Professor Best and the Accidental Awakening

I’ll be honest: in high school, my main academic aspiration was perfecting the art of the inattentive stare. If there had been a varsity letter for looking bored while doodling on the margins of a biology worksheet, I’d have had a jacket covered in them. I was a reluctant learner, which is a polite way of saying I’d rather have eaten cafeteria fish sticks for eternity than raise my hand in class. My teachers, bless their weary hearts, regarded me as the sort of student who could one day make “chronic underachiever” a recognized medical disorder.

Then came McKendree College. Suddenly, I was a freshman with a meal plan and a vague sense that “trying” wouldn’t physically harm me. First up: Ethnic Literature with Professor Evelyn Best—a woman whose name alone suggested she’d know if I was faking my way through a book report. Early in the semester, she assigned us a piece of writing. Naturally, I approached it with the enthusiasm of a cat at bath time. When she returned our papers, she requested – no no,summoned—me to her office. I was geared up to hear her suggest, gently but firmly, that college might not suit everyone. Her office was as intimidating as a basket of kittens. "Please, sit," she said warmly. I sat. She studied me like I’d just confessed to never having read To Kill a Mockingbird. “Has anyone ever told you,” she began, locking eyes with me, “that you have an amazing talent for writing? You have a distinct voice.” I turned to look behind me, thinking that she might have been referring to another person. But the only thing behind me was a dusty Ficus. This was the first time a teacher had ever praised my work for anything other than creative use of white space. I was so surprised that my inner monologue was reduced to, “Wait, am I... good at something?” She even invited me to write for the McKendree Review, which I’d thought was only for briefcase-carrying students.

That conversation was less a lightbulb moment and more an entire Home Depot lighting aisle flickering to life. Suddenly, I cared. I wanted to learn. I started showing up for class (on time!), and my confidence did this weird thing where it grew. I took on actual responsibilities: I became a Resident Assistant in Walton Hall, and by my senior year, I was student body president. Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like an imposter and started feeling at home. McKendree became the place where I accidentally found myself. Those four years were less about transforming from a slacker to a scholar and more about finally being seen—and seeing myself—through less judgmental eyes. After graduation, I stumbled into a fulfilling career in education, cycling through roles as a teacher, counselor, principal, and college professor—proof that redemption arcs aren’t just for soap operas.

Professor Best didn’t just hand me a compliment—she lobbed a life raft disguised as literary praise. And I, the former champion of the vacant stare, grabbed it like it was the last corndog at The Macoupin County Fair. That moment was less “academic awakening” and more “emotional defibrillator.” Suddenly, I cared. I showed up. I even wore shoes that weren’t flip-flops to class (not true).

That’s the magic of empathy—not the soft-focus, inspirational poster kind, but the kind that sneaks up on you mid-doodle and says, “Hey, you’re not a lost cause. You’re a late bloomer with excellent comedic timing.”

Empathy on the Rocks is built on those moments. The ones where someone sees past your slouch, your sarcasm, and your suspicious relationship with cafeteria fish sticks, and says, “You belong here.” It’s about the people who don’t flinch when you confess your flaws, but instead hand you a pen and say, “Write it down. Make it funny. Make it true.”

So here’s to the Professor Bests, the dusty ficus plants, and the glorious weirdos who remind us that empathy doesn’t have to be solemn—it can be snarky, sincere, and served with a twist. And if you’re lucky, it comes with a side of unexpected purpose and a jacket full of imaginary varsity letters.

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I Prayed to Be Straight. God Sent Glitter!

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Corn in the Nose and Chaos Next Door