The Way of the Warrior-Wizard

The camera loomed in his face like a hovering monster in the murky, dark waters of Loch Ness. “Professor” Duncan MacGregor felt like jumping back into the safety of the car his elder sister Mairi was driving. He crouched against the door for a moment, temporarily panic-stricken by the “Carnival of the Lenses”. His German Shepherd, Davy, hopped out and stood close by his side in order to reassure his master.

“Duncan MacGregor!” Mairi hissed at him in her stern Scots brogue, “No shenanigans, now! Face the bloody cameras, but dinna tarry wi' them long.”

“Aye, Mairi,” Duncan replied meekly, using the Scots dialect to address his sister.

He peered shyly at the CBC reporter who was eagerly holding a microphone up to his mouth. Davy had protectively lodged himself between Duncan and the reporter, but he quickly pulled his guard dog back with the leash. He might be able to hide his fear from other human beings, but Davy knew his anxiety-prone master only too well. Still, it would not do to frighten the journalists, no matter how terrified he felt at this moment.

Duncan had hoped that by coming to King’s University in the relatively small town of Queenston, Ontario, that he would avoid media attention. He had obviously been wrong. The media, it seemed, were all over the world no matter where he went. He had been a foolish John-a-dreams to assume otherwise.

“Duncan MacGregor,” one reporter trumpeted, “You are the youngest professor in the world...how does it feel?”

“I...uh...it feels fine,” Duncan stammered, “although I believe there is one younger in Japan.”

“It’s been said that you have one of the highest I.Q.s in the world, at just fourteen years of age. How do you feel about that?”

“I feel...awful,” Duncan lamented in utter humiliation. How many other professors in the University had cameras tagging along after them asking questions about how they felt about everything? Not very many, he would wager.

“How do you feel about your first day at King’s?” asked another reporter, shoving her microphone even further up his nostrils. God bless her, though, for asking a polite question.

“I’m eager to begin teaching,” Duncan answered truthfully. The sooner he could get out of this media circus, the better.

“Are you nervous about your first day, Professor MacGregor?” she asked.

“Only about these bloody cameras,” Duncan replied anxiously, “and please, just call me Duncan. I have a number of older nieces and nephews who are known as “Professor MacGregor”, so I think because of my age, I would simply prefer to be known by my Christian name.”

He hoped fervently that the hoard of reporters would let him through to the lecture hall, but they had effectively blocked his way. Finally, Mairi had to elbow her way through, dragging Duncan and his canine companion along with her.

“That’ll be all, ladies and gents,” she boomed firmly, “the boy needs some time to prepare himself for the first lecture.”

Thank God, Duncan breathed prayerfully, I never thought as I would escape them.

As Duncan, Davy and Mairi entered the lecture hall, however, Duncan realized that he had not entirely escaped the camera-monsters. Inside the hall, in addition to the fifty or so students who were eagerly awaiting the young professor, were two more camera-men. Although their cameras were smaller, it was obvious that the crew was planning to film some kind of university documentary about him. Duncan’s heart began to pound. He was supremely calm about the prospect of teaching fifty students; and that, to him, was pure joy. Teaching them and having his lectures filmed by the camera, however, was not so joyful. He felt his face flush hot with embarrassment.

The Dean walked over to him and shook his hand warmly, as well as that of his elder-sister.

“Hello, Professor,” he greeted him, “and Mrs. MacLean,” he greeted Mairi, shaking her hand, “I am the Dean of the Faculty of Arts and Science at King’s University. My name is John Andrews. Duncan, I hope you won’t mind. Apparently, the Department of Film and Media has arranged for a crew of students to film parts of the first day of your lecture. I’m sorry if this is throwing you for a loop.”

“Twelve loops, I’d say,” Mairi told him, but Duncan simply nodded politely.

“Normally, I’m ill at ease with cameras filming me while I teach,” he explained, “but if it’s students who are doing it for a project, then of course I’ll make adjustments for them.”

“Thank you,” the Dean replied, seeming quite relieved, “it’s very gracious of you. This was my mistake; I ought to have been more aware that this filming was going to take place, and then I could have at least warned you in advance. Please, accept my apologies.”

