Dear Dr. Vereen Bell,
It’s been thirty years since I first sat in your Modern American Novel class as a freshman, right there in the second row. Each week, I dedicated my weeknights to the library, studying until closing, before returning to my dorm. There, the sounds of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin,” sung by my hallmates after their late nights out, filled the air.
These fellow students, the “Madonna girls,” seemed to navigate college life with an ease I envied. They came from well-resourced high schools, boasting SAT prep courses and robotics clubs. My background was different – a public high school in Alabama with devoted teachers but limited resources.
As valedictorian of Fairhope High, I was accustomed to taking initiative. I’d led fundraisers for school computers, organized dances for adults with cognitive disabilities, and rallied students to improve our less-than-sparkling bathrooms. High school was about changing the world; college became about understanding myself and how to Learn And Write effectively.
Within my first week at Vanderbilt, the reality of my academic preparation, or lack thereof, hit home. I understood that persistence was my key to catching up. I found allies in the ‘geeks’ on my floor, claimed a library carrel as my own sanctuary, and nervously awaited the grades for our first paper – an analysis of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
Your Modern American Novel course was structured around a book-a-week model throughout the semester, diving into classics like Native Son, The Great Gatsby, and Song of Solomon. Each week offered the opportunity to submit a two-page essay on the current book. While the specifics are hazy now, I recall that the final grade was determined by averaging the highest scores from around six papers, alongside weekly quizzes.
It was a strategic game. We could gamble, writing only the minimum six papers, or play it safe, writing an essay for each novel. It was a lesson in probability, if nothing else.
You, with your spectacles, tweed jacket, and wry smile, would stand before us, calling out names to return our graded papers. Each paper was folded in half with a practiced flick of the wrist, concealing both the grade and your written feedback. When you called my name, I reached out and unfolded the paper to find a single, unforgettable question: “Where did you learn to write like this? Come see me.”
One question. One sentence. Eleven words, mostly monosyllabic, delivering a punch. And beneath it, a single, stark letter: F.
My face flushed, and my breath grew shallow, as if asthma had suddenly struck. 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, I kept that failing grade a secret.
At that stage, fear of failure and a drive to follow instructions were deeply ingrained in me. The next day, I made an appointment to see you. Your office was a revelation – a vast space with floor-to-ceiling windows. To me, it felt like a campus palace, much like a child’s backyard can become an imagined wilderness.
In that meeting, the specifics of essay structure elude me now. However, I clearly remember your offer: if I wrote an essay for every novel and brought it to you before the deadline, you would provide feedback for revisions.
You offered a lifeline. And I seized it. Immediately, I began bringing you every essay, followed by its revised iteration. I typed and re-typed on an IBM Selectric, Wite-Out always at hand, correcting errors and refining my prose.
For the first time, I grasped the transformative power of revision. And at the semester’s end, after averaging my highest six grades, I earned an A- in your class.
Where did I learn to write? It wasn’t a single semester’s achievement. It was in that class that I truly began to learn and write through asking for help—a practice I continue to this day. That revision boot camp sparked an unusual addiction in a student: a craving for feedback. For the remainder of my college years, I consistently submitted papers early, seeking revisions before final deadlines, driven as much by insecurity as by a thirst for improvement.
DANIEL DUBOIS
A failing grade on a paper can be a turning point, prompting students to seek help and learn the power of revision.
Dr. Bell, your tenure at Vanderbilt spanned over five decades, 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 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 I can’t attest to the “naughty” aspect, as a college professor myself now, 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 or scathing course evaluations. Yet, I am unafraid to require students to meet with me, to submit drafts early, to utilize the writing center’s resources. My office may not resemble your grand space, but I relive that pivotal moment in your office 30 years ago with each student I guide.
“Come see me,” I now write on their papers. And together, we unlock the power of revising our words, fostering a collaborative approach to learn and write that echoes the lesson you so powerfully taught me.
Yours truly,
Mallory
Mallory McDuff, BS’88, is currently a professor of environmental studies and outdoor leadership at Warren Wilson College in Asheville, North Carolina. Her essays and opinion pieces have appeared in publications such as USA Today and The Huffington Post. More information is available at mallorymcduff.com.
Vereen Bell, professor of English, emeritus, retired from Vanderbilt in 2013 after 52 years of dedicated teaching.
