The Creepy Professor

I just saw a report about several female students filing a lawsuit against Dartmouth University alleging that they were sexually harassed by professors at the school. According to the lawsuit, the professors plied the women with alcohol and then coerced them into engaging in sexual acts. The allegations are horrific, and far worse than my story. My story just highlights one aspect of this kind of harassment, and how it can hurt women.

I was a writing major in college, specializing in rhetoric and writing, nonfiction essays, persuasive writing and the like. I took only one or two creative writing courses because they were not required for my major. I am not going to identify the professor by name or the course that he taught. Maybe I should, but I cannot separate his conduct from the fact that I did not object to it, and I was technically an adult at the time. Anyway, I will just say that he taught a specific type of creative writing course that I was particularly interested in and really enjoyed.

It began in a way that most respectful relationships between professors and students begin: he showed a particular interest in my work. I remember meeting with him in his office — I believe he had all the students do this at various points in the course — and he was really encouraging, telling me that I should consider pursuing this type of writing as a career. After that, I started “running into him” quite frequently. I remember I was walking to school from my off-campus apartment one day and I saw him in a coffee shop on my walk. He waved, and I stopped inside to say hello. I remember he said that this coffee shop was his favorite and I remarked that I had never seen him there before even though I walked by the coffee shop regularly. He explained that he usually sat on the other side so that was probably why I hadn’t seen him. I didn’t think anything more of it and went on my way to class.

After that, I did start seeing him at the coffee shop, every morning that I walked by. On some days, I would stop by and say hello, but I usually tried to avoid it, motioning that I was late or just keeping my head down. Sometimes, I took a different route just so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. It’s not like I was scared or anything like that; I just didn’t really have anything to say to him, and there was something awkward about the interactions that made me want to avoid them.

In class, his behavior was always professional. He was complimentary of my work, but he also complimented other students’ work. It was a peer review course, so we spent a lot of time working in student groups, critiquing each others’ work. When we finished a draft, we would schedule times to meet with the professor outside of class to review the draft.

At some point during the course of the semester, the professor started encouraging me to pursue graduate studies in the area. He even recommended a specific program in the northeast that he considered to be one of the best in the country. He told me that he would gladly recommend me for the program and work with me to perfect the project I was working on so that I could submit it with my application.

Even though I had always planned to go to law school, I was excited about the prospect of looking at something different. I loved writing, but he was the first person who had ever encouraged me to make a career out of it. I started seriously considering the program he recommended, ordering more information and eventually an application. And I began working with him to finalize my manuscript so that it would be ready to submit with the application.

I cannot remember whether he was still my professor when he began giving me gifts. I think he was because I have a vague memory of thanking him after class one day, but I’m not sure about that. I remember how it started though. I received an email from him, telling me to stop by the English department at some point that day to pick up something. I assumed it was something to do with my graduate school application, but when I arrived in the English department, the receptionist handed me a bulky package with my name on it. I carried it back downstairs and opened it, finding a note and several new books inside. The note said something simple like, “I thought you might enjoy these.” Inside each book, he had written a brief inscription about why he chose the book for me.

I felt incredibly awkward about the gifts and did not know how to respond. I saw him on my way to school the next morning, so I stopped in and said thanks, and that he really did not need to do that. He acted a bit embarrassed, kind of apologizing for thinking I would enjoy them. I tried to be gracious and chatted with him about other things before continuing on my way to school. The whole thing seemed bizarre, but I assured myself that he probably did this for other students, or maybe he was just lonely and needed a friend. I told myself that I needed to be kind to him and act like it was normal so that he wouldn’t feel weird. He’s just a lonely, overweight, middle-aged man who really enjoys what he does, I told myself.

But the books kept coming. At least once a week, I would get an email from him telling me to stop by the English department. He never gave me the packages himself; he always had me retrieve them from the receptionist. It became a routine where I would run up there in between classes and the receptionist would recognize me and hand me the package. I remember one day I went up to the English department to meet with another professor. As soon as the receptionist saw me, she looked at me in a confused way and said that she didn’t have anything for me. I had to explain that I wasn’t there to pick up a package that day.

