Wouldn't Go Back

Written 10/16/23 | Finalized 01/14/24 | Special thanks to P. Bryson

Would you go back in time to change something in your past if you could? Most of us would, no doubt. Who wouldn’t want to seize the opportunity to go back and fix a mistake, reverse a regret, or say one last good-bye? It’s human nature to contemplate what might have been if something had been done differently. This classic “What if?” question has been harnessed by creatives all over the world for centuries. It has led to box office bonanzas and has given some franchises exhausting longevity. Whether it’s Terminator or Back to the Future, we’re endlessly fascinated by the idea of going back in time to change the past for a more ideal present.

There is a laundry list of things I’d like to change if I could go back in time. Bullies I wish I had confronted. Words I wish I had said. Injuries I wish I had prevented. It’s a relatively generic list similar to those most people have, I imagine. While there’s a hundred things I would change if I was given the opportunity, there are a handful of chapters I wouldn’t touch. One of those chapters is college. For six years, college was a top-five contender for parts of my personal timeline that I most wanted to change. Although it was only a two-year period, it was an emotional roller coaster ride. And I absolutely hate roller coasters; literal or otherwise. However, if you were to ask me today if I would pick a different university for my bachelor’s degree, I’d say no. Not a chance. I would keep everything exactly as it was.

Here’s why.

My college journey began at culinary school. Like any kid fresh out of high school, I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was that one was supposed to pick a major and go to college for more studying. As with so many in my generation, I was brought up on the enthusiastic philosophy of “Follow your dreams and it’ll all work out”. It was just a matter of figuring out what those dreams were. Cooking was fun, so that’s where I started.

Culinary school was an adventure and a much-needed learning experience. After a year though, I realized cooking was not my life-long calling. Writing was. The art of storytelling. Using words to bring thoughts, ideas, and all things starting with “Once Upon a Time” to life. As a kid, I filled empty notebooks with sketches and colored-pencil drawings. Each of those completed notebooks, despite being illustrations only, was a story. Now I could go a step further and add words to those pictures. It was an easy decision. I switched majors and continued onwards. Fast forward two years later, I'd earned a culinary certificate, an associate’s degree, and an acceptance letter to Holy Family University to complete my bachelor of arts.

Why HFU for an aspiring writer? For the singular reasons of practicality and convenience. The school was a fifteen-minute commute, my cousin was already a student there, and I’d been awarded a scholarship. There had been endless pitches during my campus tour about how the university supported and encouraged its students to be go-getters and engage in the school community. I was assured there were courses that incorporated works of J.R.R. Tolkien, my favorite author and literary role model. I was also promised there was a thriving theatre department.

I was sold.

But the stardust and rainbows faded after the first month. The vast majority of my classes were a repeat of high school, both in terms of material we studied and the maturity of the room. Group discussions gravitated towards feelings and unrelated tangents more than anything else. Interest in starting anything new, like an American Sign Language elective, was dismissed as irrelevant.

There was no theatre program, either. Just a dirty, abandoned stage the size of a walk-in closet and two acting classes promoted in the course catalog that were never offered.

There was no sign of Tolkien anywhere.

To say I was irritated at being duped by the academic equivalent of a car salesperson would be an understatement. I was angry. So, you might be wondering, why not transfer to another college? Because by that point, I’d been in school for four years. I wanted to be done. I was tired of homework and sick of term papers. It’d only be two more years, anyway. Only five more semesters before sweet, sweet freedom. How bad could it be?

So I stayed.

However, before I finished school forever, I wanted one last thing: I wanted Tolkien to be part of my education. Not only has he been my favorite storyteller since before I could read (and my inspiration to be a writer), but he’s an overlooked and underappreciated influence in English literature. He held to hope in a time of despair and gave the world the masterpiece that is Middle-earth. I was determined to have Tolkien included in my higher education, even if that meant it would be up to me to make it happen.

That’s exactly what I did.

Instead of focusing time and energy on schoolwork, I began what would be a nearly two-year endeavor to get a Tolkien class green-lit. I had no idea how demanding that endeavor would be. Throughout the duration of my self-made Tolkien quest, I followed one personal motto: Just don’t take no for an answer. It’s a relatively simple practice, but exhausting nevertheless.

