Last week I wrote about how my childhood pal Russell Sheffrin and I had a wealth of things in common. Ironically, I left out the most interesting one. It was how we each got into grad school, which to use a homey metaphor, was through a hole in the back fence.

My case was fairly simple — or so I thought. I wanted to get a Master’s in English Lit and only one thing stood in my way: My undergrad degree was in American History.

But so what? My grades were excellent (especially if you ignored the catastrophe called “My Freshman Year”). I’d taken enough English classes for a minor, and had done well in all of them. Beyond that, I’d always been a compulsive reader, and had no doubt I was at least as well-read as most English majors. Finally, I’d been in the Navy and out of school for years, so I was no callow youth. A callow adult, perhaps, but not a youth.

Aside from all that, while I wanted a degree that wasn’t in my major, it’s not like I was going for one in astrophysics or mechanical engineering. If any discipline was my strength, it was the humanities. I could read, write and study my dupa off in those subjects, so what could possibly stand in my way?

Well, since I asked, I’ll tell you: The English department of Old Siwash.

The last thing they wanted was a non-English major in their M.A. program. Or more exactly, the last thing they wanted was to see a non-English major succeed in their program. Because if that happened, it’d show the English B.A. requirement was based on arbitrary reasons, not educational ones.

But though the enemy was armed and manning the parapets, I had a strategy for breaching the walls.

Anyone could take two grad courses. But in order to take more, you had to be accepted into the M.A. program. The only requirements were acceptable undergraduate grades and a high enough score on the Graduate Record Examination — neither of which was defined by an actual number. Oh yeah, and of course letters of reference, which for the most part were more fulsome fiction rather than anything factual.

My plan was simple and straightforward: First, I’d take the GRE’s. Then I’d take the two courses, figuring if I did well enough in both, I’d be in like Flynn.

–

In the corrida …

–

I took the GRE’s in the spring. I’d expected they’d be daunting, and they were, which only made sense. First, the material was uber-specific and geared to English majors, so a lot of it was meant to be esoteric and obscure. Second, I hadn’t taken any test in five years (other than for Navy Morse code operators, which as you can guess was no help at all. SOS!). And third, while I had the GRE study guide, I didn’t have much time to study it in depth, since I was teaching full time.

When I got the test score back, I wasn’t surprised it wasn’t stellar. But given my deficiencies, it wasn’t all that bad either.

That summer I took my two allotted courses, after which I contacted my references, filled out my application, completed the most important part of the process — writing a check — and sent it in. Then, being a proactive kinda guy, rather than just wait in my mountain redoubt for the Judgment From On High, I traveled to the Ivory Tower to plead my case in person to the Godfather hisself, who in this case was the English department head.

He’d taught one of my summer courses, but I had no relationship with him other than the usual classroom blather. He was likeable enough and seemed like a decent guy, but none of that had any bearing on whether he’d bestow his blessing on this poor soul.

I showed up for my appointment, we exchanged greetings and the usual pleasantries, and then got down to bizness.

“I’ve gone over your paperwork,” he said.

“And what’s your verdict?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t have one right now,” he said.

“Fair enough,” I said. “But what’s your sense of my chances of getting accepted?”

He sighed.

“Not good,” he said.

“Why, specifically?”

“For one thing, your GRE scores are lower than we’d prefer.”

“Lower than what I’d prefer too,” I said. “But lemme ask you something.”

“Sure,” he said.

“Have you ever accepted anyone with lower scores?”

He flinched slightly.

“Well, actually … yes,” he said.

“All right,” I said. “How about my grades in the summer courses?”

“You got an A in one, and a B in the other,” he said. “Why’d you get the B?”

“Simple,” I said. “Would’ve had to write a paper to get an A, and I decided not to.”

“Why?” he said.

“Because the teacher never prepared a lesson and spent the whole class pretty much talking about himself and his dog. Plus he had no corrections or comments on the tests. So I figured if he didn’t give a crap, neither did I.”

He nodded.

“And the other course, the A, I got from you,” I said. “So either I’m an outstanding student, or your grades are wildly inflated.”

While he didn’t exactly blush, he shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m not trying to bust your hump,” I said. “But it seems to me the real issue is will you give an obviously skilled though self-taught, non-English major a break. Especially since you already told me you’ve let people in the program who are clearly less skilled.”

He again shifted, and then shrugged.

“Your application has to be reviewed by the department’s M.A. committee,” he said. “And just between you and me, they’re not known for their generosity of spirit.”

Ah yes, an English department committee. I could see them clearly — a bunch of pompous old farts in tweed jackets with elbow patches, who hadn’t written a new lesson since they got tenure, puffing on pipes and thinking the only thing preventing the country from slipping into barbarism was, of course, them. Except for the department commie, clad in faded denim, slouched in his chair, wishing for the meeting to end and the revolution to begin.

–

… and going for the kill

–

Now, two salient points.

One, if nothing else can be said about me, I do my homework. In this case, through my connections at Old Siwash, I’d found out that no matter what decision the committee made, the department head could override it.

And two, the department head had come up the hard way. He’d been raised in a cabin in Kentucky without either electricity or running water, and the only reason he ever made it to and through college was due to the WWII G.I. Bill. And, unlike many others, he’d never forgotten his humble origins. Plus he was almost unique among administrators: He was incapable of lying. Either that, or he’d been such a lousy liar, he gave up trying.

I saved my best for last.

“Look, Doctor,” I said, “I know that no matter what the committee decides, you have the final word on who gets accepted.”

“How do you know that?” he said, clearly surprised.

“Pays to have friends in high places,” I said.

He shook his head, and smiled, as if conceding a point.

“OK,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise you anything.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “I can’t ask for more.”

We shook hands, apparently on friendly terms, and I split.

A few weeks later a form letter arrived informing me I’d been accepted into the English Lit. M.A. program.

And at the bottom was a handwritten note from the department head that said, “The committee gave their approval, but wanted it noted they did so with reservations.”

I wrote him back another note that said only: “Better to be accepted with reservations than rejected with delight.”

My graduate school career was a rerun of my undergrad career: I got excellent grades from the demanding teachers, and so-so grades from the easy riders (for whom I’m sure my contempt was ill-disguised).

When I got my degree I knew one thing for sure: The English department was at least as delighted to be rid of me as I was of them.