An Ode to John and My Supreme Court Peeps

I took a class last semester with 15 freshmen and taught by NYU President John Sexton. We had a little “class dinner reunion” tonight at the “presidential penthouse” (which, um, is sick), and afterwards, John asked me to make a few “closing remarks” about the class. I kept it brief, but then I thought about it on the walk home, and ended up with 1,300 words. Heh.

I first met John Sexton when I was but a wee freshman staff reporter for NYU’s student newspaper.

I had been assigned the “university senate beat,” presumably because I was the only rookie without class when the senate convened from 2-4 p.m. on the first Thursday of each month, and while Sexton chaired these meetings, I didn’t actually meet him until November.

My other beat (yes, I had two!) was higher education, and in September, Margaret Spellings (the then-Secretary of the U.S. Department of Education) had published a report proposing a series of initiatives to “reform” American higher ed.

Sexton had vaguely criticized the so-called Spellings Report in October, and I had so impressed the paper’s editor by then that when she decided to arrange a sit-down interview about Sexton’s (and NYU’s) “reaction” to the Report, she handpicked me to do it.

“I told Sexton today that you’re coming, too, and now my plan is to sit back and smile and let you interview him,” she said.

Sarah had come to the first senate meeting with me to “show me the ropes;” I remember she would point out who was who among the school’s administrators, and we would write little jokes and comments to each other about the funny (and frequently ridiculous) things people said. Someone, maybe Sexton himself, made some ridiculous remark about NYU as a “gas giant” of American universities, so I drew a picture of Jupiter in the margins of my notebook.

“You take good notes,” she scribbled.

***

It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but I guess we had too much fun or something, because Sarah ended up coming with me to every senate meeting for the rest of the semester. We’d continue to scrawl jokes at each other, or she’d give me context for things that, as a freshman, I might not understand, or tell me funny stories or anecdotes about Sexton.

You see, she was in his Friday afternoon lecture about the Supreme Court and the First Amendment’s religion clauses, a class he first taught as a seminar to third-year law students, then as a seminar to NYU freshmen, and — at the time — also as a lecture course to displaced “Katrina students” and interested upperclassmen.

So when I finally met Sexton for the interview in November, I was — naturally — a little starstruck. (Or maybe just intimidated? And felt like I was supposed to be starstruck?) Because hey, even though I’d heard several stories about his family and career by this point, he was still The President of The University, and therefore someone to be addressed with respect and reverence, right?

Well, he shirked my handshake and offered one of his trademark hugs, and scowled and grumbled when I called him, “President Sexton.”

“‘John,’” he snarled. “Call me ‘John.’”

I’ve never called him “President Sexton” since; I’m too scared to, frankly. (Although I can’t help but smirk when anyone else makes that mistake.)

And besides, reporters don’t really miss “respect” or “reverence” once they’re tossed out the window.

***

In the intervening years (wow, that makes me feel old), I’ve interviewed Sexton for several stories, have at least three of his personal or direct phone numbers in my address book, and hugged him countless times.

So last April, as I was putting together my senior year class schedule, I started entertaining the idea of eventually, maybe, applying to law school (journalism’s a pretty crapshoot industry these days, after all), and I remembered the Supreme Court/religion course Sarah had talked about her senior year.

But I didn’t see it in the course listings, so I e-mailed John to get the scoop.

Sergio –

My plan for next year is to do the same set of courses as this year. Fall: the Freshman seminar on the Supreme Court and Religion (to which I now admit two upperclassmen by special application). Spring: Baseball as a Road to God (all upperclassmen).

Well, as cool as baseball and God are, I had law school admissions to think about. Having, essentially, a constitutional law class on my transcript (and, let’s be honest, maybe a faculty recommendation from the president of NYU and former law school dean?) couldn’t hurt, right?

So I spent the summer badgering his poor assistant, Dan, and by the end of August was officially enrolled in a class with 15 freshmen.

“This should be interesting,” I thought.

