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“What the hell--”

I don't remember any overt hostility. I remember that the professors, even when I was an undergraduate, lower classman, freshman or sophomore, the professors would -- were gentle, and would talk with me, you know. I guess they were trying to keep me within some manageable bounds. But I liked my professors.

I remember a man who taught me German. He was a German, and a very interesting man. He was patient and kind. There were very few of us in his class, about three or four of us, and he was very patient. I wasn't the most brilliant student in German anyway, and he was kind, and he would spend some time after class, you know, trying to explain the logic of the language to me.

The end of my first semester with him, he committed suicide. I remember another German teacher --

This is now my first two years. I'm trying to recall the things that had some impact upon me, and they were teachers, really, again. There was a black woman who taught me German too, and she was a fascinating woman, fluent in the language, you know. Again, I remember a sort of a gentle, patient kindness. I guess most of the teachers whom I remember were teachers who communicated a, this quality of helping you overcome your limitations -- and Lord knows I had a lot of them, you know -- but didn't give up on you.

I had an English teacher. She was hunchbacked. Gee, I don't quite remember her name, but I will. She did more to give me a sense of the beauty, the structure, the logic of the English language than anyone that I recall up to that time. I mean, she was severe, and I