That’s what I remember from my first few weeks of English 102, round one, at least in regards to content. Some twenty years later, my teacher’s name evades me, but not Hollywood director/screen writer Sam Peckinpah. Unfortunately this iconic name doesn’t conjure up warm memories. But in his defense, it actually has nothing to do with him. I’m sure if I watched some of his films or studied his clever screenplays today, his name would garner some admiration—maybe.
Years ago I had watched re-runs of The Wild Bunch and Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid. I don’t recall the story line but I do remember the shoot-em-up death scenes “Bloody Sam” had pioneered on film. I’m sure I've heard his screen adapted lines travel off the tongue of Marshal Dillon through his gun’s smoke as he shot down a black-cloaked gunslinger trying to disturb the peace in Dodge City. My preteen heart raced right along with Miss Kitty’s as she peered wide-eyed through the window of her Long Branch Saloon, hoping the Marshal had survived. And when the fight ended, the attraction that traveled through their lingering words and eyes surely made me blush. But then again, Bloody Sam’s type pads usually tapped on the harder side of the story—blood, guts and gore—1955’s style.
But for me, I must first move beyond English 102. Maybe then I can unearth a deeper appreciation of Mr. Peckinpah’s creative ways and set him free from the grave he has occupied since 1984.
You see, Dr. Nameless had, and maybe still has, a fascination with Sam Peckinpah. He even wrote a book revealing his high regard for Bloody Sam’s part in unleashing the American Cinema from a pseudo-western world. The title of my professor’s book is as elusive his name, though Dr. Nameless used it as the foundation of his class. A required purchase and reading for each of his students.
Our first assignment involved reading a chapter of Dr. Nameless’s Sam Peckinpah book. He proposed a question that we had to respond to in the form of an essay. At the time I likely found the topic rather boring. I do confess to the possibility of high levels of social distraction that year. Do consider my position as a student athletic trainer for the collegiate football team. As a freshman, some of the finest specimen XY chromosomes could create surrounded me. I’m sure my testosterone levels raged against my estrogen production, tainting any common sense a freshman girl could possess.
Did I operate at my full academic potential that year? Probably not, but that’s really not the point.
A week after I'd turned in the assignment, Dr. Nameless walked around the room, calling out names and letting papers flop like a cannon ball on top of the desks. About halfway through his stack, he said, “Jennifer Griffith,” in a firm monotone voice. I raised my sweaty hand to indicate my position amid the sea of students.
He walked over.
I smiled.
He did not.
He let go of my essay. The stapled, loose-leaf papers fell off of his fingertips, landing flat in front of me. I looked down. A red D-minus had decorated the top of my paper.
My eyes widened. A flame ignited in the pit of my stomach, consuming any poise inside of me.
I’d never made a D on any English paper.
Sweat beaded along my forehead. The only D I’d made was in high school Algebra II for a nine-week grading period. But that grade was different. Almost expected in Mrs. Terrebonne’s dreaded, but highly effective, class. I had not been in college long enough to realize Dr. Nameless held a reputation of his own. Even so, I figured I could rise above any teacher’s propensity to challenge students with a little extra instruction from them—if history repeated itself.
I swallowed the lump that had held my throat hostage for what felt like an eternity. My breathing resumed. I searched my essay for corrective marks, flipping page after page—nothing. Only my words, my essay, my thoughts. The search for what I needed—direction, correction, perimeters, encouragement—ended where I had started, with nothing.
I wondered what I could do to rise above this D-grading mark?
There was nothing from the one positioned to help me grow, learn, move beyond my current academic level, to a point I actively sought.
I flipped back to page one. D-minus. Bold red. Nothing more.
I straightened my spine to get a better viewpoint of the others who had received their essay grade. Heavy eyes, droopy lips, heads faced down. A few smiles. From what I could tell, some essays had constructive remarks. Others did not.
Dr. Nameless dismissed the class.
I had to know how to proceed.
A plan rose above my defeating thoughts. I’ll go talk to Dr. Nameless. I didn’t savor teetering on the cliff of failure with nothing to hold on to. Before I could stand up, a line had formed at his desk. A cheerleader, two football players, and a basketball player all waited with essays in hand, and I’m sure, a question trembling upon their tongues.
I joined them, bringing up the rear of the athletes on campus, all hanging from that same cliff. We could at least hold on to each other.
I started to think about the students in front of me. A pretty sturdy bunch, not just on the field, but also in the classroom. And, I happened to know the ACT scores of the two football players in front of me. Perfect. Both of them. I had gone to high school with the basketball player. He graduated with top honors. Not sure about the cheerleader, but I'd gained a little more confidence standing on the ridgeline with this superior lot of academic warriors. At least behind a pair whose brains far exceeded my capacity, according to the ACT.
Dr. Nameless stood at his desk, acting like the lead in Have Gun, Will Travel. His tongue shot off like a well-oiled six-shooter in Paladin’s hand. He must’ve sized up each questioner before the individual battle.
To kill or merely wound.
I watched the sullen faces walk away from the firing line. Sam Peckinpah’s fixation of high body counts must’ve rubbed off on Dr. Nameless. I noticed his methods garnered similar results of the academic variety.
I’d suddenly found myself quivering and face-to-face with Dr. Nameless. I looked into his craggy eyes and crinkled up face, and mustered up some courage to proceed, hoping I would be one he’d chose to merely wound.
“I got a D-minus.”
Dr. Nameless kept the bothered look going, like he owned the trademark of such discouragement and secretly reveled in bloody climaxes.
I pressed on, hoping he would engage with a hint of kindness.
He would not.
“There are no corrections. Could you tell me how I can do better in your class?”
He lifted up one gray, whirly eyebrow. I interpreted it to mean, “You idiot, you should know the answer.” Suddenly the vision of Paladin looked tame. Dr. Nameless appeared to morph into the railroad detective Harrigan from The Wild Bunch. If there was a commission, he wanted it. Dead or alive, he’d collect his money all the same at the end of the day.
Delivered in what felt like classic, Bloody Sam slow motion, Dr. Nameless replied, “I don’t like your style of writing. You might as well drop my class today because that’s the highest grade you’ll ever make in here.”
To kill.
My jaw likely hinged open. My eyes probably looked like Miss Kitty’s Long Branch Saloon fight eyes. He stepped over my body to give the next freshman a chance to live or to die at the words from his six-shooter heart. I realized Dr. Nameless wasn’t interested in cleaning out and sewing up my wound. His answer flat lined my excitement for college on the invisible screen that displays life’s emotions.
I turned around, limped out of the class and across the campus to the comptroller’s office. I officially dropped the class.
DOA—dead on arrival.
If a thought or dream had existed in regards to writing, some nameless, faceless gray-haired man shot it down in less than ten seconds when I was eighteen years old. His bullets etched discouragement into the stone that records all of the negative banter a person receives through time.
But I’ve since realized that one person’s opinion and prejudices are just that—theirs. There is life after the death of a would-be writer. Life does move on beyond the misspoken words of a grumpy, old soul.
Today, I write.
Sam Peckinpah’s opening words in The Wild Bunch was delivered by William Holden. “If they move, kill ’em.”
Maybe Bloody Sam has more in common with Dr. Nameless than I’d first thought.
Ah, Sam Peckinpah.
