Farewell to a Rich, Wise, Man
It’s fall semester 1987 and I'm sitting in a large lecture hall waiting for my Intercultural Communication class to begin. I’d heard about the instructor before. He was supposed to be a “really funny guy,” easy to take notes from, a fair grader. But quite frankly, I cared more about the fact that this class was offered on Tuesdays and Thursdays than anything else. I wouldn’t have to miss classes due to travel for forensics tournaments. Add to that the fact that I could get credit for my major as well as a General Education requirement, and taking the class seemed to be a no-brainer.
But as soon as Rich Wiseman walked into the lecture hall, I knew that this class would trend to the “unusual.” For starters, Rich was a “big” man. Really big. Bigger-than-my-1987-hairstyle big. And when he walked onto the stage that day, even though the stage was off-set from the auditorium seats, he loomed over the class of 120 students.
Rich’s presence was a contradiction. As large as he was, he betrayed a boyish face. He projected his booming voice through the lecture hall without use of a microphone, and yet he eschewed formality and dressed as if he himself was a student. He was immense, no doubt about it, and yet when he turned to introduce himself to the class, his smile brought him down to our level.
And then he started his introductory spiel. “My parents hoped that I would grow to be a rich, wise, man” he said as he wrote his name on the chalkboard. Students chuckled or groaned and Rich continued to describe the class, the assignments, the grading criteria. A student behind me whispered that Rich's voice sounded like Vincent Price, only less sinister. The student next to me shot back that he sounded like Vincent Price when he played Egghead on the 1960s Batman series.
Being a student in Rich’s class was like watching Kabuki theatre. Every lecture was a carefully choreographed dance; Rich would move deliberately from point to point on the stage, his mammoth arms and hands gesturing formally and purposefully to illustrate his points. He would deliver supporting examples and stories from his own life with perfect timing, knowing exactly how long to hold each pause and precisely what words to emphasize in order to achieve the desired effect from the students. And he never missed a beat. Students laughed, groaned, and grumbled as if on cue.
Rich’s lectures were exhilarating. He brought an energy to his classes that transformed students. We hung on his every word, as if we knew instinctively that the message of his lectures were more than lessons on scholarly theory. Listen carefully enough, and watch Rich intently enough, and you would learn how to work with passion, how to live humbly and graciously, and how to treat others with compassion and deference.
I went on to take two more of Rich’s classes at CSUF, and I never tired from his dynamism, his innovation, or his dramatic flair. He was an inspiration in the classroom. He was devoted to his family and his community. He was loved and admired by everyone who knew him.
Truly, he was a Rich, Wise, Man.
But as soon as Rich Wiseman walked into the lecture hall, I knew that this class would trend to the “unusual.” For starters, Rich was a “big” man. Really big. Bigger-than-my-1987-hairstyle big. And when he walked onto the stage that day, even though the stage was off-set from the auditorium seats, he loomed over the class of 120 students.
Rich’s presence was a contradiction. As large as he was, he betrayed a boyish face. He projected his booming voice through the lecture hall without use of a microphone, and yet he eschewed formality and dressed as if he himself was a student. He was immense, no doubt about it, and yet when he turned to introduce himself to the class, his smile brought him down to our level.
And then he started his introductory spiel. “My parents hoped that I would grow to be a rich, wise, man” he said as he wrote his name on the chalkboard. Students chuckled or groaned and Rich continued to describe the class, the assignments, the grading criteria. A student behind me whispered that Rich's voice sounded like Vincent Price, only less sinister. The student next to me shot back that he sounded like Vincent Price when he played Egghead on the 1960s Batman series.
Being a student in Rich’s class was like watching Kabuki theatre. Every lecture was a carefully choreographed dance; Rich would move deliberately from point to point on the stage, his mammoth arms and hands gesturing formally and purposefully to illustrate his points. He would deliver supporting examples and stories from his own life with perfect timing, knowing exactly how long to hold each pause and precisely what words to emphasize in order to achieve the desired effect from the students. And he never missed a beat. Students laughed, groaned, and grumbled as if on cue.
Rich’s lectures were exhilarating. He brought an energy to his classes that transformed students. We hung on his every word, as if we knew instinctively that the message of his lectures were more than lessons on scholarly theory. Listen carefully enough, and watch Rich intently enough, and you would learn how to work with passion, how to live humbly and graciously, and how to treat others with compassion and deference.
I went on to take two more of Rich’s classes at CSUF, and I never tired from his dynamism, his innovation, or his dramatic flair. He was an inspiration in the classroom. He was devoted to his family and his community. He was loved and admired by everyone who knew him.
Truly, he was a Rich, Wise, Man.
posted by Lion's Cub | 8:51 PM
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