MEMOIR
The Night My College Professor Crossed the Line
Flirting With Trouble
“You guys can just call me Dave.”
He wasn’t like other professors. He had that dorky “I’m a cool guy” thing going on peppered with trying just a little too hard.
Dave was young with wild brunette curls and a manic sense about him. His personality was bigger than his short stature. He desperately wanted to be one of the gang, even though he was our teacher. But I liked him. He was friendly, and quirky, and made our radio production class fun.
It was my sophomore year of college at The State University of New York — Oswego. A bit on the wayward side, my interests oscillated between broadcasting, theatre, and writing. I had imprisoned myself into growing up much too young with an engagement ring on my finger at the age of 18 and fleeting dreams scattering under darkened door frames like cockroaches in the night.
My fiance was a senior at Clarkson University, which was about two hours away. I had arranged my schedule that year so that I took all my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and knocked out my work-study hours at the health center all day on Wednesdays so I could hop in my car on Thursday night and make the trek to Potsdam for the long weekends.
