The Sunday Memory Drawer - College Teachers I've Known and Loved or Hated

Fordham University, here I come.  Or, in reality, there I went.

Four years of higher education that were known primarily for what I did when I wasn't in the classroom as a communications major.  Working at WFUV.  Doing news reports, sports interviews, and creating my own radio situation comedy. 

Most importantly, making friends that I would have for the rest of my life.

In retrospect, this should be remembered as a noteworthy moment in my life.  At the time, I was the first one in several generations of my family that actually went to college.  Thanks to my parents who worked several jobs to make that happen.  Probably worth the cost when they realized it was a great way to get me out of the house.  Of course, going to a place like Fordham University in the Bronx had a completely different connotation for my grandmother.

"You're going to turn into a Catholic."

Well, Grandma, I didn't.  But it's not as if I wasn't exposed to them.  After years of being the only one in my neighborhood going to a public school, it was a mind blower to suddenly realize that I was now going to be taught by priests and nuns.  Plus I had to take several mandatory religion courses.  No wonder Grandma was worried and was always checking my hands for rosary beads.

Still, it all took some getting used to.  Not only were my teachers part of an alien clergy, there were some other things to worry about.  Rumors abounded about some of the priests.  Yep, even then.

One such troll of a priest was one I didn't take for a class.  But he was regularly spotted in one of the adult beverage dispensers around campus.  On Friday nights, he'd be perched on a stool, billing and cooing to any halfway decent-looking freshman with a single strand of blonde hair on his head.

Not that some of these priests didn't have demons.  During my senior year, we unfortunately experienced what I comically named "the Jesuit Suicide of the Week."  On three successive Fridays, a priest tried to do a Greg Louganis-like dive off their residence hall onto the roof of the cafeteria.  It was completely bizarre and, naturally, the always-PR-conscious Fordham administration tried to ignore the Jesuits amazingly whizzing by our windows.  I'm surprised that they didn't try to pass it all off as a new intramural activity from the athletic department.

Yep, even then.  Okay, I am painting with a broad brush stroke here.  There really were some decent teachers of the clergy, but it's the weird ones that stuck with me as memories.

I did take a journalism class with a priest who was affectionately/unaffectionately known as "Gay Ray."

"Can you see me after class?"

Er, no, Pastor, I mean, Father.

There was a philosophy class with Father Killian who always smelled like moth balls and/or urine.  Sort of like what odors would emerge if you peed into your grandmother's hall closet.

There was my broadcasting history teacher.  Father Matthews.  He reminded me of songleader Mitch Miller except Mitch Miller probably owned an iron.  Father Matthews always looked like he had slept in his clothes and he probably did.  He always had a case of the shakes.  Epilepsy?  Booze?  Or maybe he was just nervous about wondering whether or not we were thinking that he slept in his clothes.

This was not exactly the roster of the Vatican All-Stars.

Yet, no inept Fordham professor came even remotely close to the sheer incompetence and absolute smarminess of the priest I took for a film course.  Father Ralph Dengler and I hope he is still smoldering in Hell.  No single teacher in my life was as despicable as this fraud.  To this day, I am dismayed at some of my friends/former classmates who found this jerk delightfully eccentric and funny.  For me, this man was an utter embarrassment to his profession.

Dengler taught the history of film despite the fact that he may not have seen a movie since Carmen Miranda was wearing fruit.  There was a strong emphasis on silent films since he must have bought them cheap in some Jesuit rummage sale.  If you liked to enjoy endless views of "The Kiss" or "The Great Train Robbery," this was the class for you.  All along the way, we were subjected to Dengler's distinct lack of knowledge, intermingled with some equally mystifying inappropriate comments.  I found none of it to my liking.  Somebody like Tony Randall pulls the same act and can be quirky.  Dengler was just plain weird and probably a little insane.

It all came to a header when we were taking our final exam for the film course.  I had pretty much aced the course to date.  The final had an essay portion and I was working on mine when, suddenly, I felt a presence over my head.  It was Dengler, who made an announcement in that odd, affected voice that was uniquely his.

"Oooooh, sir, your eyes are not on your paper."

Excuse me.

"Oooooh, sir, you are copying someone's answers.  Your eyes are not on your paper."

Okay, we were working on essays at the time.  Anybody who's ever sat in a classroom knows you can't possible copy answers from an essay.  How do you quickly lift complete sentences?  True and false, sure.  Multiple choice, easy.  Essay responses, impossible.

I countered to Father Shithead that I was not cheating.  To no avail.

"If this continues, I will void your examination."

With that, Dengler slithered away.  Leaving me an addled, self-conscious mess.  With a totally derailed train of thought.

Needless to say, the rest of the final exam was a lost cause for me.  And worthy of a C- for the year.  Try explaining that to your father who's coughing up several thousands of dollars for your college education.  And Dad was even more confused by this low grade.

"How the hell do you get a C- in movies?  You've been going to them since you were five."

I had nothing to say.

Several years later, Father Dengler got his.  Unlike some of the other faculty members who fancied boys, Dengler dabbled with the ladies.  And was caught in bed with the wife of a lay teacher.  No pun intended.  I remember mucho hand wringing and mea culpas.

The pressure was too much on Dengler.  He dropped dead shortly thereafter.

And, for the first and only time ever, somebody actually acquiesced to one of my fervent wishes.

Dinner last night:  Hunan beef at Yangtze in Santa Monica.