Tag: future

January 6, 1999. Low expectations, and hiding in plain sight. (#203)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 4 Comments

The hills looked unusually beautiful this morning, I thought as the gas stations and fast food restaurants on the eastern outskirts of Nueces approached.  The sun was just rising, and although this was my third day back at Nueces High School for student teaching after winter break, the first two days had been cloudy.

I had just driven through those hills five days ago.  Brian Burr, my older roommate from two years ago, was long known for throwing great parties. For many years, he had given a party for the New Year back at his parents’ house in Valle Luna.  He was now a student at New York Medical College, but as he had last year, he returned home for the winter break and threw another party.  I did not enjoy this one as much as the previous year.  Not as many of Brian’s friends from Jeromeville, the ones I knew, were there.  Brian spent most of his time catching up with people he had grown up with in Valle Luna, and now that he was twenty-five years old, many of his friends had entered the real adult world and did not have much in common with a student like me.

I brought a sleeping bag, the same one I got for the Moonlight Cove trip a few years ago, and stayed the night on the floor of the Burrs’ living room, along with about ten of Brian’s other friends who were not local to Valle Luna.  Being a light sleeper, I woke up earlier than the other guests, and since I anticipated this, I brought a book to read: The Regulators by Richard Bachman, who was actually Stephen King.  Early in his career, Stephen King had written books under the pseudonym Richard Bachman, and when the media discovered that the Richard Bachman books were actually written by Stephen King, he staged a mock funeral for his alter ego.  A decade or so later, he wrote two books set in parallel universes with connections between the stories; one was published under his real name, and the other as Richard Bachman. The introduction to the book called it a posthumous work supposedly found among Mr. Bachman’s things by the nonexistent man’s nonexistent widow.  Reading kept me busy for about an hour until Brian woke up.  I left after telling Brian good morning and thanking him for inviting me.

It was around this time of morning on that day, January 1, with the sun just rising, as I left Brian’s house.  I was flipping around on the radio on the way home, looking for a good station, and a few minutes after I left Brian’s house, I heard the song “1999” by Prince.  The song was from 1983, but being that it now actually was 1999, I had a feeling I would be hearing this song many times over the next few days.  I heard it twice more on other stations before I got to Jeromeville that morning.

Now, five days later, I was almost halfway through the school year, and in my student teaching assignment, I had transitioned to a role as the primary teacher in both of my classes.  Basic Math B was doing a lesson on arithmetic and geometric sequences; as was usually the case in that class, the students who paid attention and did their work regularly seemed to understand, and the ones who did not pay attention struggled and did not care.

The other class was called Geometry, but the curriculum that Nueces High used took a more integrated approach.  Some geometry topics were introduced in the previous year’s Algebra 1 class, and some algebra topics were explored this year, particularly those that connect algebra with geometry.  Dr. George Samuels, one of my professors from the University of Jeromeville, was a co-author of this textbook.  The geometry class was learning about lines in slope-intercept form, and Kayla Welch had raised her hand to ask a question about a problem on the homework.  “Write an equation for the graph, then use the equation to find the cost of renting the bicycle for 4.5 hours,” she read.

I talked Kayla through finding the slope and y-intercept of the line on the graph; she correctly deduced that renting the bicycle cost a $12 fee, plus $8 per hour. I continued, “Now we put 4.5 hours into the equation to find the cost.”  I wrote the equation that Kayla had figured out on the board using function notation, f(x) = 8x + 12. “So what do I do to find f of 4.5?” I asked.

“Wait.  What is f?”

“That’s the equation of my function.  F of x equals 8x plus 12.”

“But where did you get f times x?”

“That doesn’t say f times x.  That’s function notation.”

Another student, Andy Rawlings, raised his hand.  “What’s a function?” he asked, confused.

Suddenly, a clear but disturbing picture of the reason for these students’ confusion began to emerge.  “You’ve never seen function notation?” I asked, pointing at the symbol “f(x).”

“No,” several of them replied.

I shook my head in frustration.  “I’m going to have a talk with Dr. Samuels,” I said angrily.

This comment lost them even further; I could tell by the looks on their faces and some confused noises that none of the students had any idea what I was talking about,  Apparently, not only had they not learned about function notation in Algebra I, like I had, but they also forgot that I knew one of the authors of their textbook.  I had told them once that I knew Dr. Samuels before, hoping that they would be impressed, but they apparently were not.  “Never mind,” I continued.  “Let’s start over from here.” I rewrote the equation without the function symbol, “y = 8x + 12,” and asked, “Does this make sense to you?”  The students who usually participated in class nodded and answered in the affirmative.

The rest of the period went on as normal.  After the bell rang, Mrs. Tracy motioned for me to come to her desk.  “They don’t see functions until next year, in Algebra II,” she said.

“I learned function notation in Algebra I,” I replied, genuinely confused.

“You were probably in all the honors classes.  These kids aren’t like you.  We just need to get them through this class so they can graduate from high school.  Most of these kids aren’t going to go to college, and if they do, it’ll probably just be Fairview Community College.  Maybe one of them will go on to a school like Jeromeville.  They aren’t ready for advanced topics like function notation.”

I just nodded, not sure what to say.  “Mmm-hmm,” I eventually replied.

“Just keep things simple.  Get them through your class.”

“I guess.”

“It’s not a bad thing.  You’re doing well so far overall.  Just think about that.”

“I will,” I said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.  See you then.”


This conversation was still on my mind that night when I showed up to The Edge, the junior high school age youth group at Jeromeville Covenant Church.  We always began the night with a short leader meeting.  The leaders sat in a circle on the floor of the fellowship hall, waiting for Faith Wiener, the intern in charge of junior high ministry whose name was probably amusing to some of the junior high school boys, to start the meeting.

We had quite a bit of turnover in our staff this year.  Adam White, the youth pastor, was still there.  Taylor Santiago, Brody Parker, Martin Rhodes, and Erica Foster were still on The Edge staff.  Hannah Gifford, the girl whom I had personally invited to join The Edge staff last year, had signed on for a second year. Noah Snyder, who held Faith’s position last year, was still on The Edge staff, but just as a volunteer.  Noah, like me, was studying to be a teacher, but for elementary school, and he was doing his student teaching through the other university in this region, Capital State.  Since he needed to focus on his teaching this year, he stepped down from the part-time paid position.  Five others from last year had left The Edge staff for other ministry opportunities. Josh and Abby McGraw had moved on to work with the high school group this year, as had Barefoot James.  Courtney Kohl and Cambria Hawley had both left The Edge to be Bible study leaders with JCF; I was in Courtney’s Bible study.

Since the start of the new year, one new leader, a freshman named Jonathan, had joined the staff of The Edge.  He showed up one Wednesday in October wanting to work with kids, after having been to J-Cov on a few Sunday mornings.  Jonathan’s heart seemed to be in the right place, although he did not act like the typical church kid.  Something about him rubbed me the wrong way.  And tonight there was someone else sitting in on our leader meeting, a taller than average, slim girl with dark brown hair that contrasted with her pale skin and blue eyes.  I knew this girl from JCF, although I had no idea that she would be here tonight.  She looked up and recognized me, so I said, “Hi, Jamie.  Are you going to work with The Edge?”

“Yeah!” she said.  “I’m going to check it out.  I was just thinking about what else I could get involved with at church.”

“Welcome!  It’s good to see you here!”

A few minutes later, when everyone had arrived, Faith called our meeting to order.  “We have a new leader tonight,” she said in her North Carolina drawl.  “This is Jamie.  Apparently you know Greg.”

“Yeah,” Jamie replied.  “From JCF.  And I know Hannah from JCF too.”

“Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself, and why you came to work with The Edge.”

“Well, I’m a freshman.  I’m from Ashwood.  I haven’t decided on a major yet for sure, but I’m thinking psychology or something like that.  And I’m looking at The Edge because I used to work with kids at my church back home, and I want to get back into that.”

“Sounds good!  Welcome!”

We went over the order of events for the night, starting with the game we would be playing.  “We’re gonna be doing the leader hunt tonight,” Faith explained.

“I love this one,” Martin said.

“Five of you will be hiding somewhere on the church property, and the kids will be looking for you.  You’ll each have a pen, and the students will have a card, and you’ll initial their card when they find you.  They’ll have five minutes to find as many of you as you can.  I’m thinking Jamie probably shouldn’t be one of the leaders hiding, since the kids don’t know you.”

“Good idea,” Jamie replied.  “That’s fair.”

“The bushes in the back behind the parking lot are always a good place to hide,” Adam explained.  “And I know Martin once hid in the church van and left it unlocked.  Are you gonna do that again?”

“I think so,” Martin replied.

“In a few minutes, when we’re done talking but before the kids show up, you can look around for good hiding places if you need to.  Plus, it’s dark, so it’s easier to stay out of sight.”

During the rest of the meeting, I thought about the layout of the church grounds, trying to think of a good hiding spot.  I had not investigated the bushes behind the parking lot well enough to know if that would work for me.  After the meeting, I walked around outside, looking to see what might offer a reasonable amount of concealment, and I suddenly got an idea for a somewhat nontraditional way of hiding.

The students began to trickle in. I overheard a girl wearing a shirt from Abercrombie & Fitch admiringly pointing out that Jonathan was also wearing an Abercrombie & Fitch shirt. “Yeah, I like their clothes,” he said. “They’re kind of expensive, but that’s my style. I can’t help what I like. And people complain about how they use sweatshops, but I just like to think I’m giving some Third World kid a job.”

Calm down, Jonathan, I thought. No one cares about your style that much. And do 13-year-old kids really think about Third World sweatshops? I walked to the other side of the room and watched some boys playing basketball on the small-sized basketball hoop and backboard attached to the wall.

After the students had arrived, Adam called them all to attention.  “Tonight, we’re going to be playing the Leader Hunt game.  If you’re hiding, stand up.”  Faith, Hannah, Martin, Taylor, and I all stood up.  “These five leaders will be hiding somewhere on the church grounds, and you have to find them.  While they’re hiding, the rest of us will read you the announcements.”

I walked outside with the others who were hiding.  “Where are you hiding?” Faith asked when we were far enough away from the building for students not to hear.

“I was thinking, I’ll just hide in plain sight,” I explained.  “I’m going to sit on the bench at that bus stop over there, looking in the opposite direction, and act like I’m waiting for the bus.”

“That’s a great idea!  Do you think it’ll trick anyone?”

“Probably not many, but it’s funny.  Unexpected.”

I walked to the bus stop as Faith went to find a hiding place in the other direction.  I was not even sure if the buses ran at this time of night.  The local buses in Jeromeville were jointly run by the city government and the student association, with schedules meant to accommodate university students traveling to campus.  Another bus agency, called Arroyobus, ran local routes in the two other cities in Arroyo Verde County, as well as commuter buses between those two cities and other cities nearby. The Arroyobus route connecting Jeromeville and Woodville also stopped at this bus stop.  I knew nothing of the Arroyobus schedule, but I assumed that a bunch of youth group kids in their early teens also knew little about bus schedules, so they not be suspicious of seeing someone waiting for a bus at 7:30 at night. This would not affect the legitimacy of my hiding place.

Jeromeville was relatively quiet at night.  Most of the noise I heard was just from traffic passing by on Andrews Road.  Andrews was a fairly busy street, and across the street a little to my left was a large shopping center anchored by a grocery store. Just on the other side of the shopping center was Coventry Boulevard, the major east-west thoroughfare in the northern parts of Jeromeville.  This time of year, it was already dark by the time The Edge began, but the church grounds were illuminated by lampposts, and there was a streetlight not far from me, so with all of that, plus the non-hiding leaders keeping watch, it was safe for these students to run around the church property at night looking for leaders.

I heard voices as the students left the fellowship hall to start looking for us, but it sounded like most of them were headed in the opposite direction from me, toward the parking lot in the back.  I looked to my right, south on Andrews Road away from the church property, then I turned and looked to my left, slightly more visible.  I did not see any students coming, but I did see two young men on bicycles wearing white dress shirts, ties, and name tags.  Jeromeville was one of the most bicycle-friendly places in the United States, so seeing people riding bicycles at night was not at all uncommon here, but these two were too well-dressed to be students.  This could only mean one thing, which was confirmed when the two of them approached me and one of them asked, “Excuse me, sir?  We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions while you’re waiting here for the bus.”  He was now close enough that I could read his name tag: ELDER SIMMONS, THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS.  The words “Jesus Christ” were larger than the other words, just as they were on signs at their churches and logos on their promotional materials.