My first step was to email the English department dean. When my inquiry remained unanswered, I sent another. This time to all teachers in the English department. That got things moving.

“There’s really no room in the curriculum for Tolkien,” the dean told me in her office during our first meeting. Strange, I thought. The current curriculum has literature courses about zombies yet it doesn’t feel one about Tolkien would be compatible. Trust me, I said to myself. There’s room. Plenty of it. So I began collecting evidence in support of Tolkien.

“There’s not sufficient interest,” The dean said to me at our second meeting. So I created flyers and ads and posted them all over campus. Then I followed up with a list of signatures from interested students.

But even that wasn’t enough. There wasn’t an existing model for a class about Tolkien. No materials, structure, or templates. Nothing tangible. I spent weeks researching course samples, collecting information and gathering sources, and built a comprehensive syllabus from scratch.

“There’s no Tolkien expert on the University’s staff,” the dean told me at our third meeting. So I then exhausted additional weeks investigating professors from schools far and wide for a suitable candidate. I reached out to the English departments of Villanova, Cabrini, Bryn Athyn, Drexel, and more. After dozens of emails, I found a qualified professor from Immaculata University who was eager to participate in the project.

“The teacher has to be an existing full-time member of Holy Family’s staff,” the dean explained at our fourth meeting. Crap, I remember thinking after a number of silent curses. What do I do now? I was only through my first year at HFU. I hardly knew anyone. It was down to the wire. I couldn’t let the momentum stop. All I had left was a hunch and a Hail Mary pass.

At this point, you’re probably wondering what on Earth all this has to do with going back in time to change the past. Sounds more like a chronology of unfortunate events, doesn’t it? You’re not wrong. But this is context. The reason I wouldn’t change this particular chapter of my life is because of one man: a professor I had for World Religions during my first semester at HFU.

Why this professor, specifically? Because his midterm had a multiple choice section and one of the possible answers for a question about paganism was “Japor Snippet.” Sounds like something ancient that would be used in pagan rituals, right? Wrong. As any nerd knows, the japor snippet is the necklace young Anakin Skywalker gifted to Queen Amidala in The Phantom Menace. This professor wasn’t just a nerd; he was a hard-core nerd.

So I sent the email and crossed my fingers.

He responded.

He was intrigued by the proposition. Turns out he’d been an avid fan of Tolkien longer than he’d been a teacher. He knew the intricacies of the 20th century author and the expansive mythology of Middle-earth. It would be his pleasure to lead the endeavor for a Tolkien class.

Over the next year and a half this professor handled all the behind-the-scenes tasks required to get the class up and running. The political side of things. He collected everything I’d researched and prepared, and carried it across the finish line. He helped me with this project in the midst of being a busy full-time teacher and devoted family man. He never complained once.

Finally, after months of persistence, hurdles, and red tape, Tolkien was officially listed in Holy Family University’s course catalog for Fall 2017. “Philosophy of J.R.R. Tolkien” it read, bold and proud. What began as an independent goal evolved into a mutual endeavor, and had now concluded with a shared success. It had taken two years. Seven hundred and twenty days. Four whole semesters.

We did it.

I was ecstatic. For the first time since I started at HFU, I couldn’t wait for the semester to begin. But this time, once the semester was over I’d be finished school forever. No more cookie-cutter essays or mind-numbing lectures. Just fifteen more weeks and I’d be free with Tolkien officially part of my education.

Five days before classes started I got a voicemail from the Academics department. My Tolkien class had been canceled.

It was midday when I got that call on my flip phone. I stood in the narrow hallway of the bakery where I worked listening in horror to the earth-shattering news. I felt the blood drain from my face. I had one of those world-stands-still moments you see all the time in movies. I called the school immediately and then my professor. But my pleas and arguments were useless.

Tolkien was canceled.

