During my first all-faculty meeting in the school auditorium, there was a presentation about a new program the university was introducing for returning veterans. All told, it meant that there was the possibility that an influx of nontraditional students with a military background might be coming to your classroom. In my mind, I am psyched because this means I will be getting some diligent students who will follow instructions. It is a rarity for me to hear of a student who is a military veteran and unwilling to do what they need to succeed. If they are like me, they suffered four years of drill and ceremony, and heaven knows what level of inept leadership made the duration of their contract feel like snorting salt, squirting lemon in your eye, and taking a shot of tequila sound like a quality alternative. No matter how tough you think you are, it’s an experience I do not recommend.

My excitement with this idea quickly dissipated as the presentation transitioned into a lecture about handling veterans in the classroom. What is there to say? Treat them like any other student. How hard is that? Soon, a discussion about where they sit in the class, and the possibilities of post-traumatic stress disorder began to surface. This point led to a murmuring amongst the faculty. I could tell many of them had never interacted with veterans, and nothing good would come out of their mouths in the next few minutes.

Contrary to popular belief, not all veterans experience trauma during their enlistment. Sure, every tour has unpleasant parts, but a lucky few come out relatively unscathed. Other than a few habits I can’t seem to shake, I feel I adjusted back into civilian life well. My only lingering issue is getting up before the rooster and getting to work. It’s not like I have to or anything. I usually wake up five hours before teaching a class, and I love teaching early morning classes. After spending my first hours of the day working out and reading books, seeing students come into my eight AM class with one bloodshot eye and trying to take notes brings me infinite joy.

During the presentation, a frail little man who appeared to have the same shaking problem I see with most toy chihuahua dogs asked a question. “What are we going to do if one of these veterans snaps in our class?” He then shared his apprehension about having these “dangerous” individuals in his classroom. Judging by his trembling voice and rickety structure, I would argue that this man’s greatest nemesis in life is a stiff breeze.

I do not quickly get angry about things. However, this little statement enraged me. I have heard that some people can go blind with rage, and I genuinely think I may have had that experience for a split second. While sitting there simmering in my white-knuckle anger, my muscles started twitching subtly. My twitches evolved into an internal earthquake as he continued to air his objections to this new program. As far as I could tell, we shook in rhythm as he continued complaining. I have encountered people I wanted to punch in the face, but I was never so tempted to do it.

Thankfully, my fervor was distracted by my new department chair, Dr. Mason, sitting beside me. She muttered something to the effect that she couldn’t believe we were entertaining this conversation. Then she stormed out the auditorium doors in disgust. Then before I had time to refocus my murderous intent on this human being who had the countenance of a mayfly, another voice piped in, defending veterans. That person would later become one of my closest allies at Remus. He was a young English professor, a novel trait at a place where most of the faculty were well over 55. He made the case that veterans were some of the hardest-working people he had ever worked with. He was happy about the new program and said that other faculty should embrace veterans as welcome additions to the school.

After the meeting, I searched for my defender. As far as I was concerned, he was a hero. I don’t usually gush about people, but I was impressed by his aura when I finally got to meet Jerry Carson. He was a thin-set man who carried himself in a manner that could best be described as a cocktail of British snobbery and roguish Southern hospitality. He was well-versed in the art of creative writing, and his work was published in various journals. I never met someone who made me feel dumb and adequate at the same time. In contrast to everyone else I had met so far, he seemed like a person who did not seem to fit into the Remus College culture. He appeared to be going places, and I knew I would do my best to keep a strong connection with him. It was the start of a solid friendship desperately needed as the years progressed.

So, while the meeting was a test of patience, I found a fellow compatriot looking to improve his students’ learning experience. This new friend would be a rare find at Remus. I learned quickly that not everyone here had the same lofty goals of lifting students into the ethereal realms of self-realization and reflection as some did. This was a day that I would put in the win column because of the friendship that spawned from a meeting rooted in ignorance.

As a side note, I later learned that the shaky chihuahua’s name was Dr. Jacob Woods. He was a physics professor, and if the rumors were true, he earned his doctorate at a time when the only elements on the periodic table were fire, earth, air, and water. Additionally, I found out that he did not have a good rapport with his students. I find that a little disturbing because if you are as fragile as he appeared to be, I would do as much as possible to placate students and still be an effective educator.

Apparently, this was not the case for him. A female student assaulted him in his classroom the following year because of a midterm exam grade. I know grades are important, but I don’t think punches are good tools in negotiating for a higher GPA. In most institutions, if that were to happen, the student would minimally be expelled and never be able to set foot on campus again, probably even arrested. There would probably be some charges brought up against them. However, the school thought switching the student to another section of the course would be better. Why clean out the dirt when you can sweep it under the rug? It works for hoarders and small children, so it must be a perfectly acceptable practice at a college.

Unfortunately, the student failed the course and had to retake it. As luck would have it, she was registered back into Dr. Woods’s class (even the registrar didn’t have a note to make sure this didn’t happen again). Upon seeing her name on his roster, he openly complained during another all-faculty meeting before the school year. He pleaded to remove her from his course section, but the registrar ignored those appeals. She was sitting in his classroom on the first day. The trauma of seeing her again must have simply been too much for his heart because paramedics found him lying dead in his home on the second day of classes. I suppose if the school didn’t remove the student, Dr. Woods would remove himself from this mortal coil. I can only imagine that he was shaking so much from seeing her that he ruptured a vital organ that slowly leaked fluid and caused irreversible damage before he gave up the ghost. Not like it would take much, given his advanced age. I have thought about what it might be like to die in the classroom, but dying because of a student better not be the provocation for it. I would prefer somebody to take me behind the dumpster at the student health center and put me out of my misery.