I had mixed feelings about Mormons and the Latter-Day Saints church.  They all seemed like nice people who favored traditional family values.  But from what I knew, they believed in additional Scriptures besides the traditional Old and New Testaments, and much of what I had learned about the Bible in the last few years seemed to suggest that there was no true Word of God beyond the Old and New Testaments.  I had Mormon cousins, because my grandpa on the Dennison side divorced Dad’s biological mother when Dad was a child and married into an LDS family.  I had only met those relatives a few times, but I always got along with them.  I had Mormon friends in high school, including Jason Lambert, who was in a lot of classes with me.  Jason and I once had an extremely liberal history teacher who we used to like to argue with.  More specifically, Jason liked to start the argument, because Jason was a lot more confrontational than me, and a bit cocky as well.  Jason was a great guy, but he rubbed me the wrong way sometimes.  Kind of like how Jonathan rubbed me the wrong way, with his Abercrombie & Fitch shirt and giving kids jobs in sweatshops. Maybe I should tell Elder Simmons to go get Jonathan to join the LDS church.

“Oh, sorry,” I said to Elder Simmons, realizing that my mind had been wandering for a few seconds, and that I had never replied to him.  “Actually, I’m not waiting for the bus.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.  I’m hiding from a bunch of kids.  I’m a youth group leader, at this church.”  I subtly emphasized those last two words as I motioned toward the buildings of Jeromeville Covenant Church behind me.  My experience had been that LDS missionaries tend to seek people from outside the church entirely, and they leave me alone when they find out that I attend a church.

“That sounds like fun,” Elder Simmons replied.  As he said that, a girl named Katie Hunter, from a family very active in the church, walked up to me with two of her friends.  They all handed me index cards.

“I found you, Greg,” she said.  “Sign this.”

“I see how the game works now,” Elder Simmons observed aloud.

After I signed the cards, the girls ran off to look for other leaders.  “I’ve been working with this group for about two years now,” I explained.  “One Sunday, that girl’s older brother came up to me out of nowhere and asked me if I would take him and his friend to McDonald’s.  We hung out all afternoon, and my friend heard about it and said I should be a youth group leader.”

“That’s a great story.”  A few other kids came up to me with their cards, and after I signed them, Elder Simmons continued, “I’ll let you get back to your game, then.  Here’s my card; you can let me know if you have any questions about our church.  Or you can come visit us; we’re on Eighth Street, down here and then turn left.” He handed me a card with his contact information on it.

“Okay,” I replied, with no intention of actually contacting him but wanting to be polite.  “Thank you.”

“Have a great night!” the other LDS missionary said.  They continued down the road on their bikes.


At the end of the night, some of the leaders talked about how the Leader Hunt game went.  Most of the students eventually found me at the bus stop.  The majority of them missed Martin in the church van.  I told Martin and Taylor about the LDS missionaries, and they thought that was funny.

That night, as I tried to sleep, I said a prayer for Elder Simmons and his friend.  I thanked God that they had some knowledge of Scripture and the truth.  I prayed that God would reveal the full truth to them, and that they would know Jesus Christ personally.  Only God knew for sure whether Elder Simmons and his friend were true believers in their hearts; it was not my place to judge.

My mind kept drifting again to earlier that morning, to what Mrs. Tracy had said about her students at Nueces High.  She did have a point.  I had a lot of classes in high school that were mostly honor students, and I had spent the last four and a half years taking classes at a relatively prestigious university, where virtually all of the students had been honor students in high school.  I was not used to students who were not in advanced classes, and I did have to remember that not all of my students would be going on to college.

The way I saw it, though, that was no excuse for low expectations.  Even if not all students were college bound, all students should at least know about the options for their future, so that they can be in control of their futures as much as possible.  The best teachers should be approaching their classes from the point of view that everyone can succeed, and I hoped that I would never have such a negative view of my students’ collective future as Mrs. Tracy had that day.  And I genuinely did believe that function notation was an Algebra I topic, which Geometry students would have seen before, because that was how it was in my own schooling.

The new year was almost a week old at this point.  I was really hoping for a good year.  For the most part, 1997 and 1998 had not been bad, but each one had had a few major letdowns.  I was not expecting 1999 to be perfect, by any means, but I was hoping that my life would continue on an upward trajectory.  This whole training to be a teacher thing was giving more clear meaning to my life, and if all went according to plan, by the end of the year I would be a paid full-time teacher with a classroom of my own, full of fun teenagers who called me Mr. Dennison.  Maybe then I would finally feel grown up.

Readers: Was there a best calendar year in your life so far? Tell me about it in the comments.

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December 11-12, 1998.  The future was almost here. (#202)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 3 Comments

From the moment I decided to pursue education as a career, I knew that what I was about to do now, for the first time, was going to be one of my least favorite parts of this career.  My student teaching assignment at Nueces High consisted of two classes, one first period and one third period, so I had plenty of time during second period to get this done.

I walked to the front office and asked Teri, the secretary, “Where can I find parent phone numbers?”

“I can look it up for you.  Who is the student?”

“Emily Wallace,” I said.

Teri typed into her computer, then wrote the name of Emily’s mother, and her home and work phone numbers, on a sticky note.  “Hopefully, a couple years from now, there will be a computer on every teacher desk, so you can look this up yourself..”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Remember to dial 9 to get an outside line,” Teri said.

I took the paper and walked back to the teacher lounge, which had a telephone in it.  The room was empty, which was unusual. Many teachers at Nueces High did not have an empty classroom during their prep period, with other classes in their rooms then, so some of them were typically in here working.  I was glad for an empty room, though; I did not want people eavesdropping on my call.  I walked over to the phone and nervously dialed 9, then Mrs. Wallace’s home phone number.  As the phone rang, I thought about how my roommate also had the last name Wallace.  I was pretty sure he was not related to these Wallaces, though; he knew I was student teaching at Nueces High and probably would have told me if he had a cousin attending there.

“Hi!  You’ve reached the Wallaces,” a recorded voice said after four rings.  “Please leave a message at the beep.”

“Hi,” I said, a little nervously.  “This is Mr. Dennison.  I’m a student teacher in Emily’s math class.  I had to send her out on a class suspension today, because she was refusing to work, and she made inappropriate comments when I told her to get to work.  Please call the school and leave a message for me.  Thank you.”

I had fulfilled my legal requirement for a class suspension.  Emily had spent the rest of the period in Room Two, the classroom reserved for such situations, and state Education Code said that a teacher had to contact the students’ parents as soon as possible after sending the student out of class.  But I had had so much trouble with Emily in class lately that I wanted to speak in real time about the situation, so even though I hated making these phone calls, I dialed Mrs. Wallace’s work phone number next.  She picked up on the third ring.

“Mrs. Wallace?” I asked, hoping that it was in fact her and that I would not have to explain myself.

“Yes,” Mrs. Wallace replied.  “May I ask who is speaking?”

“This is Mr. Dennison.  I’m a student teacher in Emily’s math class.”

“Hi! I remember you from Back-to-School Night.  What did Emily do this time?”

“She was just sitting there doodling instead of doing her work.  I asked her to get back to work, and she ignored me.  I asked her again five minutes later, and she shouted at me that I wasn’t a real teacher and she didn’t have to do what I said.  So I sent her to Room Two for the rest of the period.”

“Wow.  I’m sorry she acted that way.  But thank you so much for contacting me.  I will have a talk with her, and you will see a new attitude from her on Monday.  Just because you’re still studying to be a teacher, you’re an adult, and it’s still your classroom.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Please let me know again if you have any issues with her.  Do you have email?”

“I do,” I replied.  Email was a new enough technology in 1998 that teachers were not automatically given email accounts from the school district, but since my student teaching assignment was technically a class through the University of Jeromeville, I could use the same UJ email that I used for everything else to contact Mrs. Wallace.  Also, the thought of having more than one email address and separating home and work emails had not yet occurred to me at this point in the history of the Internet.  Mrs. Wallace gave me her email address, and I wrote it on the sticky note with her phone number.  “Thank you so much,” I said.  “Have a good weekend.”

“You too!”

The rest of the day felt peaceful, knowing that I had survived my first parent phone call as a teacher.  I had no classes on Friday afternoon, but next week I had a final exam and a paper due.  I worked a little bit on outlining the paper, then took a nap and spent the evening at the last Jeromeville Christian Fellowship large group meeting of 1998.


Saturday I got some more studying done.  I had plans in the evening.  Bethany Bradshaw, my friend whom I had met over the summer swing dancing, had a friend from freshman year who was currently in a community theater production of Fiddler on the Roof, and she had invited me to the show with her.  I was not a theater guy, and I knew almost nothing about this show.  But I had no plans, and ever since Bethany got busy with school and cut back on swing dancing and I quit altogether after a bad experience, I had not gotten to hang out with her as often, so I said sure.  I drove to her apartment and knocked on the door; she answered, wearing a dress.  I hoped that I would not appear underdressed for a community theater production in the collared shirt and business-casual pants that I wore.

“You ready?” I asked.

“Yes!” Bethany replied.  “Let’s go!”

Bethany followed me to my car.  I pulled away from the curb, turned left on Maple Drive, and then turned left on Coventry Boulevard, headed east.  “How’s studying for finals going?” I asked.

“It’s going.  I think I’ll be okay.  How’s student teaching?”

“It’s okay.  One girl told me yesterday that I wasn’t a real teacher, and she didn’t have to do what I told her.  I called her mom yesterday, my first parent phone call as a teacher.”

“Wow. How’d that go?”

“Really well, actually.  The mom seemed supportive.”

“That’s good!  Do you have finals next week too?”

“I do, for my two education classes, one actual final and one paper due.  That’s what I’ll be working on the rest of the weekend.  But I’m still student teaching next week.”

“What about the kids you’re teaching?  Are they taking finals? Do you have to grade them?”

“Not yet.  Their finals are the third week of January.”

I could see out of the corner of my eye that Bethany was making a weird face.  “Really?” she asked.  “Why?”

I did not understand the context of her question.  “Because that’s when high school semester finals are.  At the end of second quarter.”

“In January?”

“Yeah.  School starts at the end of August and gets out at the start of June, so the middle of January is the halfway point of the year.”

“That’s weird.”

“Your finals weren’t like that?”

“No.  At least I don’t think so.  I don’t really remember.  You took finals in the middle of January in high school?”

“Yeah.  Because then the two semesters are the same length, so classes that only go for half the year are the same in the fall and the spring.”

“Weird,” Bethany said.

It was just as weird to me that Bethany took finals before winter break in high school, but I dropped the subject, not wanting to argue.  As high school passed farther and farther into the past, I had come to notice that many people remembered little to nothing about the details of their academic experiences in high school.  I had had many conversations with people who had forgotten their schedules, or what classes they took in what years, or fundamentally important subject matter.  I had come to realize that I was the unusual one, in that I remembered so many details of my own high school experience.  This may have been because I had written about the experience extensively when I was less than a year removed from it.

As we approached downtown headed south on G Street, I asked, “The Valley Theatre is on Second Street, between F and G?  Is that right?”

“I think so.”

I parked in the parking garage around the corner from the Valley Theatre and walked inside with Bethany.  The building was about half full when we arrived, because we got there fifteen minutes early.  I had learned somewhere that it was considered poor etiquette to arrive late to a live stage performance, and that some theaters closed their doors after the show started.  Jeromeville seemed like the kind of place with snooty people who would enforce this rule, so I made sure to get there in plenty of time.

We each started looking through the program when we got to out seats.  “How do you say this name?” Bethany asked, pointing to “Tevye,” the name of the main character.  “Do you know?”

“‘Tev-yuh,’ I think.  I’ve heard that name before, actually. Funny story. When I was a kid, we had a lot of cats, and other cats from the neighborhood would sometimes come play with our cats.  Once we had a neighbor with a cat named Trevor, and in our family, cats always get called silly nicknames, and my dad would sometimes call Trevor ‘Tevye’ because it kind of sounds the same.”

“That’s funny.  People always make up weird nicknames for cats.”

“I know!  Which one is your friend?”

“Nicole,” she answered, pointing to a name in the program.  “She plays Chava.”

