Great Whitman Teachers

In the March 2000 issue of the Whitman Magazine, president Tom Cronin wrote about the special qualities of gifted teachers, and former students recalled 15 long-time Whitman College professors. President Cronin invited readers to send in their own stories of memorable Whitman faculty, coaches, and advisers. Among those who felt compelled to write was Douglas Pease, '85, whose essay we feature on these pages along with excerpts from a few other responses.

Minor Epiphanies
By Douglas Pease, '85

The day I left Whitman College I bumped into Professor Walter Broman as he was making his way across Ankeny Field. He wore his customary string tie, and had an armload of books, with a sheaf of papers peeking out between them. "I've been doing some cartoons," he said, pointing to the papers. "I really should have been a cartoonist."

I was too young and embarrassed to tell him what I needed to tell him, which was that he had saved my education, so instead I asked to see the cartoons. He pulled out a few and rifled through them. He wasn't shy, exactly, but he had a streak of humility that was downright anachronistic in 1985. I don't remember the cartoons at all, but I do remember the flowing lines and sketchy energy of them. I leafed through them quickly, trying to gather the nerve to say something grateful, then I handed them back and said, "Those are great." It's very difficult, after all, to be 21.

Walter Broman taught at Whitman from 1957 until his retirement in 1987 as the Mary A. Denny Professor of English Emeritus. He also served as chair of the English department and of the Division of Arts and Humanities. Reporting to his Whitman office every day, he continues to write book reviews for publication and work on translations of Swedish poetry.

Five years earlier, at the end of my freshman year, I'd had an encounter with [professor] Patrick Henry at the dry cleaners in Walla Walla. "Whadya doin' here?" he said, his New York accent stronger than my own mother's.

"Getting my dry cleaning," I said.

"Nah, nah, that's not what I'm talkin' about. I mean, what are you doin' here? What are you doin' in college? You're blowin' it, man. You pulled a 'B' in my class, but your final essay was a piece of crap. You wrote 'Baudelaire's' in your essay about 20 times. That's not French!"

He still smoked then, and there was always a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He punctuated his sentences with a little puff of blue smoke. "You coulda written your name on that class. The 'A' was yours for the taking, and you don't give a damn, do you?"

"I guess I don't," I said, and walked off.

"Students shouldn't care about dry cleaning!" he shouted after me. "They should care about French!"

I left Whitman College that year. I had a romantic idea about traveling around and experiencing the real world. I delivered potato chips in the slums of Oklahoma City, worked at McDonald's in Virginia, and spent some time in New York, where everyone reminded me of Patrick Henry. I saw what it would be like to make my way without an education. I experienced hardship for the first time, and there was nothing romantic about it. I'd made my life difficult, challenged people to reach out to me, then rebuffed them. It never occurred to me that life is just plain difficult on its own; you take what you get and make it work, if you can. A teacher at my prep school had once said to me "Pease, you're a diamond in the rough but, my God, how rough."

In the summer of 1982, while working as a dishwasher, I re-enrolled at Whitman College for the fall semester.

My first class with Walter Broman was a required course for English majors — Chaucer, Milton, that sort of thing. I chose it over the other required option because I thought I could skate through it. I'd done the Canterbury Tales in high school and I figured I could slide without reading too much or working too hard. That was the game; get the best grade for the least amount of work.

When Broman came in (he'll forgive me if I say he was always five minutes late) and set his books on the table, I thought, "I hope I can stay awake through this." He opened the Canterbury Tales and started to talk. He closed his eyes frequently, searching, it seemed, for old thoughts, old lecture notes. He started by discussing spring, the season of pilgrimages. He talked about change, about flowers blooming, hearts opening, resolutions being made. He quoted at random in Middle English, showing a reverence for the language that was somehow unsettling. His explanations were methodical and deliberate. At one point he got off on a historical tangent about Norse mythology and the similarity between old Scandinavian and old English, then he caught himself and said, "Excuse me if I wax pedantic." At that point he looked around the room, to see if anyone was following him. Some were, some weren't, but I was sitting there, and I was listening. I was, in fact, having the first of many minor epiphanies, if there is such a thing. The bell rang, he assigned some reading, and I went back to my dorm.

To this day I consider that the first 50 minutes of my education. Something turned, something clicked, and a window opened to a world I had spent my whole life avoiding. It's just as simple as that. What we were talking about wasn't books, wasn't a game, it was Life (the capitalized one), and the history of ideas about Life.

I took every course I could with Professor Broman. His sense of humor gibed with my own, and it was, if you'll allow me, a very good sense of humor. I knew nothing about Walter Broman the person, and still don't, except for the few tantalizing bits I'd gleaned during lectures. I knew he'd served in the Second World War and been badly wounded; I knew he'd been a prisoner of war and experienced hunger; and I knew that he'd gone to the University of Chicago. That was about it. I noticed once at a faculty mixer that he didn't drink. When I asked him about this he just sheepishly said, "Yeah." I can only guess that it is the same sheepish "Yeah" I give people when they ask me why I don't drink. What I really knew about Walter Broman, the quiet man who closed his eyes a lot and hunched over his Chaucer texts (he used several), was that beneath the wispy remnants of grey hair, behind the string ties and midwestern shirts, was an absolute rebel, with a mind like none I've ever encountered.

