It’s quite early this Thursday morning, and I’m in the office early to ensure that I have time both to blog and to record the results of summer midterms before passing back blue books.  I’m also struggling with my old pair of glasses — I made a quick trip to the optician yesterday to get my relatively new pair repaired, and am wearing my old spare frames, which have a slightly different prescription.  As a result, I have a small headache with which to contend. 

I am following the remarkable ride of Floyd Landis this morning, and rooting hard for a man who is, at least at the moment, perhaps the world’s most famous living Mennonite.  Part of me still thinks of myself as a member of the Anabaptist family, after all.  Bring it home, brother Floyd!

In a comment below Monday’s post on grading, I wrote about my obligations in the classroom:

First and foremost, my obligation is to the subject itself. SECOND of all, my obligation is to my students. I got that order clear when I first started teaching. Every student "needs" an A for a scholarship, or to get into a better school, or to get a discount on their car insurance. If I take that into account, I ought to dispense As for basic competence and make my students and their parents happy. I’ll also end up giving them a false sense of their own abilities — and set them up for rude awakening farther down the line.

This intrigued my long-time commenter Col. Steve:

Hugo – I am curious about this line: "First and foremost, my obligation is to the subject itself. SECOND of all, my obligation is to my students. I got that order clear when I first started teaching." A few months ago you wrote:

"Somewhere, deep inside of me, is an omnipresent awareness that I’m serving something bigger. That something is partly the institution of the college; partly Clio, the muse of history; partly all of those who worked so hard to teach me; and, ultimately, God himself. It’s difficult for me to be more precise than that. All I know is that I’m almost always aware that my teaching is a form of service, and not merely to my students themselves."

I’m curious how "Clio" (or gender studies) became first. I would think (leaving God aside) your first obligation would be to the support the mission of PCC and California Community Colleges — The mission of Pasadena City College is successful student learning. I agree that mission does not mean necessarily pleasing the students/parents. What does an obligation to the subject actually mean?

I know I could probably find still more to say about men, women, lust, and modesty, but this morning I’d rather answer the colonel’s question.

When I’m teaching, I feel myself to be responsible to a variety of different "stakeholders."  For example, I have an obligation to the community college district in which I teach.  PCC’s mission statement, from which the colonel quotes, reads:

The mission of Pasadena City College is successful student learning. The College provides high-quality, academically rigorous instruction in a comprehensive transfer and vocational curriculum, as well as learning activities designed to improve the economic condition and quality of life of the diverse communities within the College service area.

Well, I don’t know if learning history is going to lead to a direct improvement in the economic conditions of struggling communities in the San Gabriel Valley.  I do know that I provide "academically rigorous" instruction as best I can.  More importantly, I am, like many historians, convinced that those who study history will have their "quality of life" improved.  That improvement may not be quantifiable; it may not involve a higher income or a larger house.  But those who study history, as your high school teachers said to you, will have a better understanding of the whys and  hows of the contemporary world.   Being able to put often chaotic and mysterious current events into context can be a source of real comfort, and that is surely part of what is meant by an enhanced "quality of life."

But I meant what I said on Monday: in some sense, my primary earthly loyalty (let’s leave God out of it for a second) is not to my students, to the college, or to my colleagues. It is to the subject I teach.  History is the record of the human past, the understanding of which is filtered by time and by bias.  We see earlier societies and events "through a glass darkly", but we can still see — and the chief job of the historian is to tell, as honestly and convincingly and effectively as he or she can — what it is that lies on the other side of that glass.   Our students might like the narratives to be a bit easier; they might like having to know fewer names and dates and details.    But while every good history professor wants to maximize student learning, the good historian’s first professional obligation is not to the student but to the story itself. 

Whether I’m lecturing about Susan B. Anthony or Marcus Aurelius, I feel a sense of personal obligation to these long-dead men and women.  What I say may well be all that many of my students ever hear about vitally important, fascinating figures from the human past.  I have a responsibility to help my students understand why these people were so important, but I have a similar, perhaps even greater responsibility to these great ones themselves.  It’s a feeling both narcissistic and quixotic (I plead guilty in advance to both), but I feel as if it is my grave and solemn duty to ensure that those who played such key roles in the past be remembered.

In a sense, I think a good historian functions more like a bard or a minstrel than a researcher or a mere instructor.  The good bard wants to tell a story well to excite and entertain and inspire his audience, but his primary concern is not with what his listeners hear but with how well he tells the story itself.  His first obligation is to the heroes of whom he sings.  And whether I’m talking about Margaret Sanger or Sargon of Akkad, Victoria Woodhull or Saladin the Magnificent, I don’t easily forget that I owe these men and women what is their due: the accurate retelling of their deeds and contributions, that for a while longer they may not be forgotten.