The lights darkened, and the actor playing Tevye walked out on stage, singing a song where he kept shouting the word “tradition,” and explaining the traditions of his people.  I gathered from the context that Tevye and his family were Russian Jews, and that this show was set sometime in the past.  As the show went on, Tevye found his simple, traditional life challenged as his daughters grew up.  One of them wanted to marry a man she loved instead of going through a traditional matchmaker, another became romantically involved with a revolutionary, and the one played by Nicole had a non-Jewish love interest.  Just before intermission, at the wedding of the eldest daughter and the man she loved, some characters in the show started a violent riot.

“What happened there at the end?” I asked after the lights came up.

“The Russians persecuted the Jews back then,” Bethany explained.

“I figured that, but I meant like was this part of an actual specific historical event, or a war?”

“I’m not really sure exactly.  I think it’s just supposed to be typical of the time period.”

“That makes sense,” I replied, nodding.  During the show I had remembered something that Bethany had once said that I wanted to ask about, so I asked, “Don’t you have a birthday coming up?”

“Yeah!”

I did not remember which day, so I said, “14th?  15th?”

Bethany looked at me, rolled her eyes, and said “21st.”  I was confused.  I did not remember the exact day, but I knew it was a number in the teens.  She definitely did not say December 21.  I figured out what the confusion was when she continued, “Really?  Do I look so young that you have to joke about it?”

“Oh!” I replied, chuckling.  “I meant what’s the date.  The 14th or 15th, I can’t remember.  I didn’t mean your age.  I know how old you are”

“Wow,” she laughed.  “It’s the 15th.  Tuesday.  And I have a final on my birthday.”

“Happy birthday!  Here’s a huge test.  Do you have any plans other than that?”

“My roommates are taking me out that night.  I don’t have another final until Thursday afternoon, and that’ll be an easy one, so we can stay out late Tuesday night.  And I’m flying home Friday, so I’ll have a birthday dinner with my family on Friday.”

“Do you need a ride to the airport?  I should be home from student teaching by noon.”

“My roommate is going to take me, but thanks for asking.”

The show resumed after intermission, with the political changes in early 20th century Russia and the continued persecution of Jews disrupting Tevye’s peaceful rural life.  Tevye’s revolutionary son-in-law was arrested and exiled for his political activities, and Tevye did not accept the marriage of Chava, Nicole’s character, to a man who was not a Jew.  In the end, with the Russians preparing to force Jews from their land, Tevye’s entire family left their village behind to start new lives elsewhere.

After the curtain call and many rounds of applause, I turned to Bethany and said, “That was really good.  I didn’t know what to expect.”

“It was.  Sad ending.”

“Yeah.  Being forced to leave your home like that.  I guess that just kind of hit home for me, since I’ve been thinking about next year.  This might be my last year in Jeromeville, if I end up getting a job somewhere too far to commute from here.”

“Oh, yeah.  That must be hard, not knowing.  Do you know where you’re going to apply for jobs?”

“Definitely as many school districts near Jeromeville as I can.  I already have a community and a church here, and I have a lot of younger friends who are still going to be around a couple more years.  But I’m probably just going to apply to a lot of different places.  I’m not planning on moving too far away, though.  I like this part of the state.”

“Are you thinking about moving back home to Plumdale?  Or anywhere around Santa Lucia?”

“Definitely not.  Too gray most of the year, and not warm enough in summer.  And I need to be out on my own, not too close to my family.”

“That makes sense.  I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah.”

“Nicole just came out from backstage,” Bethany said, pointing to Nicole, still in her Chava costume and now standing just in front of the stage.  “Let’s go say hi to her.”

I followed Bethany to where Nicole was standing.  As she saw us approaching, her eyes lit up, and she reached her arms out and gave Bethany a big hug.  “Bethany!  You made it!”

“It’s good to see you!  You did well!”

“Thanks!  It’s been so much fun rehearsing and everything!  This is a really great cast!  It’s been a lot, though, especially with finals coming up too.  But mine aren’t going to be too bad this year.”

“This is my friend Greg,” Bethany said, gesturing toward me.  “Greg, this is Nicole.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking Nicole’s hand.

“How do you guys know each other?” Nicole asked.

“Swing dancing,” Bethany answered.

“You swing dance, Greg?” Nicole asked me.

“Well, not anymore.  All my friends who got me into it last summer stopped going once school started, and I kind of had a bad experience with the people who were still going.  I haven’t been in over a month, but maybe I’ll try it again someday.”

“It sounds like fun!” Nicole said.  “I know some people who do that sometimes.”

I stood there trying not to seem too awkward as Bethany and Nicole caught up on news of people they knew two years ago in their freshman dorm.  I did not know any of those people.  After a few minutes, Nicole said goodbye to us and moved on to talk to other people she knew who had been in attendance tonight.

“You ready to go?” Bethany asked.

“I think so,” I replied.

We walked back to the parking garage.  I drove to G Street, then headed north toward Coventry Boulevard.  “You’re quiet tonight,” Bethany remarked about halfway through the drive home.

“Yeah,” I replied.  “Sorry.”

“Everything okay?”

“Just thinking about all the stuff I was talking about.  Next year.  And the future.”

“Yeah.  It’ll be okay.  God has a plan for you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pray for you.”

“Thanks.”

We arrived in front of Bethany’s apartment; I parked in a spot that was probably reserved for someone else, but I was only going to be there for a minute.  As I walked her to the front door, she said, “Thanks for coming with me tonight!”

“Thanks for asking me,” I replied.

“Good luck with finals.”  She gave me a hug.

“You too,” I said.  “And happy early 15th birthday.”

“Shut up,” she replied, laughing and playfully slapping my arm.


All of this was still on my mind as I attempted to drift off to sleep in my bed that night.  My time as a University of Jeromeville student was rapidly coming to an end, and depending on where I found a job, my time as a Jeromeville resident might be coming to an end too.  I already had my degree, and in just six months I would have a teaching certificate.  It would be nice if I could find a job at Nueces High, or somewhere else within commuting distance of Jeromeville; I could continue going to Jeromeville Covenant Church, and watching The X-Files at the De Anza house.  But this was certainly not guaranteed.

The world around me was changing also.  The year was coming to a close.  Soon it would be 1999, and soon after that the year 2000 would arrive.  People were going to have to get used to start writing a 2 at the beginning of the year, and hoping that their computers would be able to handle dates that begin with 2 without crashing.  In my childhood, the year 2000 was often used as symbolic for some far-flung future, but now, the future was almost here.

I had known little about Fiddler on the Roof before tonight, but Tevye’s plight in the Russia of almost a century ago felt strangely relatable.  His people had lived according to centuries of tradition, but his daughters were finding husbands in nontraditional ways, and the society around him had become hostile to his people to the point that he had to flee the only home he had ever known.  Even though Jeromeville had become home to me, and the thought of leaving soon made me sad, the truth was that a politically liberal university town may not be the most accommodating place for my traditional Christian values.

Even in the face of a changing world and changing traditions, some things were worth holding on to.  I had a community of other Christians here in Jeromeville, and if I ended up somewhere else, the first thing I would do would be to find a church. God’s Word was timeless and unchanging, and this would always give me something to look to for guidance and comfort.  And another long-standing tradition was born that night.  Bethany and I have stayed in touch, and I kept that joke about her 15th birthday going for a long time.  I gave her a Sweet Sixteen card the following year when she turned twenty-two, and when she turned twenty-four, after she had moved back home to southern California, I sent her an email asking how it felt to finally turn eighteen and be an adult. Bethany and her family now live in Missouri, halfway across the United States from me, and I made reference to the old birthday joke as recently as 2023, when she turned forty-six, by posting a picture of a cake that said “Happy 40th Birthday” on her Facebook wall.  Old inside jokes are the best.

How have changing traditions affected your life? And do you have any long-standing inside jokes with friends? Tell me about it in the comments.

If you like what you read, don’t forget to like this post and follow this blog. Also follow Don’t Let The Days Go By on Facebook and Instagram.

(February 2024. Year 4 recap.)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 4 Comments

If this is your first time here on Don’t Let The Days Go By, welcome. DLTDGB is a continuing story set in 1998 (currently), about a university student making his way in life. I am currently on hiatus from writing; the story will continue eventually at some unspecified time. This break is taking a lot longer than I expected; real life in 2024 is kind of overwhelming right now.  Today’s post is a recap of the highlights of year 4.

(Also, in case you need it, click here for the recaps of year 1, year 2, and year 3.)

If you are new to DLTDGB and want the complete story, start by clicking here for Episode 1, and then click Next at the end of each episode.

I was not in Jeromeville or at my parents’ house for most of the summer of 1997.  I was hundreds of miles away, doing a math research internship in Oregon.  I applied to this program on the suggestion of Dr. Thomas, one of my favorite professors.

June 22, 1997. My arrival in Oregon. (#135)

I met the other students in the program, found a church, and borrowed a bicycle so I could get around.  I did not have a lot in common with the other students in the program, other than mathematics itself, but I did my share of social activities with them.

June 28 – July 4, 1997. Outings with my new classmates. (#137)

I got to see my great-aunt and uncle a few times that summer; they lived not too far from me in Oregon.  My parents came to see me and other Oregon relatives one weekend.  I missed home terribly, but I made the most of my time in Oregon.  The most life-changing thing that happened during that summer was the realization that I did not want to do mathematics research as a career.

August 12-15, 1997. My final week in Oregon. (#142)

After a couple weeks at my parents’ house, I returned to Jeromeville and moved into a house with Josh McGraw, Sean Richards, and Sam Hoffman.  Josh had been my roommate the previous year as well.  I went to two retreats back-to-back just before school started, one for Jeromeville Christian Fellowship and one for the youth leaders at Jeromeville Covenant Church.

September 15-19, 1997. Seeing my friends again at Outreach Camp. (#145)

Late September, 1997. The retreat with the youth group leaders and a step outside my comfort zone. (#146)

I did chorus again that fall, and we performed at a ceremony for the renaming of a building on campus.  My future plans also solidified at the start of that school year.  With math research off the table, I put all my efforts into becoming a teacher, and I figured out that I would be able to graduate on time in June.  I made a silly movie, based on my Dog Crap & Vince stories, with the kids from the youth group at church.

Late October-early November, 1997. I made a movie. (#150)

I did a lot of things with the youth group at J-Cov that year.  Some of the leaders pulled a memorable prank on the kids, toilet-papering seventeen kids’ houses on the same night.  We also took a nine-hour road trip to San Diego for the National Youth Workers’ Convention.  I saw a lot of Christian bands play there.  Although most of my experiences at J-Cov over the years were positive, I saw a darker side when someone I knew there began harassing and almost stalking me.  He eventually had his church membership revoked; I was not the only one whom he had done this to.

November 30 – December 8, 1997. But he won’t admit he has a problem. (#155)

I had my eye on a few girls that year.  Carrie Valentine was two years behind me; I knew her from JCF.  She was nice, and she was easy to talk to.  I finally got brave and spoke up, and things did not turn out as I had hoped.

December 9-12, 1997.  Not everything follows consistent rules the way math does. (#156)

Over winter break, I made another movie with my brother and his friends, and I took a trip to my old roommate Brian Burr’s New Year party, where I got to see some of our older friends who had graduated.  When I returned to school for the new quarter, I interned in a high school classroom, to get more experience to prepare for my future career as a teacher.  I had recently discovered how much I loved In-N-Out Burger, and a location opened in Jeromeville that quarter.  I was there on the day it opened.

January 16, 1998.  A fresh cheeseburger, and a fresh take on relationships. (#160)

That winter, I went to Winter Camp with the youth group kids.  I started spending my Sunday nights at the De Anza house, where the guys hosted weekly watch parties for The X-Files.  That was already one of my favorite shows, and now I got to enjoy it with a large group of friends.

February 8, 1998. A new weekly tradition. (#162)

Sadie Rowland was another girl I was interested in at the time.  She was, like Carrie, two years younger than me, and she went to JCF.  She was the kind of girl whom I could sit there and talk to for hours, and it would feel like no time had passed at all.  She was preparing to leave the area for six months to do an internship, and we made plans to see a certain movie that was popular at the time.  The plans fell through, I never saw the movie, and Sadie for the most part disappeared out of my life.

