Master, Mentor, Friend

John Hosmer, Vicki Bozzola, and John V. Mering at El Minuto in Tucson, August 20, 1993

This is the last installment of my reminiscences about my decades-long and life-altering relationship with Professor John V. Mering, 1931-2009.

Vicki/Victoria
I spent hours during the summer of ’74 in the office of the history graduate students. We discussed history as interpretation and medicine as art or science, and before the beginning of my senior year, I had changed my major to history. I didn’t have any classes with Dr. Mering the first semester, but we continued to meet several times per week. He advised me which classes to take, including a freshman survey of Western Civilization with his good friend, James Donohoe, the Philosophy of Science with the renowned Wesley Salmon, and classes in Fortran and Spanish literature. Yes, it was quite an eclectic mix, but he didn’t mean to train only a historian; he was Pygmalion, and he wanted to create Galatea. Continue reading

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Codifying Honor

I first saw the topic discussed on Facebook by the gay son of a dear Mormon friend. It then flooded the mainstream press, including ABCCNNTime, and the New York Times. I am referring to the noisy and–to me, at least–disturbing public controversy about the honor code at Brigham Young University. The news unfolded after an off-campus protest on April 20 and the subsequent delivery to the BYU administration of a petition bearing 90,000 signatures; the protesters and the signatories were seeking amnesty from the provisions of the honor code for victims of alleged sexual assault. Continue reading

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The Mering Chronicles (cont. from 6/11)

Hang-ups, hanging out, and hanging on
I visited Dr. Mering’s office often to receive assistance with my writing, to ask for suggestions for outside reading, or simply to satisfy his curiosity about how “this girl from a little mining town in the West” had become such an exemplary student. After quizzing me about my upbringing, my religion, and my schooling, he seemed delighted that neither of my parents graduated from high school but that my mother had read and sung to me and that she had been willing to quiz me with endless lists of words as I prepared for the spelling bees that culminated in the Arizona state championship in 1967. We met occasionally in the Student Union cafeteria. I drank coffee, and he ate dry Rice Krispies, after which he drank skimmed milk from the carton I had opened for him (after watching him mangle a couple of cartons in succession). Continue reading

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Dr. John V. Eckleburg?

I am now going to debunk all my foregoing pretensions to serious intellectualism.  Continue reading

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Rites of Passage Part III: John V., Il Miglior Fabbro

Learning at the feet of the master 
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In furtherance of my naïve but exuberant efforts to learn how to think, my history T.A.-cum-guru John Hosmer suggested that I take a class with his Ph.D. advisor, John V. Mering. It was the fall of 1973. I was still a chemistry major looking forward to applying to medical schools, but I had room in my schedule for some humanities credits and eagerly signed up for History 207a: The Civil War. John hadn’t told me much about his mentor except for his rigorous insistence that students learn to evaluate an argument and argue a thesis of their own (i.e., to think). Professors had always been demigods to me, so I expected nothing less than inspiration from this highly recommend teacher and scholar. Nor was I mistaken in my hopes.

My first memory of the class has become part of my personal mythos, which I narrate as creation story to every freshman composition class I teach. We had to read and write a 1,000-word book review of The Confessions of Nat Turner by William Styron, which Dr. Mering viewed as the most accurate (albeit fictionalized) written portrayal of American slavery. When he returned my paper, the “A” emblazoned on the first page was belied by the quantity of red ink spilled on all the pages–as well as the closing remarks: “Miss Bozzola, you will need to redo this assignment. Please see me in my office.” When I met with him, he spent an hour or more telling me how to improve what I had written with a strong thesis, straightforward organization, specific evidence from the text–and clear, concise prose as recommended by Strunk and White. With that recommendation, The Elements of Style became (and remains) my writer’s bible. With that consultation began the most important, lasting, and influential relationship in my life. Continue reading

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Rites of Passage Part II: My Endless Summer of Thomas Wolfe

Thomas Wolfe (photo by Carl Van Vechten, 1937)

Thomas Wolfe (photo by Carl Van Vechten, 1937)

A naïve and sheltered twenty-year-old baby boomer from a copper-mining town in Arizona who asked her revered teacher/guru for a list of books to teach her how to think, I probably didn’t expect the internal cataclysm that ensued. But I was ready. I devoured the five books on the list and learned a number of lessons that all those who lived an extended adolescence can relate to:

  • I was not alone in the quest to know who I was and where I came from and where I was going;
  • Not only had other people shared the same journey, but they had articulated its joys and pangs and sudden epiphanies and given me a language to do the same; and
  • The history of the United States can best be explained as the enactment of a general consensus regarding the values of classical liberalism/laissez-faire capitalism. [I realize that this lesson has little to do with extended adolescence or even life in general, but it certainly has informed my own world view to the present day.]

One of those five books, however, entered my soul and in many ways determined the arc of the ensuing 40-plus years. Continue reading

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Rites of Passage Part I: A Motley Pentateuch

Spring 1973: As an overachieving, overprotected, overweight college sophomore, I approached the end of the spring semester with the dread of impending loss. In addition to my accustomed success in school that year, I had incrementally begun the process—equally exhilarating and frightening—of breaking free that all university students experience at one time or another.

During my freshman year, as one of the first batch of voters between the ages of 18 and 20, I had defied my parents’ teachings and voted for Richard Nixon. I was a Mormon convert with the zeal of most converts. I had never been on a date, and neither alcohol nor the word fuck had passed through my lips. I suppose the tenor of my life is best revealed best by the fact that I chose to take a calculus class Monday through Friday at 7:40 a.m.

By the end of my sophomore year, although little had changed on the outside, everything was different inside. A class in history had made me ashamed of my conservative politics. A Mormon bishop who told me I had to “decide between a career in medicine and raising a family up to the Lord” had planted the seeds of doubt that he was speaking for God. A Spanish teacher had introduced me to all the dirty words for body parts and functions, and while I still hadn’t done so, I knew how to say fuck in two languages. Continue reading

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The Prison of “I Am”

For a number of years in my late twenties and early thirties, if I didn’t have a long, skinny, brown More cigarette between my lips or fingers, I was nonetheless enveloped in a malodorous, smoky haze that I am sure inspired a particular young man looking for a match. “Are you a smoker?” he asked. Taken aback by the question, I shook my head vigorously. Instead, I responded, “I smoke, but I am not a smoker.” Continue reading

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«Ponctuation»

On the evening of March 17 of this year, listening to All Things Considered as I began my long drive home, I felt fat tears welling up in my eyes and coursing freely down my cheeks. As part of her series entitled “Stuck in the Middle: Work, Health, and Happiness at Midlife,” Barbara Bradley Hagerty was talking about Mike Adsit, who had recently undergone a stem-cell transplant after recurrent non-Hodgkin lymphoma (http://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=469822644). I became especially attentive since my husband had recently celebrated the first anniversary of his own transplant for the same condition. But the tears were all about me, and they were tears of joy. Continue reading

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A Few Things I Know

Geese cackle, feathers tickle,
Belts buckle, beets pickle.

1543: Annus mirabilis

Crest has been shown to be an effective, decay-preventive dentifrice that can be of significant value when used in a conscientiously applied program of oral hygiene and regular professional care. Continue reading

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