“No apology is necessary, Dean Andrews,” Duncan assured him warmly, glad to have someone else sharing his embarrassment about the whole issue, “I am quite content to have them here for the first day. I am eager to begin my teaching responsibilities!”

“Well then, let’s waste no more time!” Dean Andrews replied, delighted with the young teacher’s positive attitude, “I’ll introduce you to the class, and you can get started. I will supervise you as you teach here for about the first week.”

“Yes, Sir,” Duncan replied politely.

The two went to the front of the classroom, and a hush fell over the chattering lecture hall. Mairi took Davy from her younger half-brother and went to sit down at a spare desk, for she also intended to supervise the first lecture, what with all these “bloody cameras” lurking about.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Dean began, “it is my pleasure to introduce to you a very special young man whom you probably already know as Professor Duncan MacGregor, and who has recently been lecturing at the University of Drumnadrochit in Scotland.”

A burst of applause interrupted the Dean’s introduction, and he happily waited it out, before continuing, “Duncan, in spite of his age, is well qualified to teach you this course in Introductory North American History. He earned his Ph.D. in History by the time he was twelve years old and became a lecturer at the University of Drumnadrochit by the time he was thirteen due to a brilliant gift he had developed in the art of presenting information. Although he has only been lecturing formally for the past two years, he has also, in one form or another, been involved in tutoring and teaching since the age of seven. He has co-written numerous articles and textbooks on European and North American History and has recently published a work of non-fiction, “Acknowledging the Past”, of which I’m sure many of you have heard. I could no doubt go on longer about his many accomplishments, but I’m sure you’re anxious to hear from Duncan himself. So, without any further ado, Professor, I welcome you to King’s University.”

Duncan stepped up to the podium, nodding his thanks to the Dean and to his class as he acknowledged their applause. He was glad the flattering preamble was over. Every time he had to endure listening to the list of his celebrated accomplishments, he almost wished he had not accomplished so much. On the other hand, such praise was welcome news to his ears as well as his ego. As long as he did not let his ego take precedence over the learning needs of his students, Duncan was content to have them hear his credentials.

“Well, now,” he addressed the students, “enough about me and my silly resume! You came here to learn some history, did you not?”

Duncan paused to allow his class some amused chuckles.

“I’m honoured to be teaching you, and to be here at King’s,” he continued, “and—oh, yes! Thank you, Dean Andrews, for your gracious words.”

Dean Andrews nodded, smiling broadly.

Duncan launched into his introductory lecture, learning some of the students’ names as he went along, and inviting their input into the lecture through the habit of asking them questions. Duncan liked to employ the “Socratic Method” when teaching, as he felt it encouraged greater participation amongst the students and therefore created a more valuable learning experience, one of which they felt a part.

Throughout the lecture, Duncan entertained many questions. This group was not shy. The students were obviously fascinated by the young man and wanted to ferret out his vast display of knowledge. Duncan, however, was more interested in hearing the students’ points of view. As the students quizzed him, he would in turn quiz the students.

“It’s your interpretations of the colonization of North America in which I’m interested,” he told them, “was it a good thing? A bad thing? And for whom? Was it an explorer’s dream or a nightmarish conquest? At our next lecture, I would like you to bring a couple of written pages detailing your own personal interpretations of the material which I’ve just now presented. Are the European conquerors guilty of thieving, murderous tactics? Ought we to acknowledge the shame of past mistakes, or does the result justify the means? Is it simply too far in the past to give a damn about? Does the European conquest have reverberations in today’s society? These are all questions to which I look forward to hearing your answers.”

“Professor,” asked one student, “will we be graded on these pages?”

“Grades!” scoffed Duncan, “Forget about those intellectually stifling things. This is not about grades, this is about something far more urgent: this is about learning from our collective past. How will you, as University graduates, negotiate the future if you have not fully consulted the past?”

“Professor,” asked another student, “can these pages be typed? Does it matter how many pages we write? What’s the minimum number of words?”