March 5, 1998. My heart will not go on. (#165)

The University of Jeromeville men’s basketball team won the national championship for their level, one of the greatest accomplishments in Jeromeville Colts history.  Spring quarter started with an unexpected surprise: Carrie Valentine was in two of my classes, despite being in a major very different from mine.  I was able to let go of any lingering awkwardness, and we got to be friends again.  Besides, a new girl had caught my eye: Sasha Travis from church, even though she was only seventeen.

Early April, 1998. Trash. (#168)

With Josh and Sam planning to move out over the summer, I managed to find two new roommates to move in with Sean and me for the following year: Brody, another youth leader from church, and Jed, a freshman from JCF who would be moving out of the dorm at the end of the year.  JCF had a spring retreat that year.  Taylor, Pete, and Noah, who had been more involved with church than JCF the last few years, all went on the retreat, knowing it would be their last JCF retreat.

April 24-26, 1998. My lasting friendships had been captured in that group photo. (#171)

I did a lot of creative writing that year, and I took a Fiction Writing class that quarter.  We had a project to write a story and share a copy with everyone in the class.  I wrote a story about an awkward guy and a girl he liked, inspired by Sasha.  It was the first time I had ever shared my writing with an audience of people who did not know me well, and the experience was humbling.

May 6, 1998. “August Fog”: a short story to share with the class. (#173)

May 12, 1998. What I learned the most from sharing my story was not about writing. (#174)

A lot of other things happened that year.  My parents came to the Spring Picnic, and I decided that I enjoyed it better without them.  Noah and Taylor taught me to play Catan.  I was inducted as a member of Phi Beta Kappa.  I shared my testimony at JCF’s senior night, wearing a shirt with Brent Wang’s face on it.  I came in second at the Man of Steel competition, my best finish ever.  And I made a board game based on Dog Crap and Vince.  But the most important thing that happened was graduation.  I was finished with my Bachelor of Science degree, and ready to start the teacher training program next year.

June 20, 1998. Life was beginning to take shape. (#180)

Here is the complete year 4 playlist:

Let me know how you’ve been the last few months!

June 20, 1998. Life was beginning to take shape. (#180)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 14 Comments

“Your gown is still in the package?” Mom exclaimed incredulously.  “It’s gonna be all wrinkled!”

“I don’t know!” I replied loudly.  “I don’t think about these things!  I’m a guy!”

“Well, when you’re a teacher, you’ll have to dress nicely, and that means ironing your clothes so they aren’t wrinkled.”

“That doesn’t help me right now,” I said.

“I have an iron,” my roommate Sean said, sitting on the couch and overhearing our conversation.  “Would that help?”

“Yes,” Mom replied.  We had about half an hour until I had to assemble for my graduation ceremony.  Mom, Dad, and my sixteen-year-old brother Mark had driven up from Plumdale yesterday, arriving in the early evening.  They stayed at a motel in Woodville, about ten miles from my house, on the assumption that it would be difficult to find a room in Jeromeville the weekend of graduation.  Mom put a bed sheet on the dining room table, since there was no ironing board, and got most of the wrinkles out of my gown using Sean’s iron.

Graduation day at the University of Jeromeville was more accurately graduation weekend.  The university held five different graduation ceremonies in the Recreation Pavilion, divided by major, with additional separate ceremonies for graduate students and the various professional schools such as medicine, law, and veterinary medicine.  A month or so ago, I had sent an email to my old roommate Brian Burr, who was now on the other side of the country, finishing his first year at New York Medical College.  I mentioned my upcoming graduation, and he said to sneak in a Game Boy, because the ceremony was long and boring.  I had my Game Boy at the house, but it felt disrespectful to sit there playing video games during the most important celebration of my educational career.

After I put on my cap and freshly ironed gown, we all got in the car, and Dad drove the mile south to campus.  The Campus Parking Services department charged full price to park on campus for graduation, which felt like a massive ripoff to me, but graduation was not an everyday occurrence, so I would just suck it up and deal with it this time.  After all, back in 1998, full price was only three dollars, and Mom and Dad were paying.

“I’m supposed to go over there,” I said, pointing to the opposite side of the building from where we were.  I then pointed toward the main entrance and continued, “You get in over there.”

“Okay,” Mom replied.  “We’ll see you afterward.”  Mom hugged me.

“Congratulations,” Dad said, shaking my hand.  “Dad loves you.”

“You too,” I replied.  Mom, Dad, and Mark walked toward the main entrance, and I walked to the other side of the building.  I saw a few people I know, and I said hi and congratulated them.  The informational packet I received a few weeks ago told me to assemble on the south side of the building by 9:45.  I looked at my watch; I was right on time, but after finding my assigned position, I stood there for almost half an hour before the line of graduates began moving forward.  By then, my feet were starting to hurt.

I walked into the Pavilion and looked around.  I was walking on what was usually the basketball court, but it had been covered with over a thousand folding chairs.  The highest level of seating, collapsible bleachers which I had only seen in use during a few heavily attended basketball games, were filled to capacity with family and friends of graduates, as were all the lower levels of seating.  Including the graduates on the floor, there were probably at least ten thousand people in the building.  I had no idea where Mom, Dad, and Mark were, and it was hopeless trying to find them.  I stood at my seat on the floor, as I had been instructed to, listening to the marching band play Edward Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1.  They repeated the same section from that piece over and over and over again, as was tradition at graduation ceremonies, as all of the graduates filed in.

Next, some official-looking person in a suit whom I did not recognize walked up to the stage and told us to be seated.  I took a deep breath.  My feet hurt. This was going to be a long day.  I fidgeted in my seat, trying to get comfortable.  The man in the suit introduced himself as the Dean of Something-or-other, and he took several minutes to welcome us all to the ceremony, using big words to make himself sound good.

Two more bigwigs from the university administration spoke next.  I continued fidgeting in my seat, trying hard not to fall asleep as the speaker droned on and on about the challenges we would face in the future.  Her speech was saturated with left-wing buzzwords about the environment and cultural diversity.  The next speaker was even more boring; halfway through his speech, I had really wished that I had followed Brian Burr’s advice to bring a Game Boy.

The valedictorian, a girl named T’Pring Miller who double majored in physics and English, spoke next.  A few weeks ago, I had received a large envelope in the mail with information about the graduation ceremonies, and when I saw the name T’Pring Miller listed on the program, I wondered what language her first name was from.  Years later, I would learn that the name T’Pring came from Star Trek.  I tended to dislike the idea of naming children things based on popular culture, and I hoped that any future children I had would have more traditional names.  Popular culture changes so often that names like this lose their meaning.  I wondered if T’Pring Miller was ever teased about her name growing up, and if that was what drove her to choose such a challenging educational path, double-majoring in two unrelated subjects.

I was bored.  T’Pring Miller was speaking about the challenges she had to overcome in life, but she did not mention her unusual name as one of the challenges.  I was sure that she had a lot of interesting things to say, but I found myself starting to nod off.  I sat up and started wiggling my feet up and down, trying to stay awake.  I did not want to be disrespectful, but I was tired of sitting.  I was ready to walk across the stage and receive my prop diploma.  I knew that my actual diploma would arrive in the mail several months later, but this was not publicly announced to everyone watching.

After what seemed like an eternity, the dean who spoke at the beginning announced that it was time to receive our diplomas.  In the sea of graduates, I was slightly behind the middle, so my turn would not come for a while.  In addition to being uncomfortable and bored, now I also had to pee.  I could see the end in sight, though, as people sitting near the front were gradually moving forward to receive their prop diplomas.

I wondered if Mom and Dad and all of the parents and family members in the audience were as bored as I was.  Mark was probably complaining by now.  I knew some people who were graduating this year but skipping the ceremony entirely.  At first I did not understand why people would not want to celebrate their momentous accomplishments, but now, after seeing how long and boring the ceremony was, I understood.  I finally reached the stage, after waiting for hundreds of people in front of me.  I shook hands with the dean, and someone else handed me a folder that was blank on the inside.  Someone took a photograph of me, which I could buy for an additional fee if I wanted to.

I returned to my seat and waited for the rest of the graduates to walk across the stage.  Finally, almost three hours after the ceremony began, the time came for us to turn our tassels to the other side of our caps, to show that we had graduated.  We then filed out of the Pavilion one row at a time while the marching band played the school alma mater song, the same one I sang with University Chorus at the Waite Hall dedication ceremony last October.  As soon as I was out of sight of the audience, I headed straight for the nearest bathroom.

To the south, between the Pavilion and Davis Drive, was a large lawn, used during the year for intramural sports.  This was where we had assembled a few hours ago before we filed in.  My parents and I had the foresight to pick a general direction to meet after the ceremony, so that we would not get lost in the giant crowd.  When I got there, I spotted a couple of other people I knew and said hi: old classmates, people from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, and one guy from my freshman dorm.  I eventually found Mom and Dad right where I told them to be.

“Congratulations,” Mom said, giving me a hug.  Dad shook my hand, and so did Mark.

“That was long,” I said.

“I know,” Mom replied.  “But graduations are always like that.”

“So where are we going next?” Dad asked.

“A reception for the math department, in the West Barn.  I’ve actually never been inside the West Barn.”

“And you said you’re getting an award or something?”

“Yes.”

“Can we walk there from here?” Mom asked.

“Sure.  It’s not too far.  Are we ready?  I’d like to get away from these crowds.”


The four of us walked across the lawn and turned east on Davis Drive, toward the core campus.  We passed the turn that led to the South Residential Area, where I lived freshman year.  We continued walking past a brand new science laboratory building on the left and several small buildings on the right.  These so-called temporary buildings were permanent enough to have been there for a few decades.  I then led my parents across the street to the Barn, the student union on this end of campus that was inside what was once an actual barn.  We crossed through the building and exited to a courtyard on the other side of the building, away from the street.

The West Barn Café and Pub, on the west side of this courtyard, was a fancy restaurant that could be reserved for receptions and other formal dinners and luncheons, such as this one for the graduating mathematics students.  It was well-known as the only place on campus where alcohol was served, although none would be at this function.  I had never had a reason to go here, so this building was entirely new to me.  I saw an outdoor patio with tables and umbrellas to my left as I entered the building, with my parents behind me.

“Hi,” someone I did not know, apparently a student assistant, said from behind a table full of programs and name tags.  “What’s your name?”

“Greg Dennison,” I said.

The student assistant handed me a program and my name tag.  “Welcome, Greg,” she said.  “Take a seat anywhere.”

I turned around and asked the rest of the family, “Where do you want to sit?”

“Wherever,” Mom replied.  Dad and Mark seemed equally noncommittal.

I walked to a table near the middle of the room that had four empty seats together.  Jack Chalmers and his parents were at the table next to us.  Jack leaned over and said, “Hey, Greg.  Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I replied.  “You too.  Mom, Dad, this is Jack.  We’ve had a bunch of classes together over the years.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mom replied.  She and Dad both shook Jack’s hand.

“Greg, these are my parents,” Jack said, gesturing toward the people sitting with him.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking Jack’s mother’s and father’s hands, one at a time.

“Are you the Greg that’s getting this award?” Jack’s mother asked.  I looked on her program where she was pointing; it read Department Citation – Gregory Dennison.

“Yes, that’s me,” I answered, smiling.

“Congratulations,” Jack’s mother said.

I turned back with Mom and Dad as more people filed into the building.  Mom asked if I knew anyone.  “Of course I know people,” I replied.  “I’ve had classes with them.”

Dr. Alterman, the department chair who had taught my Number Theory class the previous fall, called the reception to order.  He pointed out the food line, where we would be served out of trays by restaurant employees.  We all lined up for food, and I got chicken, pasta salad, regular salad, and buttered bread.  I returned back to my seat and looked around the room to see who else was here.  I recognized a lot of faces of other mathematics majors who had been in classes with me, and I knew some of their names.  Katy Hadley, the cute redhead, was there, but I did not know her particularly well, and she was never all that friendly, so I did not go out of my way to speak to her.  Alan Jordan sat across the room; the first thing I always noticed about him was that he resembled the actor Norm MacDonald, not only physically but also in his deadpan voice.  Andrea Wright sat with her husband, as well as other family.  Andrea was my first crush at UJ, when her name was Andrea Briggs, and I was disappointed to meet her boyfriend a few months later.  They got married last summer.  Sarah Winters, one of my best friends for our entire four years at UJ, was here with her mother.  I knew that her parents were no longer together, and I did not know whether or not her father was at graduation.  I did not know how that kind of family dynamic worked, and it was none of my business.

