Dear Dr. Vereen Bell,
Thirty years ago, a nervous freshman, I found myself in the second row of your Modern American Novel course at Vanderbilt. Every week, I dedicated myself to studying in the library until its doors closed, only to return to my dorm where the sounds of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” sung by my hallmates after their nights out, filled the air. These girls, seemingly more at ease with college life, came from well-resourced high schools, boasting SAT prep and robotics clubs. My background was different. I was a valedictorian from a public high school in Alabama, where dedicated teachers worked with limited resources.
In high school, I was driven to make a difference. I led fundraisers to bring computers to our school, organized dances for adults with cognitive disabilities, and rallied students to improve our less-than-pristine bathrooms. High school was about changing the world; college quickly became about navigating my own academic world. Within the first week, the disparity in academic preparation became starkly clear. I realized that persistence would be my key to bridging this gap. I sought out the academically inclined students on my floor, claimed a carrel in the library as my personal space, and anxiously awaited the grades for our first paper on One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Your Modern American Novel course was structured around intensive reading – a novel a week, featuring literary giants like Native Son, The Great Gatsby, and Song of Solomon. Each week, we had the option to submit a two-page essay on the week’s book. Our final grade was determined by an average of our best six essay scores, supplemented by weekly quizzes. It was a strategic choice: gamble on submitting only six papers, or play it safe, writing an essay for every single book. A game of academic probability, if you will.
You, with your spectacles, tweed jacket, and knowing smile, stood before us to return our papers. With a flick of your wrist, you folded each paper in half, concealing the grade and your comments. When my name was called, I reached for the paper and unfolded it to find a single, unforgettable question: “Where did you learn to write like this? Come see me.”
One question. One sentence. Eleven impactful words. Beneath it, a single, stark letter: F.
My face flushed, and my breath grew shallow, like the onset of asthma. Paper in hand, I fled the classroom, practicing deep breaths all the way back to the freshman quad. Back in the sanctuary of my dorm room, the failing grade remained a secret, held close.
At that stage, fear of failure and a desire to follow instructions were my defining characteristics. The next day, I made an appointment to see you. Your office was an expansive space with floor-to-ceiling windows, an academic palace on campus, as grand as a child imagines a wilderness in their backyard.
In that meeting, the specifics of essay structure elude my memory now. However, your crucial piece of advice remains vivid: if I wrote an essay for every novel and brought it to you before the deadline, you would provide feedback for revisions. You offered me a lifeline, and I seized it. Immediately, I began bringing you every essay, followed by its revised iteration. I became intimately familiar with the IBM Selectric typewriter, with a bottle of Wite-Out constantly by my side.
For the first time, I grasped the transformative power of revision. And at the semester’s end, averaging my highest six grades, I received an A- in your class.
Where did I learn to write? The answer isn’t a single semester, but rather, I Learned It From You – I learned to ask for help, a lesson I still carry with me. That revision boot camp sparked an unusual dependence for a student: an addiction to feedback. For the remainder of my college years, I consistently submitted papers early, revising them preemptively, driven as much by a need for reassurance as by academic necessity.
Dr. Bell, your tenure at Vanderbilt spanned over 50 years, beginning in the 1960s. You were a champion for diversity within the department and a participant in the Civil Rights marches in Nashville. A colleague in Vanderbilt Magazine aptly described you as “a brilliant and caring teacher, a productive and admired scholar, a supportive if sometimes provocative and crabby colleague, a witty and refreshingly naughty presence around the department.”
While the “naughty” aspect remains outside my experience, as a college professor myself today, I confess I lack the courage to write “Where did you learn to write like this?” on a student’s paper. I envision parental phone calls and negative course evaluations. However, I am not hesitant to require students to meet with me, submit drafts early, or utilize the writing center. My office is far from palatial, yet I often find myself reliving that pivotal moment in your office three decades ago.
“Come see me,” I now write on their papers. And together, we unlock the power of revising our words. I learned it from you, and now, I pass it on.
Yours truly,
Mallory
Mallory McDuff, BS’88, currently serves as a professor of environmental studies and outdoor leadership at Warren Wilson College in Asheville, North Carolina. Her insightful essays and op-eds have graced the pages of USA Today and The Huffington Post. Learn more about her work at mallorymcduff.com.
Vereen Bell, Professor of English, Emeritus, retired in 2013 after an impactful 52 years of teaching at Vanderbilt University.
DANIEL DUBOIS
A stark reminder: The professor’s feedback paper marked with a large red ‘F’, symbolizing a turning point in the author’s academic career and highlighting the invaluable lesson, ‘I learned it from you,’ about seeking help and embracing revision in the learning process.
