Changing of the Guard

As an undergraduate in physics, I spent my fair share of hours huddled with other students in instructors' offices of varying shapes and sizes. I was sometimes a lazy student, and thus fell victim to the tendency to beg for answers when deadlines loomed too near. It had seemed largely custom for instructors to eventually lead students by the hand to the longed for quantity or expression. Every once in a while, though, I'd take a class with a professor who would always make me work for my answers.

I vividly remember one particular office visit with Dr. Tenn where I asked him about a problem in his Modern Physics class. He was a serious man of small stature with fading dark hair. Dr. Tenn seldom showed any overt signs of emotion or humor, but his lectures betrayed an unspoken passion for his subject. His office was rather large for a professor's office, with many bookshelves containing physics and mathematics books and periodicals collected over a long career as a dedicated purveyor of knowledge, and several metal filing cabinets that housed, among other things, the physics department's student files about each of us. His office was also quite literally surrounded by classrooms, depriving it of any windows, and making it easy to lose track of time while within its walls.

I don't remember the particular problem I was seeking an answer to during the encounter, but I went into that office looking for the answer, not the solution. Dr. Tenn greeted me and had me sit down in a chair next to the side of his desk. I reviewed the problem with him expectantly, hoping that the visit would be short and fruitful. Fruitful, of course, in the sense that it would minimize the amount of time I'd have to spend "solving" the problem. To my initial chagrin, he knew my designs and simply pointed out the proper starting point. Dr. Tenn then turned back to his computer, leaving me to my struggle in the seat beside him.

After several minutes of trying to rework the problem, I felt a sudden rush as I saw the path to the solution come into focus. I checked my work with Dr. Tenn. His eyes lit up as he resolutely clasped his hands together and proclaimed, "And you did it yourself!" He was genuinely excited for my discovery. He was teaching for the all the right reasons.

I had several excellent professors throughout my college career, but any time I think about an exemplar of what it really means to teach, I think of that day in Dr. Tenn's office. After beginning this writing, I checked the department’s web page to see what Dr. Tenn was teaching, only to find him listed as Professor Emeritus at the bottom of the faculty page. His retirement, though well deserved after nearly four decades of teaching, deprives the coming generations of physics students of a great mentor and resource.

It is my sincere hope that my own attempts at educational outreach meet with even a fraction of the success that Dr. Tenn’s did for me and for countless other students privileged enough to seat before him over the years.