Dr. Alterman spoke for several minutes on the importance of mathematics in a connected society.  He used many trendy buzzwords that had arisen in the past few years with the emergence of the Internet into the mainstream, such as “information superhighway.”  Dr. Thomas, a woman of around forty who was one of my favorite professors, spoke after Dr. Alterman.  “Next,” she said, “I would like to present this year’s Department Citation.”

That’s me, I thought, suddenly a little bit nervous.

“This award goes to the undergraduate mathematics major with the highest grade point average in mathematics classes.  This student had straight As in all math classes.  I had the pleasure of teaching this student two years ago in Combinatorics,” Dr. Thomas said, “and he was one of the top students in the class.  I also know him from my work with the Math Club, and I have seen him grow and explore different futures in mathematics as he continues to perform at a high level in the classroom.  The recipient of the 1998 Department Citation in Mathematics is Gregory Dennison.”

Everyone applauded as I walked to the front of the room.  Dr. Thomas shook my hand and handed me a certificate.  “Thank you,” I said.

“Next year,” Dr. Thomas continued, “Greg will be right here at the University of Jeromeville, in the teacher certification program.  When a student of Greg’s caliber chooses a career in education, our young people have a bright future ahead.”

I smiled as I walked back toward my seat.  I felt humbled that Dr. Thomas believed so much in my ability to be a great teacher.  Dr. Thomas had once encouraged me to pursue mathematics research.  She was planning to start a summer research internship at UJ, and she encouraged me to apply to similar programs elsewhere; this was how I ended up in Oregon last summer doing math research.  Sometimes I wondered if Dr. Thomas was disappointed that I did not choose research as a career, but today it certainly did not sound like it.  I sat back down next to Mom, Dad, and Mark; Mom looked at me, smiling proudly.

The other professors at this event took turns announcing recipients of other awards, and recognizing students who had been accepted to particularly prestigious graduate schools.  I sat and listened and applauded politely.  This was more interesting than the graduation ceremony in the Pavilion, since I knew some of these people and recognized most of their faces.  In the past, I would have been envious of these students and the fancy letters that they would have after their names in a few years.  But at this point, I was okay with the path I was on.  I had received my award, and after the events of the last two school years, I now knew that I enjoyed teaching much more than mathematical research.

After the individual awards, Dr. Alterman read the names of all of the mathematics graduates as we all stood up to be recognized collectively.  He then gave a brief concluding speech and congratulated us all once again.  When it was clear that the event was over and people were getting out of their seats, I got up to find Sarah.  Alan found me first.  “Hey, Greg,” he said as he walked by.  “Congratulations on the award.”

“Thanks.  Alan, this is my mom, dad, and Mark, my brother.”  I turned to my family and said, “This is Alan.  He’ll be in the student teaching program next year too.”

“Nice to meet you,” Alan said.  He continued walking toward wherever he was going, and I continued walking toward Sarah.

“Greg!” Sarah exclaimed, giving me a hug.  “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” I replied.  “You too.”  Sarah introduced me to her mother, and I introduced Sarah and her mother to my family, as I had already done several other times today.  “Sarah lived downstairs from me in C Building,” I explained to my family.  “And I know her from JCF and church.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mom replied.  “I’ve heard Greg talk about you.”

“Next year,” I explained, “Sarah is moving back home to Ralstonville, to do the student teaching program at Ralstonville State.  Is that right?” I asked, turning back to Sarah.

“Yes,” she said.  “But I’ll be up here visiting a few times.”

“Good.  Will you be at church tomorrow?”

“Yeah!  I’ll see you then.”


After the reception, the four of us walked back toward the car.  As soon as we were out of earshot of others, Mark said in his usual exaggerated, sarcastic tone, “I didn’t know you went to school with Norm MacDonald!”

“I know,” I replied. “I noticed that right away when I first met Alan a couple years ago.”

We drove back to the house, and Mom, Dad, and Mark said their goodbyes and left for Plumdale about an hour later.  Later in the summer, I would be back in Plumdale for a week, although I had not decided on the exact dates yet.

I went back to my room to check my email.  I did not feel all that different now that I was a graduate of the University of Jeromeville.  And my life would not look that different over the summer.  I would continue volunteering with the youth group at church and going to Bible study.  I planned on going for bike rides around Jeromeville while the weather was warm and dry.  I also had some special events this summer, including Scott and Amelia’s wedding a week from now and Josh and Abby’s wedding in August.

My life had changed so much in the last four years.  When I graduated from Plumdale High School, I was excited to get out of Santa Lucia County and make a new start somewhere else, because I was tired of the same old thing and ready for something different.  But I did not know what my future would look like.  Today, though, life was beginning to take shape.  And instead of being excited to get away, I was ready to stay in Jeromeville for a long time.  Through the influence of friends, including Sarah, I had learned over the last few years what it really meant to follow Jesus Christ.  I had become more involved in church, which gave me a sense of community here.  And I had a plan for my future: I was going to teach high school mathematics.  I would be good at it, according to Dr. Thomas.  My Christian values felt out of place at times in a university town like Jeromeville, but Jeromeville was now my home, and I hoped to stay here and raise a family here someday.  Of course, as is often the case, my future did not end up looking like that at all.  But at that moment, I had a plan, and I was ready for what came next.

I’ll be taking a few months off before I start season 5. I need time to plan too (in writer lingo, I’m a plotter, not a pantser). But I will post on here a few times; I need to do a summary of the year at some point, and I may have a few other things to say.

Tell me anything you want in the comments. Anything at all.

If you like what you read, don’t forget to like this post and follow this blog. Also follow Don’t Let The Days Go By on Facebook and Instagram.

October 15-19, 1997.  Trying to figure out if I can graduate in June. (#149)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 4 Comments

The weather in Jeromeville for most of October was typically what I could consider perfect.  Days were sunny, with afternoon temperatures in the 80s, still warm enough to be outside, but the nights were cool, so the days did not get blisteringly hot like they did in July and August.  I was still wearing shorts to class during the third full week of fall quarter, and I had some free time on that Wednesday afternoon, so I sat outside on the Quad.  I brought another book with me to campus in addition to my textbooks, and I was looking through this book when I saw Carrie Valentine walking toward me, coming from the direction of the library and headed toward the flagpole.  I waved, but she was not looking in my direction, so I quickly put my hand down, not wanting to look awkward.  I nervously watched as she approached and waved again when she turned her head toward me.  She stepped off the path and walked toward me.

“Hey, Greg,” Carrie said, smiling.  She put her bag down and sat on the grass facing me.  “Can I hang out here?”

Yes, I thought.  Of course you can.  It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve actually gotten to talk to you, and I’ll never make you fall in love with me if we don’t talk more often.  But all I said out loud was, “Sure.  What’s up?”

“I’m meeting with my Kairos leader,” Carrie explained.  “But I’m early.”

“You’re in Liz’s group, right?”

“Yeah!”

“We were in the same dorm as freshmen.  She was across the hall, one down from me.”

“That’s cool!  Whose Bible study are you in this year?”

“Joe Fox and Lydia Tyler.  The group is so huge, we usually read the Scripture together and then break up into three smaller groups.”

“How big is it?”

“Usually around twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five!  Why so many?”

“Honestly, I think it’s because, with all the Kairos groups, and all the specialized Bible studies for certain groups of people, there was only one group left for all the rest of us.”

“Interesting.  You couldn’t be in a Kairos group?”

“The Kairos ministry is for training future leaders.  You have to be asked to be in a Kairos group, and they don’t invite seniors.  Unless you’re leading a group as a senior and you were in one before, like Liz.”

“I see,” Carrie replied.  “Hmm.”

I decided not to share my exact thoughts about Jeromeville Christian Fellowship’s Kairos ministry, since Carrie was part of a Kairos group.  As I was thinking about what else to say, Carrie broke the silence and asked, “What are you working on?  Is that the course catalog?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “I was trying to figure out if it’s possible for me to graduate at the end of this year, what classes I still need to take, stuff like that.”

“That’s exciting!  What are you doing after graduation?”

“I’m going to be a teacher.”

“That’s so cool!”

“I’m still trying to figure out if I’ll do my teacher certification through Jeromeville, or Capital State, or somewhere else.  I know Jeromeville’s program is one year, and it’s only fall through spring.  If I graduate in June, then I’ll be able to do that, but if I don’t graduate until December of ’98, then I’ll either have to wait until the fall of ’99 to start student teaching, or see if anyone has a program where I can start in the winter.”

“I hope you get all that figured out.”

“I got this Graduation Progress Tracker form in the mail last week, I guess they send it to all the seniors.  They list all the graduation requirements and what you’ve done and what you still need.  And I also have some prerequisites for the teacher certification program that I have to be able to fit in.”  I saw a familiar face out of the corner of my eye walk up to the flagpole.  “There’s Liz over there,” I said, pointing.

“Oh, yeah,” Carrie replied.  “I should go.  Good luck figuring that out!  Keep me posted.”

“I will!  Tell Liz I said hi.”  I watched as Carrie got up and walked to the flagpole.  She said something to Liz, who then turned in my direction.  I waved, and both of them waved back.


My new house on Acacia Drive was a quick three minute walk to church, and in addition to Sunday mornings, I was there every Wednesday night as a volunteer with The Edge, the youth group for junior high school students.  Before the students arrived, the leaders met to catch up, go over the events of the upcoming night, and share prayer requests.

“What’s up,” Taylor Santiago said as I approached the group.  I had known Taylor the longest of any of the other Edge leaders; he lived on the floor above me freshman year.  Taylor was also the one who first suggested I get involved with The Edge.

“Not much,” I said.  “I’m just trying to figure out if I can graduate in June.”

“I thought you said you were going to go four years plus one more quarter.”

“I just assumed I had to, with all the math classes I still have to take and the prerequisites for the teacher training program.  But I was looking at stuff earlier, and if I understand correctly, I think I will be able to graduate.  I wanted to take some more of Dr. Hurt’s New Testament classes, but I might have to skip those if I don’t want an extremely full class schedule.  They don’t fulfill any requirements at this point.”

“Have you filed your intent to graduate yet?” Noah Snyder asked, having overheard this entire conversation so far.  Noah was the youth group intern, being paid part time by the church to lead The Edge.

“Not yet,” I replied, “but I want to do that in the next few days.  I just hope I understand everything correctly, and that I don’t get to graduation day and someone tells me that I can’t actually graduate, that I have to take more classes.”

“That won’t happen,” Taylor said.  “I’m pretty sure someone will contact you if you file for graduation and you haven’t met the requirements yet.”

“Kathleen Sutton works with the office that handles all that stuff,” Noah added.  “You could probably ask her to look over your form.”

“That’s good to know,” I said.  Kathleen Sutton was a youth group parent; the Suttons occasionally hosted lunch socials for the church college group at their house. Kathleen’s daughter was in The Edge last year, and she had an older son in high school and a younger son in the preteen youth group.  “When I got that Graduation Progress form, it had a number to call.  I’m sure between that person and Kathleen Sutton, I can get all of this figured out.”

“Are you going to stay at Jeromeville for your teacher certification?” Noah asked.

“If I can, I’d like to.  I know the professor who does math education, and I’d be able to stay here and keep working with The Edge.”

“I’m going to stay in Jeromeville, but commute to Cap State for mine.  It’s cheaper, and it just works out better for me.  They have a really good program for elementary school teachers.  I’m not sure what they’re like for high school teachers, though.”

“If staying in Jeromeville ends up too complicated, I’ll look into Cap State too,” I said.  Capital State University was about twenty miles from Jeromeville on the other side of the Drawbridge, and Noah’s mention of their program being cheaper started to give me doubts about my tentative plan.  However, Mom always told me not to worry about money, that we would find a way to pay for things.  My grandmother had started a college savings account for me when I was very young, and with the academic scholarships I had received, we had hardly had to use that money so far.  I would also have to find a way to pay for school if I stayed at UJ for part of a fifth year as an undergraduate, so I would keep that under consideration if any options that did not include graduating in June were still on the table.