“Write as little or as much as you like,” Duncan answered her, “write by typewriter, by computer, by pen, by pencil, or by paintbrush. Only make sure that what you write is true to your beliefs and your heart. And please, don’t be afraid to disagree with me; there’s nothing worse than receiving fifty essays, each one of them agreeing fully with my own ideas! Explore your beliefs as the early explorers ventured onto this great continent.”

Duncan was greeted with enthusiastic applause at the end of the lecture. He had succeeded in doing what he had intended: he had sparked their interest and had sustained it throughout the lecture. After all, Duncan had always reasoned, if the students were all asleep there really was little point in delivering a lecture.

“I would like to meet with each and every one of you as we begin this historic adventure together. Next lecture, we shall set up appointments and we will discuss your individual learning needs,” Duncan told them, “thank you very much for attending.”

Another burst of applause greeted his expression of gratitude, and Dean Andrews came over to shake his hand. The students then broke into chatter and busy bustle as many of them hurried to go to their next classes. Others, however, hung around patting Davy or approaching Duncan to congratulate, thank, or quiz him. After some twenty minutes of questions and chatter, Duncan was allowed to leave with Mairi, Davy, and Dean Andrews.

“Duncan, as it is your first day here, please allow me to buy you and your sister lunch,” Andrews invited them cordially, "dogs are generally not allowed in the restaurant, but since Davy is a working dog I have arranged for him to be permitted into the premises...we will be given a private table, apart from the other patrons if that is all right with you."

“Thank you, Dean Andrews, we would be delighted,” Duncan responded, continuing to keep his scots brogue in “low gear” while he was operating within this professional capacity of University professor.

The Dean took them out to “The Rookery”, a swank but popular restaurant in Queenston. The trio chatted politely while they waited for their meals, with Davy laying obediently at their feet.

“Well, Duncan, I must say I was very impressed with your teaching today. It’s my belief that we’ve made the right choice in taking you on here at King’s.”

“I certainly hope so, Dean Andrews,” Duncan responded, eager to please the man, “I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“That’s not likely, if the quality of teaching that I saw today continues. You are an excellent teacher, Duncan...and I don’t hand out compliments unless I mean it.”

“Thank you, Dean Andrews,” Duncan replied, “I am honoured.”

“Yes, Mr. Andrews, we have a fine young mannie here,” agreed Mairi, “though we sometimes wish he would not grow up quite so fast. He was at summer camp last month just, as his mother wanted him to have a ‘normal summer’, as she called it.”

“Incredible!” the Dean laughed heartily, “I have a bit of difficulty picturing you at summer camp, young man, what with your impressive teaching career...but of course, you are only fourteen years old. It’s easy to forget that when we listen to your lectures. Which camp did you go to?”

“Camp Algonkian,” Duncan replied softly, not sure whether to feel embarrassed or not. He had enjoyed his time at the boys’ camp on Lake Algonquin, but he had felt like an outsider the whole time. He had successfully kept his “professor” identity a secret until one day, when the boys visited a small convenience store on a road trip and spied a newspaper with his picture on it. Duncan had been mortified, because he had lied to the other campers about who he was, denying that he was “that teacher-kid that everyone’s been talking about”. He had even changed his name to “Conan” when at the camp because he had been afraid that the others would think him an arrogant prig if they knew that he was a ‘child genius’.

When they had confronted him with the picture and caption—‘Wiz-kid to join King’s in Fall,”—he had felt humiliated. To his surprise, however, the boys had accepted him for who he was rather than shunning him as he had expected. He had even developed a close friendship with a boy named Darren Rogers. Darren had taught him an important lesson that summer in peer relations and in simply being himself rather than being dishonest out of fear that he would be called an “arrogant prig.”

As Darren had said to him, “We already know that you’re an arrogant prig, Dunc—us knowing that you’re a professor isn’t going to change anything!”

Remembering his summer at camp brought back bittersweet memories of his awkwardness about how to behave in social situations involving people his own age...at least, those who were not related to him. When socializing in the presence of adults, such as the Dean, he was able to behave in a flawlessly polite manner, and adults had come to expect that sort of behaviour from him.

