It's funny, now, to think that 10 years ago today I had not even been to college yet, and had little inkling of what an acceptance from Skidmore would do for me. Cliche as it is, it was truly the most memorable-- and most formative-- experience of my life.
It was at Skidmore where I first got a C on a paper; led an organization; studied 1000 years of history at a time; cried in a professor's office; got into a theoretical fight with a classmate (a harbinger of what was to come, I'm afraid); presented at a conference; taught my first class; and took risks with writing. It was at Skidmore where I was first asked, by a professor, for my opinion on something because it mattered to her -- and to the department. It was at Skidmore where I learned how to teach, just by having been taught so well by so many others. It was at Skidmore where I learned to think critically about everything, not just what was put in front of me. But most importantly, it was at Skidmore where I learned I had a voice and how to use it. Yes, my parents are the single most influential part of my life, for they told me I could do and be anything, always, but it was Skidmore, and the professors there, who told me I had to use that voice.
The motto of Skidmore, now, is "Creative Thought Matters." It's admittedly cheesy, but I think that now more than ever I am learning how important that statement is. I teach so many students each semester who do not know the value of creative thinking. They have interests, and many of them want to learn about their interests. But I see so many colleges and programs that do not want to foster a sense of creativity and critical thinking in places where it matters-- where it has weight, substance; where it can be seen and heard and felt.At Skidmore, I was always treated as a whole person, not just a student who got good grades. My ideas were valued, appreciated, respected-- even if they were incorrect or naive. There was just something about the professors I encountered there who knew that undergraduates, not unlike young children, need space to develop and take risks and think and speak freely. They knew that people have many, many facets, and they developed programs that would extend interests, hone skills, and-- most importantly-- plant new seeds so that other facets could develop.
It was at Skidmore where I found my vocation. Previously, I had wanted to be an English professor ("But, wait", you might be saying. "Isn't that what you want to do now?"). But during my junior year, a new professor told me that if I wanted to be an English professor, I'd better go into Rhetoric and Composition, because there weren't any jobs elsewhere. And when I protested, she outlined for me the non-financial reasons I should do it; the first one being that my papers were about rhetorical concerns and that she felt I had something real to contribute to the field. When I left her office, I thought about what she had said, and dismissed it until a few weeks later when I had time to research. I found out that being a Rhetoric and Composition scholar was what I had always wanted. Weeks later I thanked her for suggesting that, we had continued to be in touch up until 2 years ago. I mention this anecdote because I doubt that this kind of thing happens at too many other places; at how many places are students directed to go into a field because their professors learn about them as people? Without her, I would be a struggling Victorian scholar with no real job prospects, but more importantly, I would be without the commitment to teaching and pedagogy that being a Rhet/Comp scholar has given me.
So 10 years from that momentous Valentine's Day, I look back at the scholar I have become. I look at what my parents worked tirelessly to give to me, and I couldn't be happier -- and more in awe-- of what a simple Valentine's Day letter could bring. Without Skidmore, without the education I received there and the opportunities I was given, without the facets I developed, I know I would not be ready to write my dissertation on a subject I care deeply about. I suppose that Valentine's Day befits the sentiment in a way that no other day does... how could I have known, then, the profound influence a Valentine's Day acceptance would have? I think Skidmore must have known what they were doing and the lifelong love affair such a Valentine would bring.
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