When I got home, I went straight to my backpack, in the large bedroom that I shared with my roommate Sean.  Sean was sitting at his desk typing a paper on his computer; a cluster of helium balloons, including one that said “Happy Birthday” and another that had the number “22” written on it in black marker, was rising from the floor next to him, anchored by a weight at the end of a ribbon a few feet long.

“It’s your birthday?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sean replied.

“I didn’t know that.  Happy birthday!  Did you do anything fun?”

“I went out to dinner with some friends from the wildlife bio major tonight.  We just got back a little while ago.  And I’m flying home tomorrow to spend the weekend with my family.”

“That’ll be nice,” I said, excited for Sean that he will get to see his family, but also excited that I would have the bedroom to myself all weekend, able to flirt with girls on Internet Relay Chat and not worry about someone looking over my shoulder.

I got out my course catalog and the Graduation Progress form.  I had completed my general education requirements and the classes required for everyone regardless of major.  The only requirement remaining was for the major itself, and I needed three more upper-division mathematics classes, including 150B, the continuation of my current abstract algebra class.  With two quarters left, I had plenty of time to take those.  I was limited in which classes I could take, since not all classes were offered every quarter, or even every year.  But I was sure I could find three that would work with my schedule.  Math 150B was offered every year in the winter, and at this point I did not really care what the other two classes would be.

The tricky part would be preparing for the teacher training program.  In my state, universities do not offer education majors; instead, teacher training is a one year graduate program taken after completing a bachelor’s degree.  I would have to reapply to UJ by the end of November, this time as a graduate student applying to the School of Education.  I was missing three classes for that program’s requirements: Educational Psychology, a lecture class offered by the physical education department called Healthful Living, and one more English class of my choice.  I looked up to see which quarters those classes were offered, and I came up with a plan.  In the winter, I would take Ed Psych, Math 150B, and some other math class that I could fit into my schedule, and in the spring, I would take Healthful Living, one more math class, and Fiction Writing for the English class.  Fiction Writing was a lower-division class, but it sounded the most fun and interesting out of all the English options, and I would still have enough total upper-division units to graduate.  Healthful Living was only a two-unit class, so I would need one more class in the spring in order to be a full-time student.  I would be able to take one more of Dr. Hurt’s New Testament classes after all; he taught Christian Theology in the spring.  For the winter, I would have just barely enough units to be a full-time student, so maybe I could look at doing another two-unit internship tutoring at Jeromeville High School, as I had done last spring.

At that moment, something caught my eye at the bottom of the Graduation Progress Tracker.  A few lines of small print at the bottom informed me of a number to call if I had questions.  Apparently, as fourth-year student, I had been assigned to a specific person, the one who had filled out this form, and that person would process my application to graduate, as well as answer any questions I might have.  The lower left corner of the form said, “Completed by,” with a blank for that person to initial, and in that blank were the handwritten initials “KS.”  I remembered Noah’s words a few hours earlier, telling me that Kathleen Sutton worked in the office that processed these forms.  Could Kathleen Sutton be the “KS” who filled out my form?  Did I just happen to get assigned to the one person in that office whom I knew personally?  How many of these graduation processing specialists were there, and what were the chances of that?  It was probably a coincidence; there were plenty of people in the world with the initials K.S.  I had nothing more to do at this point for graduation planning, and I had finished everything I needed to do for tomorrow’s classes, so I went to bed.


I saw the date on Sunday morning’s newspaper; it was my brother Mark’s birthday, sixteen years old now. I reminded myself to call home this afternoon, although I had already sent him a card with a fart joke on it.

I had not yet turned in my application to graduate.  I was nervous.  What if I was not ready to graduate?  I would apparently have my requirements done by the end of the school year, but what if I was misinterpreting the requirements?  And was I really ready to finish my undergraduate time and move on to the next phase?  A few weeks ago, when I thought I would need another quarter or two to graduate, I was looking forward to staying in Jeromeville longer.  Jeromeville was my home now.  I had a community here.  Advanced mathematics was getting weird and abstract, I did not enjoy it as much as I used to, and I was ready to be done with school.  But filing for graduation would bring closer the inevitable day when I would leave Jeromeville and go out into the world.

All of this was still on my mind when I got to church that morning.  The worship team played a fast song to begin the service, and when they played a slow song later, I sat and prayed about these things.  I asked God to give me peace about my plan to graduate at the end of the year and do my student teaching through UJ.  Send me a sign that this is your will for my life, I asked silently.

God often speaks to me through odd coincidences.  Some people have told me that I pay too much attention to this sort of thing, but God knows that it will get my attention.  The sign that I prayed for came quickly, as I was wandering aimlessly on the patio after church mingling with others.  I saw Kathleen Sutton ahead of me in the direction I was walking; she turned and looked at me, and I waved.  “Hello,” I said.

“Greg,” Kathleen replied.  “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

“What do you mean?”

“I work in the office that processes graduation applications.  We were doing this year’s Graduation Progress Trackers, and I recognized your name on one of the forms I filled out.”

“Oh, wow,” I said.  Kathleen Sutton was “KS” after all.

“I saw your transcript,” Kathleen continued.  “A 3.9 grade point average, and all As in all those hard math and science classes.  You have a pretty impressive academic record.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“What are you planning to do after you graduate?”

“I’m going to be a teacher.  I didn’t think about being a teacher until just last year, but I was planning out the rest of my year this year, and I’ll be able to do all the requirements for the teacher certification program before the end of the year.”

“Good for you!  We definitely need good teachers who know their subject matter.  I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Thanks.  Oh, by the way, if I’m misunderstanding something, and I file for graduation but I don’t actually have all the right classes, will someone let me know?”

“Definitely.  But I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

When I got home, I changed into an old pair of shorts and went to the small shed in the backyard.  Our house only had a covered carport, not a locked garage, so I typically left Schuyler, my bicycle, in the shed.  I had a long ride I would occasionally do around the entire perimeter of the city of Jeromeville, and with the October days getting shorter, I wanted to do my long ride again before it got too cold and gray.  I had sat down once with a ruler and a map and estimated the ride at fifteen miles, and the fastest I had ever completed the ride was just a few seconds short of an hour.  I rode west on Coventry Boulevard across Highway 117, worked my way through the neighborhoods of West Jeromeville, then headed back east on Fifth Street along the row of walnut trees that separated the city of Jeromeville to my left from the university’s agricultural research fields to my right.  After crossing back to the east side of 117, I cut through campus, past the North Residential Area and the Rec Pavilion, and emerging into downtown Jeromeville next to the Death Star building on Third Street.  Although I was trying for record time, pedaling as fast as I could, I slowed down a little bit through downtown, with its many cars, bicycles, and people.  I worked my way to the Cornell Boulevard underpass, still too narrow for its traffic volume, southeast past Murder Burger and across Highway 100.

I had learned quickly as a freshman that I would feel a bit out of place in a university town like Jeromeville with its hippies and extreme politics.  But now, as a senior, I was on a timeline to graduate eight short months from now, and I did not want to leave.  Jeromeville had grown on me.  It was the place where I found friends, and the place where I found Jesus.  I had gotten involved with youth ministry at church and built meaningful connections beyond the campus bubble.  Jeromeville, in all its quirkiness, was home.

I continued along the southernmost neighborhoods of Jeromeville, through the neighborhood where Eddie, John, Xander, and Lars had lived when I first met them sophomore year, and into a section of the Greenbelts where those guys had held the Man of Steel disc golf competition.  I continued east all the way to Bruce Boulevard, the easternmost of Jeromeville’s north-south thoroughfares, and turned to the north.  About a mile north, I crossed back over Highway 100, where a new neighborhood was under construction, rare in a city like Jeromeville where suburban sprawl is so hated.  I turned west on Coventry Boulevard and rode for almost three miles, then turned into the Greenbelts of north Jeromeville, emerging on Maple Drive about half a mile north of my house.  I looked at my watch when I got home: 58 minutes, 57 seconds, a new record for me.

Time moves forward.  Children grow up and become university students, who then go out into the real world and have children of their own.  But, although time was definitely moving forward, maybe I did not have to leave Jeromeville yet.  I would still have one more year at UJ in the teacher training program, so I would be a registered student through June of 1999.  If I did not get into UJ’s program, Jeromeville was close enough to commute to Capital State.  After that, there were plenty of high schools in commuting distance from Jeromeville where I could work; maybe I could even teach at Jeromeville High.  If I did leave Jeromeville eventually, as I would do in 2001, it would happen when the time was right, when I felt ready to move on.

Readers: Did your education and career end up happening according to your plan or projected timeline? Did you even plan these things in advance? Tell me about it in the comments.

If you like what you read, don’t forget to like this post and follow this blog. Also follow Don’t Let The Days Go By on Facebook and Instagram.

January 23-28, 1997. Time to start thinking about the future. (#116)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 18 Comments

I walked into Kerry Hall and pressed the Up button for the elevator.  As I waited for the door to open, I noticed a flyer for the event I was going to on a bulletin board.  I walked over and read the flyer, even though I already knew the time and place of the event; we had discussed this upcoming event in detail at this month’s Math Club meeting.

MATHEMATICS CAREER FAIR
Presented by the University of Jeromeville Math Club
January 23 – 3-5pm – 450 Kerry

Kerry Hall, home to the offices of the mathematics and statistics departments, was easy to navigate; each of its six floors consisted of one straight hallway about two hundred feet long. Room 450 would be at the low-numbered end of the fourth floor.  The first digit of the room number was the floor, but for some reason the numbering on each floor started in the 50s at the end close to the elevators and ended in the 90s at the other end.  I wondered if this was because each floor of adjacent Wellington Hall only had room numbers ending between 01 and 30, so that way the two buildings would not repeat room numbers.  I also wondered if I was the only person on the Jeromeville campus who actually thought about such things.

I got off on the fourth floor and turned left, where I expected room 450 to be.  A sign next to an open door said 450 – GRADUATE STUDENT STUDY ROOM.  I did not know that this room existed, probably because I was not a graduate student.  On the other side of the door, a sign that said MATHEMATICS CAREER FAIR had been taped to the wall.  I cautiously walked inside.

I recognized several students I knew from Math Club.  Sarah Winters was picking up brochures from a table; she looked up and saw me in the doorway.  “Greg!” she said, waving.  Although Sarah was also a mathematics major, and one of my best friends, we had never had a math class together.  I knew her because she had lived downstairs from me in the dorm freshman year, and I also knew her from Jeromeville Christian Fellowship and from my church.

“Hey,” I said to Sarah.  “How are you?  What table is this?”

“School of Education,” she replied.  “I don’t know yet if I’m going to stay in Jeromeville for my teacher certification program.  I’m thinking I’ll probably move back home, but I may as well look into all the options.”

“Good idea.”

“Are you still not interested in being a teacher?”

“Probably not,” I replied.

“You’re still working as a tutor, right?  Why aren’t you interested in teaching if you like tutoring?”

“I like helping people learn math, but I don’t want to get involved in all the politics involved in public education.”

“Yeah, that’s one thing I’m not looking forward to.  What about private school?”

“Don’t private school teachers make less money?”

“Yeah, but if you really love what you do, money shouldn’t be an object.  Would you want to teach at a community college, or a university, or something like that?”

“If I stay in college forever, I’ll probably end up being a professor and having to teach.”

“That’s true.  Is that what you want to do?”

“I always kind of thought so, but I’m starting to realize I need to explore my options.”

“Well, you came to the right place.”  Sarah gestured across the room.  The UJ School of Education table where we were now was the first in a row of four manned exhibits.  At the far end of the room, the rest of the furniture that was usually in this room appeared to have been pushed to the side, to give fair attendees room to mingle.  I was not sure exactly how many exhibitors I expected at a career fair, but the answer was definitely more than four.  This was disappointing.

“I need to go,” Sarah said.  “Enjoy the rest of the fair!”

“Thanks,” I replied.  “I’ll see you around.”

After Sarah left, I walked to the next table.  “Are you interested in being an actuary?” a man in a business suit asked me from behind the table.

“I don’t know,” I replied.  “I’m kind of just gathering information right now.  I hear a lot about actuaries when people talk about math careers, but I’m not sure exactly what you do.”

“Basically, we predict the future,” he explained.  “We use mathematical modeling to make predictions, which are used by insurance companies to determine rates and risk assessment figures.”

“I see.”

“I represent the Casualty Actuarial Society.  We give the exams that actuaries have to pass.”

