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My Best Teacher

I’m sorry I don’t remember the name of the best teacher I ever had, a woman who taught me College Algebra when I was a freshman at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.

That was the “bone head” math class of that era but for me it would be a challenge — I had failed College Algebra in high school.   That’s why I had to take it again in college, and pass, to stay in school. Because some of my high school grades were so poor UNC required me to pass two math courses and four foreign language courses by the end of my sophomore year.  Or go home.

I was nervous.  I figured College Algebra in college would be every bit as hard as College Algebra in high school, or harder.

But on the first day of class this woman said I could make an “A” if I tried.  This is what she told my class:

  • I know all of you have had trouble with math, but you are smart enough to learn College Algebra or you would not have been admitted to UNC.
  • I know this subject well and I am an excellent teacher.
  • When you run into a problem I will help you. Come and see me during my office hours if you can.   If you can’t, I’ll see you at other times, outside of my office hours.
  • If you come to class, and study, you can make an “A,” every one of you.  And then she said, “I want you to make an ‘A.'”

I took her at her word. I went to class. I studied. On at least a half a dozen occasions I went to see her to get help with a problem. I killed the final. I made an “A.”

Coming Monday: The Memo I Ignored

Whose Fault Was It?

The public information officer from the Department of Insurance arrived at The News & Observer late one afternoon –some of them always came late because that left us with less time to check out whatever they had to say– and demanded a correction.

He showed the city editor the press release he said he had delivered to The N&O the previous afternoon, he showed him the story we had published, and he pointed out the difference, the error.

There was nothing the city editor could do but order a correction.  He told Doug McInnis, the reporter who had rewritten the press release, to write what we called a “Beg,” short for “Beg Your Pardon,” the headline that always appeared over our corrections.

But Doug said no, it wasn’t his mistake.  He said the flack must have changed the news release.

Huh?

As much I mistrusted some government public information officers –you couldn’t believe a word some of them said– I thought Doug had lost it. Even a really bad flack  wouldn’t do something like that. “Flack,” by the way, is a derogatory term that was often applied to a PIO in the old days. 

Doug started looking for the news release he had been given and when he couldn’t find it anywhere on his desk, or his trash can, he began going through trash cans of all the government reporters. When he couldn’t find it in the trash he kept right on looking.  He went to the Associated Press office on McDowell Street, next to The N&O, and he got lucky.  The AP still had its copy.

McInnis was right.

The flack had made an error in the original news release and instead of taking responsibility, he changed the news release, told our city editor that the corrected version was the original, and tried to blame his mistake on The N&O.

Coming Friday: My Best Teacher