My Alma-Mater: An Elegy and a Love Letter

My dad and I made the 950-mile drive from Mountain Lakes, New Jersey, to Birmingham, Alabama, in one day, stopping only once for some gas in Virginia. The Honda we drove had extraordinary fuel economy. I was nineteen and, apart from the GPS bleating driving instructions on my phone, I was without direction.

I spent my first night in Birmingham at a hotel. I didn’t sleep much. I was too nervous to sleep or eat or do anything but watch local news on the grainy hotel television. The next day, I’d be attending college orientation, only it wasn’t my first college orientation. I was a transfer student.

Young students transfer schools for a variety of reasons—to be closer to home, to attend a more rigorous school, etc. I transferred schools because my initial college experience had been a disaster. It had been a period of self-immolation, of skipping classes and eating alone in the dining hall. I had felt stultified and lonely and left after only a semester, hauling home my comforter, posters, flags, and laptop. With a semester of study under my belt, I knew a few things. I knew that at some point Cicero had foiled Catiline’s conspiracy against Rome. I knew that autocrat was a fancier word for dictator. And I knew that I was—like many other young college students—hopelessly lost.

That night, tossing and turning on my hotel bed, I worried that my bad experience would repeat itself at this new school.

The next day, my father and I drove through downtown Birmingham, and then onto campus. A campus policeman waved us in. Welcome signs stood everywhere. Students hugging books walked along sidewalks. In the distance, the bell tower peeked above some red-brick buildings and tall green hedges.

I followed the arrows to the orientation meeting-place, met my group, and my orientation leader. Soon I was on a farm and plucking tomatoes and hoeing crops with other transfer students. It was a bonding exercise that doubled as a form of community outreach. The farm’s produce would be used in soup kitchens. The work was brisk and invigorating.

I grew close to my orientation leader, and at the end of the day, before we piled onto the bus that would take us back to campus, she said, “I think you’ll do well here. You’re shy and that’s okay. Just put yourself out there. If you ever need anything, you can come to me, okay?”

In many ways, this interaction set the tone for the rest of my college career. It established a pattern. I would find myself struggling and people would rush to help me. The school I’d transferred to was Birmingham-Southern College, and transferring to Birmingham-Southern ranks among the best decisions of my life.

Birmingham-Southern College, or BSC as it’s more commonly called, is a school one might be tempted to call a “hidden gem,” even though that phrase has become so shopworn it no longer evokes any sentiment. Still, BSC typifies what’s great about a liberal arts education. The classes are small, with a student-to-faculty ratio of 10:1. The students are smart, with 80% of them attending a graduate school within one year of graduating, making BSC one of the top ten colleges in the nation that leads to graduate school. The teachers are among the finest in the country; 93% of them hold PhDs or the highest equivalent degree in their field. Some of our distinguished alumni include Howell Raines, the former executive editor of the New York Times; Dr. Erica N. Walker, a mathematician and professor at Columbia University who champions racial and gender equity in mathematics; Howell Heflin, a Democratic senator who represented Alabama and who was dubbed “the conscience of the senate;” and Charles Gaines, a writer who authored the book Pumping Iron (he co-wrote the screenplay for the documentary of the same name). Gaines is also credited with being one of the inventors of paintball.

The journalist Kyle Whitmire went to BSC, and he was recently awarded the Pulitzer Prize for his reportage. This is not to mention the countless judges, ministers, actors, musicians, business executives, and decent citizens the school has produced. The enrollment is just under 1,300 students. The school punches above its weight. 

Now Birmingham-Southern College is no more. After nearly 170 years of operation, the school is closing its doors for good.

When I first heard the news, my immediate reaction was one of shock and a dull awareness of what was happening. I had thought that BSC would find a way out. I had believed that the widespread support for the school would somehow save it. The mayor of Birmingham and countless other respected personages had championed its cause. And for as long as I could remember, BSC had been finding itself in tight spots…tight spots from which the school would invariably extricate itself. In my mind, this was to be one more last-minute miracle. At the final moment, the governor would call in and grant clemency. There would be a stay of execution. There would be a reprieve.

