Learning to speak up -- and laugh

It was with great sadness that I learned of the passing of Dr. Frank Henderson late last year. He was a wonderful teacher who made such a profound impact on me that years after his thought-provoking and often fear-inspiring classes, I remember with utmost clarity the way he goaded me into speaking up when I needed to.

He had just finished a class on Marx, during which the more outspoken students had debated theory with him to his delight. I was a somewhat timid sophomore, so I waited until after class -- and the possible embarrassment of speaking in front of the entire class -- to approach him. I started, "Um, Dr. Henderson, um, could I maybe come by your office later to ask about…?" He threw down his satchel, smacked his hand on the lecturn and demanded, "Why didn't you bring that up in class when I asked if anyone had anything else to say?!" Scared to death, I stammered that I didn't want to take up any time, and I didn't think I had a very interesting comment. He shouted, "No one will ever know how intelligent you are if you never say anything!" The next day in class, he looked very carefully around the room and asked if anyone had anything they would like to bring up regarding the previous discussion. I meekly raised my hand and with a smile of supreme satisfaction, he called on me. In time, the subject matter of Dr. Henderson's classes may fade in my mind, but I'll never forget the lesson I learned that day. Speak up -- or no one will ever know that you have something to say.

Another, less exalted, lesson I learned from Dr. Henderson was to appreciate a good joke. On a Thursday-night extended happy hour, some fellow graduate students and I saw Dr. Henderson in Zachary's and called him over to our table. Someone asked if we could get him a drink and he accepted. He left shortly after finishing his drink to meet a friend elsewhere. Only after our tab was rung later in the evening did we realize he'd gotten the most expensive glass of wine on the menu. The next time I saw him, he had that customary twinkle in his eye and thanked me very graciously for the drink, then laughed in his most uproarious manner.

He will be missed.

Erin Jones, BSC '95, MAPA '96

Columbus