In 1979, on the first day of freshman composition, my professor read my writing sample, looked up, and matter-of-factly informed me that I was not going to make it.
He recommended that I enroll in a remedial writing course to repair my grammar and expand my vocabulary before attempting freshman composition.
He looked exactly like the sort of Catholic high school teacher Hollywood used to cast: bald, square-jawed, stern-faced, and economical with words. He possessed the kind of commanding presence that could silence a room without raising his voice. There was nothing theatrical about him. He was not cruel or sarcastic. He simply carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who respected standards too much to pretend they didn’t exist.
What he gave me that morning was not encouragement but reality.
He measured me honestly and showed me, without apology or condescension, where I stood. My writing was not yet good enough.
Looking back, I realize that his verdict was one of the greatest gifts a teacher ever gave me. He refused to flatter me with comforting illusions or lower the bar so I could feel accomplished. Instead, he pointed me toward the work I needed to do.
Nearly half a century later, I remember him not with resentment but with gratitude. Sometimes the most compassionate teacher is the one who tells us the truth before anyone else is willing to do so.
Cinemorphosis 
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