***

By December, the class had come and gone, and while the material was (to me, at least) endlessly fascinating, “interesting” didn’t even begin to describe the experience of spending two hours each week in a room with 15 super green college first-years and the university president.

My first observation was how adorable freshmen are. They speak with fright and timidness in their voices; they apologize for asking questions; they’re super diligent about doing their reading; and they get really, really bummed if their papers don’t rank higher than a B+.

It’s a stark contrast to my senior-level classes, where my we’d whine about why the journalism department schedules four hour long classes and how none of this is worth the truckloads of tuition dollars we’re spending, and how we just can’t wait to get the hell out of college already.

But the energy of these freshmen, and especially their eagerness to learn or their excitement or commitment to — if not the material, then at least maximizing their investment — is infectious. In many ways, it made me feel kind of like a freshman again (maybe even more so than I did when I was a freshman, because Writing the Essay and ConWest can suck it, frankly).

But my second observation hinged on the juxtaposition of how the freshmen perceived and interacted with John versus how I did. I’d already known him for three years. I was here when he and the school mourned his wife’s sudden death. I knew about his career and life and had grilled him on political and economic and campus issues and the divisiveness of his tenure as president.

I knew him as John Sexton, the controversial university administrator and genius orator with a gift for persuasive (and sometimes confusing) rhetoric.

They barely knew him, except as the nebulous and imposing and intimidating and probably very powerful university president who has a reputation for hugging people.

I, for instance, was very familiar with his so-called “elliptical” style of storytelling and argumentation, and he’d often refer to personal details or NYU trivia that probably no one in the room but I (and possibly the teaching assistants) understood.

Occasionally, this made him seem a little pedantic — I could see where he was going with something before he or anyone else got there.

But other times, it gave me an edge. I had the privilege of more context, which meant, I felt, a better understanding of the importance or relevance of what he’d say.

I tried not to be obnoxious about this and come off like some kind of snob to my classmates. I probably failed, at least once or twice, but was nonetheless grateful to be taking the class when I was. At the very least, I knew I was getting more out of it than I would have three years ago.

And with seven semesters firmly under my belt, I could safely — and authoritatively — say this was the best course I’d taken at NYU. But that might disappoint my classmates (at least if your departments turn out to be anything like mine); sorry, kids, you’ve peaked. It’s all downhill from here.

I don’t say all this because I’m some blindly devoted John Sexton fan, of course. I like to think I’m as critical of him, as both an administrator and scholar, as the next guy (or as I can be, considering he has like a dozen degrees, and I… will have two). But I’ve honestly yet to meet a single person, at NYU or otherwise, who is such a passionately and genuinely devoted pedagog.

After all, there are many “teachers” who “teach” because they required to or because it’s a pretty good adjunct gig and pays the bills (e.g., the whole journalism department) or because they need fresh ideas for their next book or funding for their research.

Fine. Someone needs to cure cancer or write the next Great American Novel or whatever.

But it is a rare thing to find someone who teaches for the sake of teaching; who recognizes the potential of young minds and devotes his career (and, indeed, his life) to fostering that potential and whose biggest reward is simply having a positive impact on someone’s life.

That enthusiasm for teaching, in tandem with my young classmates’ enthusiasm for learning, was part of what I came to NYU for in the first place. I didn’t find it 100% of the time, probably thanks to some kind of weird negative reinforcement thing where not having amazing teachers from the get-go led me to give up seeking them out, but I’m glad I got this last-minute opportunity to remember it exists at all.

(An opportunity which, whether he’s “President Sexton,” or “Law School Dean John Sexton,” or “Civil Procedure Professor Sexton,” or even “High School Debate Coach John Sexton,” was one my classmates and I were very lucky to share — although they probably don’t necessarily realize that, yet.)

So, to my freshmen peers: thank you for welcoming this old geezer into your class and putting up with him and his senior-aged jadedness and smartass…ness.

And to John: thank you for the privilege of letting the rest of us put up with you.

(Also, P.S., freshmen: a B+ is still not, contrary to popular belief, actually the end of the world. I promise.)