I did tell him, several times, to stop buying books for me. I told him that he could just give me recommendations and I could get them myself or check them out at the library. Like a good Southern girl, I always thanked him for the gifts, but I also tried to explain that I did not want them. It was difficult. Every book was brand new and included an inscription. I hated reading the inscriptions. They were cheesy and I was afraid that one of them was going to go too far, where I would have to confront him about it. I didn’t read the books, either. Mostly, I didn’t have time. I was an English major, so I always had a steady stream of assigned reading for my classes. I told him this as well, that he should stop giving me books because I didn’t have time to read them. Deaf ears.

I often wondered what the receptionist thought about me coming up every week to receive a sealed package from a professor. She never asked any questions. I wonder whether she ever thought to report it to anyone, like the head of the department. If she did, it must have ended there because no one ever asked me about it.

Right before winter break, I picked up a package that felt lighter than usual. When I opened it, it was really old construction paper cut into the shape of ornaments. The enclosed note explained that these were paper ornaments he had made as a child and saved all these years. He was giving them to me because he thought I would enjoy them.

It completely freaked me out. I did not know what to do, but I knew that I did not want to enjoy his childhood art project. I emailed him and, as graciously as possible, insisted that he take them back. He responded that he did not care what I did with them, but he wanted me to have them. I felt like I could only push so much because he was helping me with my grad school application. I needed his letter of recommendation because his was the only course of that kind that I had taken. And, at that point, I still believed what he had said about my talent. I relented, but I have no idea what I did with those ornaments.

At this point, I knew that there was something wrong with our relationship, but I did not know what to do about it. He was not being overt enough for me to report it to anyone. In all honesty, even if he had been more overt, I probably wouldn’t have done anything about it because I felt sorry for him. I did not want to hurt his feelings. Nevertheless, I was relieved when the course ended and I went home for winter break. Although I would still need to communicate with him about the grad school application, I no longer needed to worry about my grade in the course or having to see him in class each week. Also, my new schedule meant that I would take a different route to class in the mornings.

For a couple weeks into the spring semester, I did not see him at all and I do not think that he contacted me. I don’t know how he found out where I worked. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but I don’t think so. I worked at Starbucks, mostly evenings. It was the first Starbucks in town, so it was fairly busy. He would come through the drive thru, and I would get chills when I would hear his voice on the headset. He would order, then wait at the window for me to come and talk to him. He never came inside.

Everyone at work made fun of me when his car pulled in the parking lot, joining that “your boyfriend is here!” And things like that. Then, on Valentine’s Day, he came through the drive thru and handed me a package. I tried to refuse, but he acted like I was being absurd, “Just take it. It’s Valentine’s Day.” So I did. As he drove off, my co-workers came running over, demanding to know what was inside the package. “Probably just books,” I said, handing it to one of my co-workers to open. As she opened the package, she started laughing hysterically, “Holy shit this guy is definitely obsessed with you!” I looked at what she was holding: several DVD’s with titles like Sleepless in Seattle. Rom-coms. On Valentine’s Day.

I ended it after that. I told him that I did not want him to give me any more gifts because they made me feel uncomfortable. Something along those lines. I can’t remember if or how he responded, but he did stop.

The whole thing would be laughable if not for the fact that he had been my professor and I no longer knew whether I could trust him. Had I really earned the “A” that I made in the course? More importantly, was I really any good at this kind of writing? Good enough for a career in it? To invest in graduate school? Probably not, I decided. He obviously just wanted to sleep with me and thought that working on my grad school submission would give him more opportunities to try. I threw away the application, along with any dreams of being a professional writer.

I’ve let a couple people read the manuscript over the years, trying to gauge whether it really was any good. But no matter who it is or what they say, I never believe them, even fifteen years later. He killed that.

Like I said at the beginning, my story is nothing compared to what those women at Dartmouth endured. I just wanted to share the lasting and profound effect that can result from educators abusing their positions, even in higher education. And these are only the conscious effects that his improper advances had on my self-confidence. Who knows how the stalking has affected me? The abuse of trust? The thing that really gets me when I think about it is that I’ll never know if I was really any good, if I could have pursued an entirely different career and been successful. His behavior literally affected the course of my life, and that is unforgivable.

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