“Do you go to grad school to get a degree to be an actuary?”

“Usually not.  You get hired first for an entry-level position, and your job training includes prep for the exams.  Then you get promoted after you pass the exams.”

“I see,” I said.  “I’ll think about that.”  I took his brochure and put it in my backpack, although from his description, being an actuary sounded incredibly boring and unfulfilling.

I next went to the table for Sun Microsystems, a computer company big enough for me to have heard of it.  “Hi,” the woman at the table said.  “We’re looking for applied math majors with computer programming or computer engineering experience.  Is that you?”

“Not really,” I said.  “But can I have a brochure, in case I change my emphasis?”

“Sure!”

I took the Sun brochure and put it with the others.  I had chosen not to major in computer science, because I did not want a hobby to turn into work.  I also knew that most of my technology skills were vastly out of date.  I had grown up with only my childhood Commodore 64 until I got my current computer as a high school graduation present, years after the Commodore had been discontinued.  I had taken two computer science classes sophomore year and learned to code in Pascal and C.  Computer Science 110, Data Structures, counted in place of an upper-division mathematics class toward my major; I had registered for the class this quarter and got put on the wait list, but I did not get in.

The fourth and final table was for Graduate Studies in the UJ Department of Mathematics.  I took their brochure as well to learn about the different programs offered, although much of that information I already knew from the course catalog.  This career fair felt like a giant disappointment.

An older student named Brandon, whom I knew from Math Club, asked me as I was leaving, “So what did you think?”

“It was a little disappointing.  Nothing really stood out to me.  I still don’t know what I want to do.”

“Don’t forget, the Engineering Career Fair is coming up on Tuesday.  You should look at that one too, if you’re looking for what you can do with a math degree.”

At that moment, a familiar woman’s voice said from behind me, “Greg? I just overheard what you were saying; can I talk to you for a minute in my office?  I have something you might be interested in.”

“Dr. Thomas,” I said, turning around.  “I didn’t see you here.”  I had taken Combinatorics from Dr. Thomas sophomore year, and she was my favorite mathematics professor so far.  She explained things clearly, in non-broken English, and she made an effort to get to know students more than most of my professors had.  She also attended Math Club meetings sometimes.

“Sure,” I said.  I followed Dr. Thomas upstairs to her office on the far end of the fifth floor.

“Are you familiar with REU programs?  Research Experiences for Undergraduates?”

“No,” I said.

“The National Science Foundation has programs that you can apply to and do research in your field.   Some of them, you can get credits for, or you get paid a stipend.  I’m trying to start an REU here at Jeromeville, but there are programs like this at schools all around the country.”

“I see.”

“A colleague whom I’ve worked with runs the program at Williams College in Massachusetts.  And three are others much closer if you don’t want to travel that far.  It’s a good way to get a sense of what graduate school is like.  Being that you’re an excellent math student, wondering about your future, I think it would be good for you to apply to REUs.”

“Sure,” I said.  “What do I have to do?”

“Here’s the brochure from the NSF,” Dr. Thomas said, handing me a paper.  “They have a website with links to different schools’ programs, and you can find all the instructions on how to apply there.”

“I will look into that,” I said.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  And whatever happens, with how well you do in math, I know you’ll figure out what you want to do.”


The Engineering Career Fair was much larger than the Mathematics Career Fair; I expected it to be, since it was being held on the floor of the Pavilion, where the UJ Colts basketball teams played.  Engineering was also a much more popular major, and one more directly connected to industry.  A sea of tables, probably close to a hundred of them, covered the floor.  The region around San Tomas, Sunnyglen, and Willow Grove, a little over a hundred miles to the south, was a hub of technology companies; I expected that many of them had representatives here looking for people with computer experience.  Surely someone here would have a career option for pure mathematics majors.

I had not brought résumés to the career fair.  Next year, when I would be close to graduation, it would be more important to do so, but today was still mostly about gathering information.  Of course, if I found an internship for this summer that I wanted to apply to, I would still need to make a résumé and send it in.  We had discussed making résumés at this month’s Math Club meeting, and I mostly just felt frustrated and unaccomplished.  “I don’t know what to put on my résumé,” I said to Brandon at one point.  “I don’t have any work experience, or skills.”

“Sure you do,” Brandon replied.  “Just put what you can do.  On my résumé, I put ‘problem solver.’  Because when you give me a problem, I’ll solve it.”

“Hmm,” I said.  I was not a problem solver like Brandon.  I had tons of unsolved problems in my life, and padding my résumé with vague embellishments that I could not back up with action or experience would not help solve any of them.

I walked to the first table in the row closest to me.  A pile of mechanical pencils lay on one end of the table.  “May I have one?” I asked.

“Sure,” the woman behind the table said.  I read the pencil: NNC DATA SOLUTIONS, INC., SAN TOMAS.  “What’s your major?” she asked.

“Math.”

“Pure math?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re looking for computer science majors with experience in coding.  I don’t think we have any positions or internships for pure math.  Sorry!”

I continued up and down each row of tables, picking up lots of free pens, pencils, notepads, and foam balls to squeeze for stress relief purposes, each with companies’ names and contact information printed on them.  And I got the same story from each one of them: they were looking for computer science or engineering majors, not me.

At one point, I walked to a table I had not visited yet, for a company in Sunnyglen called West Coast Technologies.  I grabbed their free pencil and notepad.  “Do you have a résumé?” the woman behind the table asked.

“No,” I said.

“You need a résumé to apply for a job,” the woman replied, in a condescending tone.

“I’m just gathering information this year,” I explained, trying to hide my shame and frustration.

“What’s your major?”

“Math.”

“We’re looking for computer science majors.  But, hey, maybe ten years from now, when you’re wondering why you chose math for your major, you’ll go back to school for computer science, and we might have something for you!”  She made an amused chuckle.

I walked away without saying another word to the West Coast Technologies lady.  Who does she think she is?  How exactly does mocking an applicant to his face help your company recruit employees?  If I did go back to school in ten years, I thought, I certainly would not apply to work for West Coast Technologies.  Hopefully they would be out of business by then.

I continued past the next table.  I had only three tables left to visit, and I could tell from the names of the companies represented that they were looking specifically for engineers.  I turned toward the exit, not watching where I was going, and almost bumped into someone who was facing away from me.  As I looked up at this guy, who was about an inch taller than me, I realized that I recognized this tall guy with curly dark blond hair, and I became even more embarrassed.

“Sorry, Todd,” I said as he turned around.  “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Hey, Greg,” Todd Chevallier replied.  “No problem.  What are you up to?”

“Looking to see if there are any options for math majors here.  There aren’t.”  I told him about the condescending lady from West Coast Technologies, as well as the unsuccessful Mathematics Career Fair from the previous week.

“Well, what do you want to do with your math degree?”

“I’m not sure.  I always assumed I would just stay in school forever and become a professor, but now I don’t know anymore.  And I’m starting to stress about it.”

“Have you thought about going into teaching? It seems like a lot of people with math degrees do that.”

“I don’t want to be a teacher,” I explained.  “I don’t want to deal with the politics involved in education.”

“Yeah, I get that.  Don’t stress, though.  You have time to figure things out.  You’re only a sophomore.”

“I’m a junior.”

“What?” Todd exclaimed, with a puzzled look on his face.

“I’m a junior.”

“But I thought you and I were both new at JCF last year.  Freshman year.”

“We were.  But it was my sophomore year.  I didn’t go to JCF freshman year.”

“Really.  Wow.  It’s weird that I never knew that.  I guess you do need to start thinking about your future.”

“I know.”

“Good luck.  Pray about it.  I’ll see you Friday?”

“Yeah.”


I rode my bike home more slowly than usual, feeling disappointed and discouraged.  I pulled a random CD from the shelf; it was New Adventures In Hi-Fi, the recently released album from R.E.M.  More disappointment; I did not like this album as well as their previous ones, although it did have a few good songs. I played it anyway.

I looked through the brochure that Dr. Thomas gave me.  I connected the computer to the dial-up Internet and went to the main website for the Research Experiences for Undergraduates program.  I found the list of schools offering REUs for mathematics; there were quite a few, but none were nearby.  If I ended up doing this for the summer, I would have to travel, but that was not necessarily a bad thing.

School was what I was good at, so I always assumed I would stay in academia forever.  However, even that felt uncertain now.  And unless I changed my mind about being a teacher or an actuary, I had no other career options.  The good news was that, with my future so wide open, I could try different things and see what I did and did not like.  But this would require some work, and I always felt anxious about possibly making the wrong decision.  I got out my homework for tomorrow’s Advanced Calculus class and worked on that, putting aside my career uncertainty for now.  I knew that God had a plan, and I felt encouraged that Dr. Thomas believed in me, but all of this still felt overwhelming.  It was time to start thinking about the future, but none of this was imminently urgent, so planning my future career could wait.

Readers: Have you ever been told anything unusually cruel when being turned down for a position, or for something else?

Disclaimer: None of the corporations or organizations mentioned in this story were involved in its writing or production, and this is not a sponsored post.  Some of the corporations and organizations are fictional.

July 12, 1996. Thinking about the future. (#91)

~ Greg Dennison ~ 17 Comments

Everyone has those experiences of seeing a familiar face in an unexpected place or situation, and usually, such a moment turns out to be awkward.  Kids see their teachers grocery shopping and freak out, because it never occurred to them that teachers eat like normal humans and do not live at school.  In 1996, Kevin Johnson was playing basketball for the NBA’s Phoenix Suns, and in 2007, I saw him ordering at Chipotle, but I was too afraid to say anything.

I had one of those moments one Friday afternoon in the summer of 1996, when I was taking Computer Science 40, Introduction to Software, at the University of Jeromeville.  It was five o’clock, and I was still wearing the same old pair of shorts that I used for pajamas.  I had no class on Fridays, so I had not showered today.  I spent the morning in an IRC chat talking to a girl on the other side of the country, then I had worked on homework for a while, then I read a few chapters of a book for fun, and now I was going to go for a bike ride.  I put on a pair of real shorts and walked my bike out to the parking lot.  I looked up and saw Joe White.  “Hey,” I said.

Wait a minute.  Joe White, the teacher’s assistant for my computer class, does not live at Las Casas Apartments.  Or does he?  I had never seen him around here before.  He appeared to have just gotten out of the pool, and he was holding hands with a girl in a black bikini whom I had seen around the complex.

“Hi, Greg,” Joe said.  “You live here?”

“Yeah.”

“My girlfriend lives here.  It seems like a pretty nice place.”

“It is.  I like it.”

“How are you?  You seem to be doing really well in class so far.”

“I’m good.  I tend to figure out computers pretty easily.”

“Are you a CS major?”

“No,” I said.  “I’m a math major.”

“Do you need CS 40 for the math major?”

“No, but I needed 30.  And 110 counts in place of math units toward the major.  I’ve always liked computers, I want to learn more about programming, and 40 is a prerequisite for 110.”

“That makes sense.  Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, you were in Math 145 last quarter with Dr. Thomas, right?”

“Yeah.  Were you in that class?”

“Yes.  I’ve been wondering if all the math professors at Jeromeville are as bad as Gabby Thomas, or if that was just her teaching style.”

This comment caught me completely off guard, since Gabby Thomas had been my favorite math professor so far, and I was not sure what it was that Joe found so abhorrent about her teaching style.  I liked her class.  Not wanting to debate this, I simply said, “Every professor is different.  I’ve had good and bad experiences.”

“That makes sense,” Joe said as I nodded.  He continued, “So what do you want to do with your math degree?”

“I’m not really sure,” I explained.  “Math is just what I’m good at.  I’ll probably just stay here and go to grad school.”

“A Ph.D. from Jeromeville doesn’t really mean much if you’re going to be a serious academic.  But if your math grades are anything like how you’re doing in CS so far, you could probably get into a really prestigious program.”

“Hmm,” I said, nodding.

“I should get going,” Joe said.  “Enjoy your ride, and I’ll see you in class.”

“Thanks!  Have a good weekend!”

I pedaled out toward Andrews Road and headed south toward campus, thinking about what Joe had said.  It had never crossed my mind how degrees from different universities with different levels of prestige might affect future employment opportunities.  As a kid, I just went to whatever school was in my neighborhood; I never had to consider the school’s prestige, reputation, or history.  Apparently, a career in academia was a bit more complicated.  It also rubbed me the wrong way that Joe seemed to have a very low opinion of the University of Jeromeville.  He thought my favorite professor was awful, and that an advanced degree from here was worthless.  If he thought so lowly of UJ, why was he getting his degree here?  For all I know, maybe he did not get accepted anywhere else.

