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Letters So Long, Professor Blodgett In
the kitchen of Tank Co-op is a stove with a single word stamped
on it—BLODGETT. Not so coincidentally, my favorite professor
had the same name. A few weeks ago, I learned of his death, and
I couldn’t help remembering how much he meant to me during
my time at Oberlin. Broad-shouldered, ruddy-skinned, Geoffrey Blodgett
would enter class, leave his lecture on the podium, and head for
the blackboard. In all caps went the terms and names—TOWN AND
COUNTRY, GRAMSCI, DEWEY, TRANSCENDENTALISM. He would spin, eye the
class, return to the podium and the lecture, and begin. The voice
sharp. Phrases swift and lean. Chicago—the city of big shoulders.
He was a man on the make. The cadences and well-punctuated crackles
of his voice pulled me away from the perennial depression of Oberlin’s
gray skies, illuminated things I never thought I would care about—architecture,
the tumult at the turn of the last century, the prison notebooks
of some Italian. His lectures? Not simply jewels, pearls before
this swine. He could highlight the contradictions of the Puritans,
the aspirations of the Transcendentalists, the curiosity of America’s
first psychologists with blazing drama. And even better, he wrote
his lectures with note-takers in mind—four major tenets of
the Puritan faith, the two critical distinctions between Emerson
and Thoreau. The complexities, the deeper treasure, were made transparent.
Blodgett made me feel smarter. After his lectures, we would have
a short Q & A, and he would talk with us as peers, admitting
when he didn’t know something and then researching it to bring
up at the next class. In formally informal attire of sport coat
sans tie and by announcing himself at the beginning of each
semester with the gruff and always short, “My name’s Blodgett,”
he could put us at ease and yet draw us in to the world of ideas.
I think I heard the word malaise for the first time from
him; hegemony was another; I could feel just a little bit
smarter around him even if I was only a dopey first-year who could
get excited about words like malaise and hegemony.
I could get lost looking for South Hall; I thought I could find
meat at Harkness; I tried hard to get into a class on Milton! What
he’ll never know is how he saved my life—in a manner of
speaking. My parents had always longed for me to go to Notre Dame
and were stunned and saddened that I chose such a liberal place
as Oberlin to attend. Fearing their critical eye during Parents
Weekend, I brought them to Blodgett’s American Intellectual
History class. Sport coat, red face, sharply parted silver hair,
the man of broad shoulders, he did, of course, what he always did.
It pulls me up short just writing about it now. My father, dismayed,
muttered to me afterward, “Well, if all your classes are like
that one, I can see why you wanted to come here.” Life at home
was a bit easier after that, a bit warmer. A cast-iron stove named
BLODGETT makes sense—fiery crimson and full of life, waiting
to kindle the spirits of those who draw near. I was
saddened to learn of the loss of Professor Jeff Blodgett. He was
one of the paradigmatic professors of my life, epitomizing quality
and style in teaching for me. I remember in his History of Architecture
class when he pointed out the paucity of 19th-century architecture
in the South, I called out, “That’s because you Yankees
burned it all down!” Without missing a beat, Blodgett responded
with that gravelly rumble, “Still waving the bloody shirt,
Mr. Silverman?” |
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