It was canceled because there weren’t enough students registered for the class. It was a pathetic excuse. And a down-right lie. Philosophy of J.R.R. Tolkien had space for twenty-four students and there were twelve of us registered. What made the school’s cancellation infuriating though was the fact that during my two years at Holy Family, I’d been in more than one elective that had a total of three students enrolled. Why was my class the exception? I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening.

Regardless of the University’s unsubstantiated verdict, I had to scramble to fill the void left by my canceled class. I chose Logic 101 because it was on my Tolkien professor’s roster. It was a shred of consolation for an otherwise disastrous start to the semester, but it wasn’t Philosophy of J.R.R. Tolkien. It wasn’t what we’d worked so hard for.

Over the next fifteen weeks I endured the monotony of irrelevant lectures. I watched my New England professor rant and rave in his literature class about how he’d been seduced by hurricanes ever since Katrina in 2005. I listened to my senior thesis professor follow one tangent after another about cute cat videos on the internet. And I felt all my creative juices evaporate when I was assigned my thesis topic. I sat in the classes of my last semester day in and day out, numb and deflated. Frustrated at the unfairness of being robbed of Tolkien. Wanting to scream and cry angry, exasperated tears.

But I did none of that.

I finished Holy Family University on December 15, 2017. I stepped off campus for the final time that Friday with a copy of the syllabus for Philosophy of J.R.R. Tolkien and my professor’s respect. That, in my opinion, was the only thing I earned during my two years at the university. I am still proud of that accomplishment.

The anger and hurt of what happened to my last semester lingered like a grudge years after I graduated. For a long while, I wished I could go back in time and pick a different college. One with an actual creative writing program, a thriving theatre department, and uncancelable classes. However, if I was given the chance today to go back to 2015 and enroll in a different school, I wouldn’t take it. I wouldn’t change a thing. Sure, the heartbreak of missing out on Tolkien won’t fully go away. But what came from my time at Holy Family turned out to be far greater than one class. And as the years passed, perspective helped me understand why.

Because I went to HFU, I was able to keep a full-time job. That full-time job allowed me to save up for a month-long adventure to New Zealand.

Because I went to HFU, I got an internship with a children’s theatre company. That working relationship would not only turn into a recurring contract for the next four years, but would be the reason I’d get my first professional contract with Bristol Riverside Theatre in 2019.

Because I went to HFU, I had the unexpected pleasure of participating in two fascinating literature classes. The first delved into the intricacies of Shakespeare and his plays. The second explored the rich and extensive history of the English language. These classes were both taught by a professor who had the mannerisms of a kindly grandfather and the knowledge of a sage elder. He had a warm, gruff voice, a twinkle of mischief in his eye, a snowy white beard, and a tweed cap to match his tweed jacket. No matter what he was teaching about, he taught like he lived it.

Most importantly, however, because I went to Holy Family University, I had the opportunity to work with and learn from a remarkable person. A wise and humble person who shared my love of Middle-earth and awe of the man who created it. A person who I would come to revere as my Tolkien professor.

He’s a one-of-a-kind teacher. He cares about his students and less about traditional teaching methods. Learn for the sake of learning, not just for high marks. Teach how to think, not what to think. Those are his prominent philosophies. Students are his priority, not just statistics or seat fillers. He makes a point to ensure each of them know they matter even if they don’t care. Even if they don’t think it’s important. “The world is a better place with you in it”, he would tell us every Friday during roll call. 

He’s wonderfully different, unlike most professors I’ve come across in my educational career. He’s a few inches shy of tall with a brown goatee and an agile gait. His professional attire consists mostly of comfortable polos and khakis, and sometimes a complementary blazer. Always a practical pair of white sneakers. He’s undaunted and serious about his craft, but doesn’t take himself too seriously. He has a refreshingly relaxed teaching style as well. He educates without making it feel like it’s an education. In class he talked to us, not at us. There was no script or checking off boxes on the syllabus, either. He engaged his students with matter-of-fact dialog and witty humor.

I also came to discover that not only was he well versed in academia but fluent in all things sci-fi and pop culture. Nerds had a place in his classroom. Food was highly important, too, especially Indian cuisine. If there was ever a way to get him onto a tangent, that man could talk about food for the entire class period.