I remember him once tilting his head back, closing his eyes, and quoting from "The Merchant's Tale" as if in a trance:

Though I be hoor, I fare as dooth a tree
That blosmeth er that fruyt ywoxen bee;
And blosmy tree nys neither drye ne deed.
I feel me nowhere hoor but on myn heed;
Myn herte and all my lymes been as grene
As laurer thurgh the yeer is for to sene.

Then he came out of the trance and looked at the group of 20-year-olds seated around the table. "This is true, you know. Your hair gets grey and your face turns old, but in your heart you always feel 20 years old. Still, now, I feel this way. Someday you'll see what I mean."

No drama, no tragedy, but oh, plenty of truth.

I am eternally grateful to Walter Broman and Patrick Henry. They are responsible for my education at Whitman College, and for the many satisfying years I've spent since, reading books and thinking about Life.

Doug Pease, '85, spent a decade in Asia teaching and traveling widely. He participated in the Whitman in China program, then worked in Japan as a teacher and later as a researcher at Kanda Institute. Dividing his time between Marina del Rey, California, and Boracay Island in the Phillippines, he now works as a yacht broker, writes, and sails, last year logging 6,000 miles in Mexican waters.

Influential teachers, exceptional people
Excerpts from letters

"In 1942 with meat rationing in full force, I killed some fat mallard ducks, cleaned them, and gave them to Dr. Rempel and his wife. They were kind enough to invite me and most of the biology class to supper. Classes were much smaller in those days. Supper was great. Dr. and wife were very pleasant company.

"Strange how small things shape a lifetime. Dr. told me after a biology test that he had given me a B-minus when I had only earned a C-plus. He knew I would have no chance at med school with a C-plus on my record. We were in a war-time program with stiff competition for only a few chances to go to med school. I was lucky."

Donald Fletcher, '47
Retired Physician/Orthopedic Surgeon
Conrad, Montana

"Several of my biology professors at Whitman profoundly affected me both personally and professionally. The first is Professor Rempel, of course. He was a master craftsman in the classroom. His lectures in embryology seemed to show me the hands of God working before my eyes. I've never lost the sense of awe and wonder at the beauties and complications of life that he introduced me to. And I've tried to convey the same sense to my students."

Bruce Voyles, '68
Patricia Armstrong Professor of Biological Chemistry
Grinnell College

"Ironically, my sociology training at Whitman included almost nothing on the topic I went on to specialize in — gender inequality. I guess this is because few sociologists questioned the division of labor by sex in the family and paid work back in the late 1960s, even though already dramatic changes were underway. However, my interest in social inequality was nurtured by wonderful courses on international and class inequalities taught by my Whitman sociology professors, David Norsworthy and Eli Chertok. I always felt I was following in their footsteps despite turning to a type of inequality they hadn't considered much. It was wonderful to return to Whitman a number of years ago and find them both every bit the open, inquisitive intellectuals that inspired me in their classes."

Paula England, '71
Professor of Sociology
University of Pennsylvania

"I believe that inspirational teachers have contributed more to shaping our lives than is commonly appreciated. [President Cronin's] words describe the passion for learning, the intellectual stimulation, and the courage and commitment that exceptional teachers bring to their work. Great teachers such as the 15 profiled in the Whitman Magazine are truly exceptional people that breed exceptional students. . . .

"Leadership is what we struggle with in business these days, and I wish that all of our leaders fit the profile of inspirational teachers that you conveyed. Whitman has it right . . . focus on the encouragement of learning and teaching excellence."

Charles R. Williamson
Whitman Parent
Executive Vice President and Director, Unocal Corporation
El Segundo, California

"The feature about 15 long-time former Whitman professors, introduced by President Cronin's essay, was most interesting to me, since I had known the first nine — from Benjamin Brown through Dr. Rempel. Of course, one of the difficulties in lists like this is that many others worthy of mention are left out. Perhaps the most obvious omission, from my viewpoint, would be that of William R. Davis, my major professor, who taught English literature at Whitman for 35 years, beginning in 1912.

Justice Douglas, '20, in his 1974 autobiography, Go East, Young Man, cited Brown and Davis as his two most influential professors at Whitman.

"Other alumni could cite different Whitman professors who influenced their lives. Only the oldest of the College's alumni would remember Drs. Bratton and Brode from their teaching days. Many students who went into careers in medicine, science teaching, or industrial chemistry learned their chemistry from my father, Frank Haigh, and Leo Humphrey.

"The music conservatory's staff had many great teachers, including Howard Pratt, who produced delightful operas and operettas."

John W. Haigh, '40
Retired Journalist
Seattle Times

[Professor Tommy] Howells polished phrases, and his phrases contained more meaning than most of ours. With his fondness for the original aphorism or epigram, this kind of professor unites profundity and polish. His sentences own a shapeliness exceeding that of most colleagues or students; his talk dances gracefully between the sermon and the poem. He makes, in fact, the sermon and the poem one. . . ."

Alan Weltzien, '74, Professor of English
Western Montana College of the University of Montana from "Two Great Professors," College Teaching, Fall 1994