Talkin' Shit About A Pretty Sunset

For the first time since I graduated college 12 years ago, I stopped by my favorite professor's office unannounced today. I knocked on his office door, and when we made eye contact, without skipping a beat, this bearded old Marxist sociology professor greeted me by my first and last names. It made my week.

How many professors remember students by their first and last names whom they have not seen for 12 years? Granted, we've exchanged 3 or 4 emails since 1996, but that's it --- and not a single one for five years back when I needed a recommendation letter.

I used to chat with this professor between classes about sociological theory, leftist politics, and the Chesapeake. I credit this man for forming my early political ideology and it is because of him that I began radical activist stuff right after graduating. The nicest part was that we picked up our conversation as if only a few days had lapsed between my previous conversation with him over a full decade ago.

After chatting for 30 minutes I was turning to go when he stopped me and said, "Donkey liver. That's what it was, 'donkey liver.'" I had no idea what he was talking about so I asked what he meant. He told me that he remembered that I'd used the term "donkey liver" in an essay about sociological institutions on a final exam 12 years ago. I had been comparing the interconnections between social institutions to the functions of organs in a donkey. Sounds odd, I know, but I'm no normal person. I can't believe he remembered such a thing.