"Do not go gentle into that good night..."

One of my students died. He was a freshman, only 19. An athlete, he played on the college men’s volleyball team. One evening, a week or so ago, he complained of heartburn after dinner, took an antacid, and went to take a shower. Later that night, someone found him in the dorm, unresponsive. He was rushed to the nearest hospital, which is less than a block away, but it was too late. He was dead. Of a ruptured aorta. He was 19.

When I came into work the next day, I had not heard anything about it. I was preparing to teach a research session for a Public Speaking class that had to develop a presentation on Thomas Merton’s classic The Seven Storey Mountain. I knew most of the students would be freshmen, who had already taken the core Research and Information Skills course I teach every fall; this was the same course I had taught the student who had just died. Only I did not know yet that he had died.

One of the other reference librarians left a note in my cube to come see her. She was working out at the reference desk, and when I went out there, she had a story from the online version of the newspaper up on her computer screen. “University student dies,” it said. Oh, no, I thought to myself. Occasionally, a student would die, it was true, in a car accident, from alcohol poisoning, an accidental drug overdose, unfortunate, unusual circumstances that took young people way too soon. When I looked more closely at the text of the article, I recognized the student’s name. My heart lurched a bit, but his name was a fairly common one; surely, it was someone else with the same name. Not him. It couldn’t be him, he was only 19. But then I saw that the article included his signature nickname. And I froze. No. This wasn’t possible. I had just seen him the other day on campus, in passing, we had said hi. And he had given me that big grin of his, the one that always allowed me to recognize him instantly.

I typically teach four sections of freshmen in the fall, about 160 students total. The classes of about 40 students each are held in computer labs, for 50 minutes, once a week. Most of the time, these kids’ faces are hidden behind their computer screens as I lecture and lead them in conversation and in class assignments. I am not really very good at remembering people’s names, and I find it especially hard to remember all of these freshmen names. So many of the students look so much alike, and they have so many names that are alike. I have mixed up some of my students more than once, especially if I run into them outside of the classroom. And it can be very embarrassing. I have actually gotten better over the years; I try harder, I think, to remember people’s names. Of course, there are always those few students who stand out for one reason or another; often because they are in trouble or have been doing poorly. Then, of course, there are those few who distinguish themselves in the classroom for other reasons – they say something really funny, they ask a memorable question, they are so physically different in appearance from everyone else it would be impossible not to recognize them.

But with “my student,” it was something different. He stood out from the rest, not for any particular reason, but just because he did. His amazing smile certainly had something to do with it; afterall, it was a smile I could pick out amidst throngs of students crossing campus between classes. It was also the fact that on that first day of class as I was taking attendance by calling the names off the roster one by one, to check for nicknames and make sure I was pronouncing names correctly, he told me I could call him by a nickname that clearly had no connection to his given name. I must have paused or looked at him quizzically as I was jotting that nickname down on the roster, because he smiled that amazing smile of his and shrugged, “It’s a family thing. There’s a story behind it.” He didn’t elaborate, but from that point on I had absolutely no problem whatsoever remembering his name. I think even he was surprised a bit in the weeks to come when I called him by his nickname. Afterall, we only met once a week.

He was a good student. He did what he was supposed to do. He always came to class and he always turned in his assignments and they were fine. Once there was a problem with one of his electronic submissions. I think it was more of a technology glitch than anything else, and I had him resubmit his assignment. He thanked me for “allowing” him to resubmit it. I told him that I had seen him completing the assignment in the classroom, so I knew he had done it correctly and I just wanted him to get the credit that was due. He thanked me again anyway.

He was friendly, easy going, funny. He made people laugh. And he had that amazing smile.

I did not really know my student all that well. I only had him once a week for fifty minutes during the fall term. I saw him occasionally on campus and said hi. He would always say hi back. And smile warmly. One time he happened to come into the library when I was on duty at the reference desk. The library was crowded with people studying and doing group projects. Clearly, he was surveying the crowded room, looking for someone. I asked him if he was “lost.” He turned around to look at me, sitting at the reference desk. He recognized me and laughed. No, he was just looking for someone, he said. I asked him how he was doing, how his term was going, and he said fine. He gave me that signature smile. And moved on.

I call my students, MY students, not because I feel any sense of ownership, but rather because I feel a sense of responsibility and fondness for them. It is my job to try to better prepare them for doing research while they are at university, to get them to see that college is different than high school, and that really, although they think they already know how to search and find information, they really don’t always at the level that they need to. Most learn very quickly. Many don’t really pay much attention to our course, because it has no relevance to them yet. They haven’t had to write research papers and haven’t gotten into their majors in any depth. They are new, they are freshmen, they are getting a feel for things.

Each of my classes has its own personality, its own rhythm and temper. Some sections are more jovial and fun, others more serious, some even temperamental or downright crabby. Some learn faster than others, some have more problems turning in assignments or understanding what is expected of them. Some are kinder, more patient, more forgiving. Others think their time is being wasted. Some think their time is being wasted, but they are still kind and respectful.

It always amazes me how my different sections take on different personalities. I am not always sure what causes the differences. Sometimes most of the students in a section might come from the same school or program; maybe that has something to do with it. Other times I am teaching a section that is particularly early in the morning or late in the afternoon or right at the lunch hour. Maybe that has something to do with it. Or maybe it is just the simple fact that I have different people in each section and they interact/gel differently as a group.

I love teaching. I love engaging with students. I love experimenting with different technologies and approaches to teaching. I strive to make my class entertaining and fun; given the subject matter of the course, that can be difficult at times. I really like to make my students laugh. My feeling is: if my students are not paying attention and engaged, then I am wasting my breath.

I learn a lot from my students. And I enjoy running into them around campus or in the library in years to come. It is fun to watch them mature and get into their majors and thrive while in college. I enjoy it when they stop by the reference desk or stop for a few moments when we run into each other on campus. Even just, in passing, when they recognize me and smile or say hi.

I cannot believe that I will never see my student again. I keep seeing him all over campus and do double takes, until I realize it is simply another young man with a similar build or haircut. I keep looking for that amazing smile in the throngs of students I pass. I am stunned, in disbelief. How can a young, healthy man just die like that, boom, out of the blue, for no seeming reason? It makes no sense to me; there is no sense, I think.

I told my children about my student, because it upset me so much and I wanted to share with them this amazing young man who had been taken so suddenly. My younger son suggested, “Well, maybe he was needed somewhere else.” “What? To play volleyball on God’s team?” I felt like asking, but didn’t.

I do know that my student was a young man with many friends. I do know that he touched many, many people deeply with his kindness and humor and energy and love of life. He was one of those people who live life to the fullest, and thus, the kind you can never imagine no longer being here.

I think I shall always see my student’s smile as I cross campus. His smile will always be there inside of me, and inside of all of those he ever knew or touched, even in passing. And I will miss him.