As with the Memorial Service that was held for Dr. Frank Taylor at the beginning of the summer, I have again been asked to provide some insight into my dear colleague. I want to contribute something meaningful - preferably something wise and astute - but I'm not good at this kind of thing. I hope I never become good at them. I suspect that my colleagues will write about how Frank was a "master sociologist", epitomizing many of the ideals that we attempt to uphold. I suspect that administrators giving insight into Frank may refer to his singular vision of rebuilding the Department of Sociology. And I suspect that Dr. Taylor's students will write about what a great professor he was, how he inspired them and how they wanted to emulate him. I will offer a different perspective by sharing the impact that his death has had on me. This will be a deeply personal sharing of emotion which I will undertake. My purpose is to go beyond the platitudes.
Coming back to Edinboro for the beginning of a new semester was quite difficult for me. Normally, I look forward to starting a new school year. For as long as I can remember, starting some time way back in grade school, the start of a new school year meant renewed opportunity, a new slate, a new venture. While no longer a student, the same feelings of new beginnings emerge for me every fall. Energy, enthusiasm and excitement accompany the increasingly cooler days. But not this time. This time things are different. And not a "good kind of different". The reality of having lost a friend and colleague is hitting home.
When the spring semester ended, I left Edinboro after posting final grades anticipating what I hoped would be both an intellectually productive and physically relaxing summer. My attention was focused on the book I was going to write, the yard I was going to landscape and the scuba diving I was hoping to do. Finals week is always hectic and Commencements pass quickly. When I left for the summer, I don't remember saying "goodbye" to Frank. I just remember leaving. I remember making the assumption that everything would be as I left them when I returned at the end of August. And I do remember thinking that summer would fly by too quickly and that we would be back in our offices before any of us would know it. But there was no "goodbye".
Not then.
There was no "goodbye" when it would have mattered; when it would have signified the recognition of an important relationship, when it would have indicated closure of some sort. When I heard of Frank's accident, I kept thinking of the last words I said to him. And it wasn't "have a great summer - see you in August". I feel like I dropped the ball in the end zone and the game is now over. My team lost. Yes, I did go to West Virginia to see Frank before he was removed from life support. I thought my "good bye" then would be the closure I was seeking. I was wrong. I've been wrong plenty of times before but I have trouble accepting being wrong this time. When I saw Dr. Taylor on life support with all of the technology showing vitals consistent with life, and not indicating brain death, my mind could not reconcile what I knew to be true with what I was seeing on the monitors. To say the experience was surreal is insufficient. The fact that it was summer increased the challenge of appreciating what was happening. I wouldn't normally see Frank in the summer months and so part of me was expecting to see him in the fall. Logic and emotion are mutually exclusive and incompatible with one another.
Though I knew it wasn't possible, a part of me expected to see Frank Taylor sitting at his desk, strumming his guitar and singing to himself - and everyone else on the 3rd floor of Centennial. A part of me expected to receive an e-mail telling me that I needed to send Renee a copy of my office hours and that by the time I opened my e-mail, I would already be two days late. A part of me expected Frank to waltz into my office, grab a candy bar (or two or three!) out of my candy dish and tell me that I bought the wrong kind but he'll "suffer through it". And a part of me expected to find him sprawled out on my futon telling me to leave my own office because he had a migraine and I needed to leave him alone.
When I drove to Centennial and parked my car and saw his motorcycle not where it would normally be parked at this time of year, I knew this summer wasn't a bad dream. It was a new reality. The loss I feel of the man who hired me, who mentored me, who simultaneously teased me and appreciated my work, is hard to express. I know that I still have not processed his death as the permanency of his death has not sunk in. In many ways, I am still expecting to hear his voice, to see his face and to find evidence (like empty candy wrappers!) of his presence.
Perhaps, as I am processing all of this as I write, this fall was in fact a new beginning, a new venture… a new start. As my department welcomes three new faculty members, those of us who have been here under Frank's tenure must first say our goodbyes to a great leader. And then we must face a new future without our mentor, our friend, our colleague. We must carve out a new path for our department while maintaining the vision that Dr. Frank Taylor set for us. After all, every single member of our department was hired under the leadership of Frank. We must keep the vision, the dream alive. This will be our new challenge.
Yes, I could have talked about who Dr. Frank Taylor was as a professional but his professionalism only impacted me marginally. And I could have talked about who Dr. Frank Taylor was as a friend but the truth is that our friendship was relegated primarily to the university setting and there is much about him that I did not know. I chose, instead, to share the impact that his death has on me at this time because that is what I know best. As for myself, I prefer to stick with what I know best.
Be the first to comment on this article!