I rode my bike past the North Residential Area and Thong Bikini Hill, which was full of sunbathers and swimmers today, to the oak grove at the west end of the Arboretum.  I continued along the path on the south bank of the creek for the entire length of the Arboretum, emerging downtown on First Street.  I turned right on Cornell Boulevard, crossing under the railroad tracks near Murder Burger and then over Highway 100.  Another trail followed the dry creek bed on this side of the highway; I worked my way to this trail and followed it east to where it ended.  The grasses between the trail and the dry creek bed had turned brown in the dry summer heat, but the trees lining the trail were full of green leaves.

At the end of the trail, I turned around and headed back to the west, until I got to the greenbelt that led to the park at the end of Baron Court, where I turned right, away from the creek.  In May, I had been playing disc golf in this Greenbelt as part of the Man of Steel competition, an annual event among the men of Jeromeville Christian Fellowship involving disc golf, an eating contest, and poker.  I was looking forward to next year, hoping that I would not finish close to last place for a second time in a row.

As I pedaled past trees and a small playground, I got an idea.  Although I lived alone at Las Casas, part of the reason I chose that apartment was because thirteen of my friends from freshman year lived within a short walk of me.  I occasionally walked to one of their apartments just to visit.  During sophomore year, I got involved with Jeromeville Christian Fellowship, and two households full of my new JCF friends lived on Baron Court.  What if I dropped in on them just to say hi the same way I did for my friends who lived near me?

I stopped my bike in front of the closer of the two houses and walked it up to the door, nervously.  During the school year, Haley, Kristina, Kelly, and Jeanette lived here, with two other girls whom I did not know as well.  I was not sure who would be here today, except that I knew that Haley would not, since she went home for the summer.

I took a deep breath and looked back out toward the street, contemplating getting back on my bike and going home.  This was a bad idea.  Maybe none of my friends would be here.  Maybe they had other roommates in the summer who did not know me; what would I say if one of them answered the door?  Which roommate was I looking for?  Would it be weird to say that I knew multiple girls who lived here and I just dropped by to say hi to whomever was home?  Why was I even here?  If I was looking for a chance to talk to Haley, she was not in Jeromeville, so that would not happen.  I knocked on the door before I could talk myself out of this.  The thirty seconds that I waited for a response felt like several minutes as I played out all the scenarios in my head.

Kelly answered, wearing a t-shirt and running shorts.  “Greg!” she said.  “Hi!  What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I explained.  “I was just out on a bike ride, out your way, and just wanted to say hi if anyone I knew was home.”

“Come on in!  I’m the only one here right now.  You want some water?”

“Sure.  And I’m sorry that I’m all sweaty.”

“It’s fine,” Kelly said, walking toward the kitchen.  I followed her.  “I just got back from a run a little while ago, and I haven’t showered yet.”  As Kelly got a glass out of the cupboard and filled it from a pitcher in the refrigerator, I noticed something frying in a pan on the stove.  “I’m making a hamburger,” Kelly explained, handing me the glass of water.

“I see,” I said, drinking about half the water in my first sip.  “How’s your summer going?”

“Pretty good.  Two classes during a summer session is a lot of work, though.  But I’m keeping up with it.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a lot of work.  I’m only taking one class, and that’s a lot of work by itself.”

“Which class?”

“Computer Science 40.  Intro to Software.”

“That does sound like a lot of work,” Kelly said, chuckling.  “What are you learning about?  Intro to software, like making your own?  I’m not really a computer person.”

“Yeah.  We’re programming in C, which is a structured programming language.  A lot of more entry-level programming classes use languages that are simpler for humans to understand, but a lot less powerful.  Like last quarter in CS 30, when we learned programming in Pascal.”

“I see.”

“I don’t like working in the computer lab in the basement of Kent Hall, though.  I work better from home, with music playing and stuff.  But I have to be connected to the computers in Kent, and I don’t want to tie up the phone line.  So I’ll dial in around 10 at night, and stay up late getting my work done, and it works out because I don’t have to be up early in the morning.”

“That makes sense.”

“And I’ve trained myself to sleep in a little.  I don’t usually sleep in very well.”

“I… have the opposite problem,” Kelly said, chuckling.  “I sleep through my early morning classes.”

“I’ve found that most people do have the opposite problem.”

Kelly flipped over the hamburger patty with a spatula.  “So what else have you been doing this summer?  Did you go home at all?”

“Yeah.  The week in between spring quarter and summer session.  My brother and I turned all of our silly inside jokes into a board game.”

“That sounds fun!  How old is your brother?”

“Fourteen.  He starts high school this year.”

“Oh!  I was picturing older.  Is it just the two of you?”

“Yeah.  What about you?”

“I have an older sister.  She’s in grad school in California.”

“Nice,” I said.  “That’s about it for my summer.  I’ve just been going to my class, and going for a lot of bike rides, and going to the Bible study on Thursdays at Lillian’s– Oh!  And I mailed off my payment for Urbana!  I’m going, for sure!”

“That’s exciting!  I’ve heard such great things about Urbana!  I really wish I could go.”

“Why can’t you?” I asked, hoping it was not too personal of a question.

“Did I tell you what I was doing next year?”

“I don’t think you did.”  I hoped that I had not disrespectfully forgotten some key piece of information that Kelly had told me before.  I first wondered if she could not afford the trip to Urbana, then I wondered if she was going on a mission trip, the kind of thing I would learn more about at Urbana, like what Taylor and Pete and Charlie were doing in Morocco or Xander was doing in India right now.  Neither one was correct.

“I’m going to Hungary,” Kelly said.  “To study abroad.”

“Oh!” I said.  “That’ll be exciting!”

“Yeah.  I always wanted to study abroad.  I wanted to be an exchange student in high school, but it never worked out.  This time, the opportunity did work out.”

“When do you leave?”

“After first summer session ends, I’m going to go home for a little over a week.  I leave in the middle of August.”

“Will you have email?  Or is there an address I can write you?”

“Yeah!  I don’t think I’ll have email, but I’m keeping an address book so I can write to people.  I’ll send you my address once I get there.  Lemme go get it.”  Kelly left the kitchen and came back a minute later with the address book; she turned to the page for the letter D and said, “Will you be at the same place next year?”

“No,” I said.  “I’ll give you my new address.”  I wrote in the address book, Greg Dennison, 2601 Maple Dr. #K-5, Jeromeville (after Sept. 1).

“Who did you say you were living with next year?”

“Shawn Yang, Brian Burr, and Josh McGraw.”

“So this is Brian’s address too?  I’d been meaning to get his address.”

“Yes!  And I will definitely write you.”

“Great!”  Kelly turned off the stove and put her hamburger on a bun, which she had on a plate.

“I should probably let you eat that,” I said.  “I need to get home.”

“Yeah, I need to eat and then get in the shower.  But thanks for stopping by!”

“Yeah!  Good luck with the rest of your classes!”

“Thanks!  You too!”

I left Kelly’s house and rode down Baron Court.  I thought about stopping by the house down the street where a bunch of guys I knew lived, but at this point I was ready to get home and make something to eat, so I did not stop.  Kelly’s hamburger smelled good.

I turned right on Valdez and right again at Cornell Boulevard.  I saw tractors and backhoes on the other side of Cornell from me; I had read that a shopping center was being built here.  Shopping centers always brought controversy in Jeromeville.  The city was run by aging hippies who fought tooth and nail to keep the city feeling like the small town it was forty years ago, in complete denial of the population growth brought on by the large and growing university adjacent to the city.  The construction of a shopping center always renewed debate about what kind of stores belonged in a proper small town like Jeromeville.  I thought the city council should just mind their own business and let the free market decide, because this was America.

I turned left on Willard Avenue.  This was my first time on this stretch of road.  An overpass had just opened a few weeks earlier, connecting Willard Avenue with Power Line Road on the other side of Highway 100.  In typical Jeromeville fashion, the overpass was controversial; new roads would bring more traffic, which would bring more crime from other cities, according to the very shaky logic of the people who ran this city.  Currently, only two two-lane roads connected the part of Jeromeville south of 100 with the rest of the city, and horrible traffic jams plagued both of them, especially Cornell Boulevard heading into downtown.  This new overpass in between those other two was desperately needed, in the eyes of anyone who could think logically and unemotionally.

When the need for the overpass became apparent, the people planning it decided that it would be a uniquely Jeromevillian overpass, with a landscaped median full of planters with trees.  Trees on an overpass made no sense to me.  Trees grow, and trees have roots, which would crack the concrete and dangle over the freeway below.  The trees and planters also would add weight to the overpass.  As I crossed Highway 100, riding past the trees, I thought about how the local newspaper columnist Bill Dunnigan had said the same thing I did about them.  But someone thought this was a good idea, and as if not to be shown up, the city of Nueces, 15 miles west on Highway 100, built their own overpass with trees a few years later.

North of the freeway, the overpass crossed a railroad track and Second Street, then passed between two undeveloped grassy areas.  One had a pond fed by storm drains that was full for most of the year.  The city paid thousands of dollars to design a tunnel under this road so that wildlife could cross the road, a move which many pundits from other cities in the region made fun of.  A local artist built some miniature buildings called “Frogville” which he placed near one end of the tunnel.  What makes this situation even more messed up is that much of the land was paved over within a few years, and no frogs or other animals were ever seen using the tunnel.  I always said that Tunneling Frogs would make a good name for a band.  Had I done more research into the quirky left-wing hippie local politics in Jeromeville before I came to UJ for school, there is a good chance I would not have chosen UJ.  However, after making so many friends here and discovering how much I loved bike rides, Jeromeville was definitely starting to grow on me.

As I continued riding home, north on Power Line Road, west on Coventry Boulevard, and then right on G Street into the Coventry Greenbelt, I thought about that afternoon’s conversations.  Joe White had brought into question my plan to stay in school forever, with his comment about the importance of getting into a prestigious graduate program.  Kelly Graham clearly had a plan for her year in Hungary.

What was my plan?  Was I really planning on staying in school forever?  What would I do then?  I would become a mathematician, teaching college classes while doing mathematics research.  Was that what I wanted?  What were my other options?  I was pretty sure I did not want to teach middle or high school.  If I changed my major to computer science or something involving computers, I would be competing with others who were much more knowledgeable than me about computers from this decade.  I also enjoyed fiddling with computers, and I did not want something fun to turn into work.  By the time I got home, I found that I was more frustrated than I had been when I started on this ride.

I stopped at the mailboxes on my way back to the apartment and took a deep breath.  I knew that I did not have to decide my future plans right now, but it felt more urgent than it had a few hours ago.  I opened the mailbox and saw a letter from Sarah Winters.  She was at home in Ralstonville for the summer.  I went home and read the letter before I got into the shower.  In my last letter to her, I had mentioned that the weather had been uncharacteristically cool.  I had also told her about my class, my week at home, and how I needed to coordinate with Shawn and Brian and Josh about moving into the new apartment and storing my things for a few days after I moved out of this apartment.  Sarah told me that she had been in a wedding for one of her high school friends, and that she had been going to the college group at her church.  She was going to Disneyland later this month, and she would be talking to her pastor about missionary opportunities over the next couple of years.  She closed her letter saying, “I hope your plans for next year fall into place and that the sun comes out soon.  Take care!”

The sun did come out; temperatures this week had been in the 90s.  And Sarah was referring to the moving plans falling into place, but after today, I felt like I had many other plans that needed to fall into place.  I still had time to figure out my future.  Or did I?  I had been at UJ for two years, and I had made virtually no progress in choosing a career.  I would graduate in another two or three years, and it would be better to come up with a plan soon, so that I could choose the right classes.

I seemed to remember the Math Club talking about career opportunities sometimes; maybe I should pay attention to those.  Or I may end up doing something entirely different.  In December, I would be attending the convention in Urbana, Illinois, to learn about Christian mission opportunities and ways I can serve God.  Maybe I would discover an entirely new career opportunity there.  The world was not an easy place, but I was learning, and I would figure out my future when I was ready.  Things seemed scary and confusing now, but my sun would come out soon.