But it wasn’t to be. By the time it dawned on me that the school wasn’t going to survive, my shock gave way to anger. I was upset with the school for falling into such a precarious position in the first place. And I was upset with the state for letting such a good thing die. Like many, I focused my outrage on Alabama’s treasurer, who refused to intervene and save the school. How could he be so foolish, so short-sighted, as to let Birmingham-Southern disappear? I still don’t know the answer. He and the governor have no problem setting aside huge sums of money for prisons. Perhaps if BSC had been a prison instead of an institution of learning, it would still exist. Who knows?

Soon my anger was tempered by a hollow feeling. It was tempered by grief. I was no longer angry. Who is to blame no longer matters. I’m through with finger-pointing. Culpability is moot. Whether you hold the governor, the treasurer, or the school responsible, the facts remain the same. BSC is closing. And now I’m just sad.

During my junior year at BSC, I lost interest in my business classes, grew weary of finance and accounting. My advisor, a sweet, no-nonsense Spanish professor, urged me, after I admitted a weakness for books, to enroll in a literature class. I did, and I found a world of congenial thought. My classmates were smart and bookish and friendly. My professors awoke in me a curiosity that I didn’t know existed. The same day that my class analyzed Mathew Arnold’s Dover Beach, I emailed my advisor and told her that I was now an English major. I used the phrase “effective immediately” to stress the finality of my decision. My professor’s impassioned interpretation of Arnold’s poem convinced me that I had finally found where I was always meant to be.

Five years ago, I graduated from Birmingham-Southern College with an English degree. My senior year was eventful. With much effort and energy and sleepless nights, I finished my senior capstone project—a nebulous work that explored Jim Morrison’s song lyrics and Arthur Rimbaud’s poetry. And more importantly, during that special year, I fell in love with a fellow English major. We met in the great Dr. Ullrich’s class on F. Scott Fitzgerald.

When I graduated from Birmingham-Southern five years ago, I felt confident in my abilities. I felt confident in my intellect. This confidence would not have been possible without BSC. This “hidden gem,” because cliché or not that’s what the school is, awoke me to my own potential.

I was vulnerable when I entered BSC. I wanted to find passion and purpose, two vague and very abstract concepts that can elude people their entire lives. In three years, in three joyous and instructive years, I found both at Birmingham-Southern College.

But my experience at Birmingham-Southern is not unique. Thousands of other students have been similarly impacted by the school, for BSC didn’t just provide students with the latitude to think. BSC urged students to think, urged them to question things, to distinguish what they believed from what they were told to believe. A dedication to self-inquiry characterized every class and every lecture.

When I graduated from BSC, I decided that I wanted to pursue writing. In order to pursue writing, I needed to keep reading. And I wanted to read the best works of literature. A week or so after graduating, I emailed Professor Stitt, one of the English faculty members whom I admired, and asked if he could provide me with a list of great works of literature. A week passed. Then he sent me back a lengthy email. In his email, Professor Stitt not only listed works of literature I should read, but he also included descriptions of the books and explained why they were beautiful and worth reading. Perhaps a professor at a bigger school would do such a thing. I doubt it.

About a year after graduating, I decided that I wanted to pursue an MFA in creative writing. It was a big decision. Dr. Hines, another member of the English department to whom I looked up, counseled me on the process. Again, how many professors volunteer to help students once they’ve graduated? My professors wrote me recommendations. I applied to schools. And I was accepted to Stony Brook University.

When I was accepted, I met with the writing program’s founder and director. We chatted. He asked me where I’d gone to school. Because the MFA program was on Long Island, I figured that he was probably unacquainted with the liberal arts-school scene in Alabama. So I said that I’d attended a small college in Alabama. “Where?” he asked. “Birmingham-Southern College,” I said, and I was about to explain that it was a small liberal arts school. Before I had the chance, he said, “I know BSC. It’s a great school.”

Four years later, I graduated from Stony Brook University. Last week, I attended my MFA commencement ceremony. With my parents and girlfriend in the audience, I read an excerpt from my thesis (a novel I’m working on). After the ceremony was over, the professors and students and their guests gathered in a nearby room and drank champagne. My girlfriend and I stood next to a bookshelf. I sipped on a glass of champagne. Then the program’s founder and director saw me and walked over. “Congratulations on graduating,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear about your school.” My girlfriend and I explained that she’d gone to BSC, too. He nodded. “What a loss,” he said. “What a loss.”