Once in a great while you have a teacher worth remembering. The great ones make lasting impressions and make learning fun and interesting. It’s clear that they love what they do.
In 1972 I was a freshman at the University of Illinois at Chicago. I commuted to school. Two trains got me there in a little over an hour if I timed connections right. Factor in Chicago weather and it was often an unpleasant beginning and end to the school day.
Following a brief “encounter” with the school of Engineering, I spent most of the next two years taking the 100 level class in just about every discipline, hoping to find something that appealed to me and that might lead to a career. Poetry 100 was a brief stop on my journey to self-discovery.
Consider the times. As I went through high school, men walked on the moon, students were killed in protests at Kent State, riots broke out at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago. They were turbulent times. The music of my generation was super-charged with emotion and passion. Disco music had not yet arrived.
Carroll conducted the April 1969 interview with Ginsberg for Playboy magazine. He reminisced openly about their friendship during class. Recounting a typically scandalous event that made local headlines, Carroll chastised his friend,
The class also served as Carroll’s personal open mic. It was a treat to hear him read from his own work, and in one case from a draft of the poem he had been commissioned to write for the dedication of the “Bat Column” located outside the Harold Washington Social Security Administration Building at 600 West Madison Street.
The professor disdained grades. On the first day of class he told us that all we had to do to get an “A” for the quarter was to write twelve poems. Often we had to read them to the class. His was a tough act to follow.
He also loathed rhyming poetry. He introduced me to free verse. I unwittingly stepped into a trap with the reading of my first of twelve poems. It was a rhyming masterpiece that Carroll ripped to shreds, going on a tirade about “moon and June” and other such rubbish. I think it bothered him that the class applauded after my reading. I sunk into my chair and never openly rhymed again.
|The Bat Column|
I walked between classes with Professor Carroll one spring morning. I recall it being unusually sunny and pleasant, despite the almost overwhelming abundance of granite and concrete that comprised the campus infrastructure. During our conversation, I apologized for missing several classes. My mother was suffering from Lupus at the time. Things at home were rather unpredictable. I mentioned that my father had died several years earlier. Carroll had lost his own father when quite young. The look on his face was one of uncharacteristic vulnerability. I had hit a nerve. That’s what poets do.
Paul Carroll retired as professor emeritus in 1992. He died in 1996 in North Carolina where he lived with his wife Maryrose.
Visit the following link for a short interview with Paul Carroll