If, however, he was introduced to people his own age, the situation was often embarrassing for him. If he behaved like a young boy, the adults would be shocked by his “lack of professionalism”. If he behaved like an adult around other kids, on the other hand, they would call him a “snob” or say that he was “just pretending to be an adult”.

How then, did one behave when both adults and children were present? Fortunately, Duncan usually only had to deal with one or the other set of situations, but rarely both at the same time. There were few children in the University lecture halls, and not that many professors at summer camp (although many of the camp councilors, to Duncan’s dismay, had been University students).

Duncan therefore had tended to develop two separate codes of behaviour, one child-like and the other adult-like. At work, he always maintained a state of cheerful professionalism which helped him through any awkward situations which might arise due to his age. He was always very careful, while on campus, not to display any child-like behaviour, because he was trying to prove himself to be as professional and as capable as any adult. Childish behaviour would also not help him in his eventual bid to become a full professor as opposed to an “adjunct” or “assistant” professor.

“Duncan,” Dean Andrews was saying, after having been engaged in a lengthy conversation with Mairi about all of the young professor’s amazing achievements, “I would like to invite you to a faculty luncheon next week to honour you and to hear some of your innovative teaching techniques. You can give our professors a few teaching tips—some are more interested in publishing articles and books than in improving their teaching skills.”

Duncan’s heart raced. Addressing his colleagues was fraught with difficulty, especially when he—a mere child—was perceived as telling them what they should be doing. He would have to tread with care.

“My ‘technique’, Sir, is really nothing new. It’s been around since the days of Ancient Greece. Will there be anyone else addressing the Faculty?”

“Yes,” replied the Dean, “don’t worry, Duncan, you won’t be left carrying the ball. You can make your comments short, if you wish—the talk should not go beyond fifteen minutes, anyway. I do think people would be most intrigued to hear about teaching methods that have been around since the days of Ancient Greece!”

“With all due respect, Dean Andrews, I think most would already know about the Socratic Method and some have no doubt employed it for years before I was born. I learned most of my teaching methods from watching other professors at work! I imitated the ones that I admired most, and am presently developing my own style.”

“Exactly!” enthused Andrews, “That’s exactly what we’d like to hear about—nothing formal, just a short chat, really. I know the Faculty members will be delighted!”

“In that case, I accept the invitation, Sir,” Duncan replied gracefully.

He was not sure, however, just how delighted his colleagues would be. Some of the professors back home in Scotland had indicated that they found Duncan to be somewhat irritating, with his youthful enthusiasm and devotion to the art of teaching. Many professors had a tendency to prefer pedantic dullness over enthusiastic brilliance. They also used to make fun of the fact that Duncan had, in his earlier years, become a local “T.V. Star”.

When he was eight years old, Duncan had accepted an acting role in a historical comedy-drama called “The Perfect Snob”. The programme was about a young English Lord who was spoiled and rude to his servants. Duncan had merely been exploring the possibility of becoming a professional actor, since teaching at his age seemed far from certain.

In the end, Duncan chose to remain focused on his goal of teaching, but to his surprise, “The Perfect Snob” became a perfect hit. Everybody was impressed by the acting skills of young Duncan MacGregor, and many urged him to drop teaching and devote himself to acting.

As much as Duncan loved to act, however, he did not want to give up his dream of becoming a professor at a University. Teaching had remained his main goal, but he was obliged to come back and film a sequel to “The Perfect Snob” at age nine. This became very popular and was eventually turned into a T.V. series, although Duncan declined to continue the role past the age of ten.

It had, however, been very difficult achieving respect when he was known everywhere as being “The Perfect Snob”. Duncan in reality was a far cry from his character—he was impeccably polite and professional in all working situations. The perception persisted, however, that Duncan was an “arrogant, if brilliant, brat” and so he had developed a self-deprecating sense of humour to counter the criticism. He often made fun of his own supposed “arrogance”, which, truth be told, only ever surfaced at home when he was with his younger brothers and sisters.

“Well, it’s settled, then!” the Dean said after finishing his Caesar salad and paying the bill. As Duncan walked out of the restaurant with Davy, the Dean and his elder-sister, he hoped fervently that the Faculty would not absolutely hate him.