I could relax during his lectures which was a welcomed change. That’s not to be confused with slacking off – far from it. He expected hard work and active participation from each of his students. There were no free rides. Unlike most classes where I sat behind my desk each day anxious about what nonsense would be thrown at me, in my Tolkien professor’s classroom, I could focus on just absorbing the day’s lesson. That’s a credit to his character. It’s not dominated by the impressive letters that follow his name. The “Ph.D” reflects an accomplishment, not the essence of who he is.  He’s an absolute nerd (I mean that in the best way) and carries that enthusiasm into his teaching practices.

That’s why I wouldn’t go back and change my college experience. Not only because of New Zealand and theatre, but because of him. Because of the dynamic forged in those two years at Holy Family University, and because of his continued mentorship today.

He is my editor. This privilege began four years ago in 2020. During the chaos of that pivotal year, I officially began building my writing portfolio. I needed a proofreader and that’s not something just anyone can do. Editing is a tricky thing. It’s less about “Do this” or “Do that” and more about knowing how to help the author arrive at the conclusion themselves. It’s about knowing how to trigger the answer without spelling it out. This is especially true for fiction writing. Most writers have ideas scattered here and there in no sensible order. Just a million thought scraps stewing in a great big pot of imagination. An editor helps the author collect those idea bits and translate them from head to paper accurately. When done successfully, those ideas become stories which can entertain readers for generations. But I didn’t have an editor, not in the beginning. I had no one who was expertly trained and experienced. No one who knew me well enough to know how to guide my raw creativity and mold it into coherent writing. No one I trusted. I needed someone who could not only catch my mistakes, but who could also be a coach, advisor, and ally. No small task. Who could possibly be that kind of Kenobi for me?

I sent one more Hail Mary pass email.

He responded.

I couldn’t have asked for a better editor. He’s patient with an unpolished rookie, a rookie who does make the same mistake more than once. “Read, read, read! You can’t write if you do not read,” he reminds me often. “Don’t get in the way of your reader’s imagination.” I am never short of homework. But his tone is never condescending. There are no gimmicks or sugarcoating. He calls it like he sees it. His challenges are constructive tools designed to nudge me out of my comfort zone and towards that of a proficient writer.

The customized guidance and advice he offers are more valuable than gold. He genuinely cares and wants to help me succeed. It’s like it’s embedded in his DNA. His instinct is to take someone who’s hungry to learn and provide them with a full-course meal of knowledge. He’s an educator after all. Shaping the minds of students is his job. But it’s different when it goes beyond the classroom. The mentorship I’m fortunate enough to have exists only because he chooses to teach off the clock, not because that’s what his semester roster dictates. It’s both humbling and freeing to have an open dialog with someone who’s not only a master of their craft, but happy to pass their wisdom on to a novice without a second thought.

My Tolkien Professor is generous with his free time, too, despite having very little of it. Our phone sessions can last anywhere between an hour to three. They usually take place in the evening; half of the time it’s on a school night with an early class the next day. But he’s never shown any signs of fatigue or boredom. He’ll answer a grammar question via text or correct punctuation errors in my Google doc on the fly. Sometimes he’ll check in just to see how I’m doing. Even though months can pass between our workshops, he is still there ready to pick up where we left off. He remains a full-time professor and an active family man.

He has never turned me down. Not once.

There are a number of things in my past I wish I could change. I would not, however, change my time at Holy Family University. It may have been a sour experience, but there were good parts too, albeit few. I didn’t leave empty handed either. I graduated summa cum laude with an official diploma for Bachelor of Arts. I finished what I started even though there were many times when I wanted to walk away. More importantly however, HFU was the start of a chain reaction. A slow-burning reaction granted, but one that turned out to have a profound payoff. I was robbed of Tolkien, but found a mentor. That alone is more precious than all the perfect pasts in the world.

I am a writer. A writer who has a lot to learn, but a writer nonetheless. It’s a path I’ve chosen and thanks to the unexpected twists and turns along the way, I now have my own personal Gandalf to guide me on the uncharted road that lies ahead.