passion.

James Ling is the opinion editor and a Hanszen College freshman.

This item appeared in the Opinion section of the April 21, 1995 issue.

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