Thoughts on terror profs

By definition, “terror professors” are those species of educators endowed with the terrifying ability to germinate seeds of horror in the hearts of unknowing students. Though they generally take the form of kindly, arthritic senior citizens, encounters with the younger and more robust types have also been recorded. Terror profs can be classified according to their mode of attack; from the full-frontal blows of massive course requirements, to the sneaky ambushes of mind-numbing examinations. Methods exist to defend against this type of creature, the most popular being through early intervention. Here, students immerse themselves in extensive and laborious research — gathering gossip from the university grapevine and wind-surfing the World Wide Web — before enlisting in any classes. Of course, no amount of early intervention can deter the hand of fate, especially if that hand happens to belong to the school administration.

In my case, I guess I must have done something in a past life, since, not only did the memo “Priority: Freshmen” bypass me completely, our fancy registration system thought it better to welcome me to university life with classes under two bona fide terror professors. “Bona fide” in the sense that they were the walking encyclopedias of their respective faculties (in short, over 60), carried surnames that could elicit gasps (and sometimes a barrage of swear words) from older students, and normally came to class decked in the national costume of their feared species: a polo shirt and slacks. I realize that I may be coming off as overdramatic compared to the rest of the student population (who’ve maybe had at least 10 of these professors), but the fact remains that I was but a wee freshman — and they were scary.

For the first semester, there was my Sociology 101 professor — a simple, unassuming, silver-haired lady who could speak French and burn through walls (or misbehaving students) with her X-ray vision. On the second day of classes she assigned us a paper on the history of Sociology — emphasizing our use of citations (heaven forbid the information would come from mere students) and strongly hinting at the exclusive use of the library (since the Internet was the den of uncorroborated facts and fallacies) — due for next meeting. If this wasn’t an indication of the sleepless nights to come, then I don’t know what else was. My time in her class was a trauma-inducing ride of epic “firsts”: my first time to get a 28/100 on an essay exam; my first time to photocopy and read literally hundreds and hundreds of pages from three required textbooks in 48 hours; my first time to shun Wikipedia for the dusty books of the library; my first time to lose my sanity over a term paper; my first time to fail two out of four long tests; and my first time to dread a class like I dreaded Gloria Arroyo staying put even after 2010. Suffice it to say, I could not escape her, even in my dreams.

My second semester was significantly less exhausting — if not any less nerve-wracking. This time, I had to survive under the heavy, imposing, and pot-bellied frame of my Political Science 11 professor. At first, I thought that ending up in his class was a brilliant manifestation of an apology from the fates — to make up for the horrors of last semester, you see. This was because, apart from bearing a grudge against the deceptive and slacking effect of notebooks (and thus not needing such monstrosities brought to class), he did not require any papers of any sort to be submitted for the course. Our only homework was to religiously read the assigned textbook for the duration of the semester — and that was that. To further my delight, his lectures consisted of a variety of fascinating and stimulating tales that, more often than not, had little to do with the topics on hand. Did I mention there were only two examinations we had to take? Naturally, these kinds of perks are designed to conveniently blow up in one’s face sooner or later. What my prof held back in requirements, he more than made up for in his ability to hang us out to dry. Aside from a merciless habit of putting fellow classmates and myself on the spot with queries, challenges, and remonstrations, he would occasionally let slide a deluge of humiliating and sarcastic remarks if the answers were not to his liking. Moreover, those two measly exams turned out to be a nightmarish repeat of the UPCAT — if not a more effective provoker of heart-attacks. I kid you not. That said, the tiny conference room where we held classes every other day was a veritable war zone: either you loaded your arsenal with bulletproof answers and a million cups of coffee — or risked getting eaten alive.

All griping and melodrama aside, however, I must admit that I felt a gazillion light years more enlightened under these two professors than in any of my other classes combined. I not only learned how to think on my feet, I learned how to think for myself. I not only learned to analyze the assigned readings, I learned how to enjoy the insights revealed in those pages. I learned that there is no such thing as pure objectivity, but I also learned that there are still such things as integrity and principle that can coexist with the human race. Tough professors will always be seen as “terrors” in university pop culture, and their classes will likewise be just as tough. But I encourage the seemingly ill-fated student to stick it out, because, no matter how beaten up, broken, and exhausted you are after every meeting — in the end, you’ll wind up infinitely more whole than when you started…and maybe even find a friend in those seemingly impenetrable professors. Peksman.