Come gather ‘round me people,

A story I will tell,

About Pretty Boy Floyd, the outlaw,

Oklahoma knew him well

(from “The Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd”)

It is amazing what certain letters of the alphabet after your name will do in higher education. If one has the right letters, it’s like John Galbraith’s open sesame. When I returned to Western after completing my Ph.D., I needed to teach summer school because our money was practically all gone to pay for my doctorate. In fact, Mary had spent our last $60.00 to buy me a lawn mower. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the chairman of the department had scheduled me to teach two graduate courses and a 300-level undergraduate literature course. It was a dream come true because it answered our impoverished financial situation and gave me the ideal teaching assignment. What a glorious summer that was, to be earning a living wage once again and enjoying myself at the same time. 

One of the biggest differences between teaching at Eureka College and teaching at Western was the wide variety of courses I could teach at Western, after earning the doctorate, of course. In my years at Western, I taught courses ranging from the 101-102 Freshman English to the 600-level graduate seminars, with courses at the 200, 300, 400, and 500 levels in between. In addition, those courses were also offered off campus as well, and I grew quite fond of teaching extension classes at the Quad Cities, Carthage, Keokuk, Fort Madison, Burlington, Kewanee, Galesburg, Peoria, Quincy, and Jacksonville. One special off campus teaching opportunity came in the early 1980s. 

At that time, Western Illinois University had contracted to take college courses to the East Moline Correctional Center. Of course, faculty involvement in this teaching opportunity was purely voluntary. I thought it would be a valuable experience for me, so I volunteered to teach a short story course. But some of my colleagues questioned what I was doing, asking, “Why would you waste your time teaching in prison?”  My response was “How do you know it will be a waste of time?  

We went to East Moline for an orientation session. In the confusion, I was mistaken for a gentleman bank robber and fingerprinted, a mistake I regretted in case I might need to disappear sometime, to pull an Ambrose Bierce and vanish into Mexico. Fortunately, a Western Illinois University administrator intervened, saving me from being incarcerated. But it was close. 

The warden assured us that we had nothing to fear because the students in our classes had earned the privilege to be there and would not do anything to lose that privilege. In addition, a guard would be stationed to observe the classroom. The warden also warned us that the prisoners loved to play a game called “get the professor off the subject.” We told him we were used to that.

I will never forget the sinking feeling when the gate slammed shut behind me on the night of my first class.  Even though I knew I would be driving out three hours later, I still realized that my freedom during that time was gone. I was no longer in control. I was at the mercy of the situation. 

My class consisted of 13 students, two or three of whom were scheduled to be released in a short time. There was one student who stood out immediately from the others. I will call him Alvin. He loved to talk and be the center of attention, and I had no trouble getting a discussion going. My only problem was in seeing that the other students had a chance to talk.

I was using an anthology that contained a story from “Playboy Magazine.” The story involved a young thief who breaks into the home of a successful writer. The thief discovers that the writer’s clothes and shoes, which are very fashionable, are a perfect fit. So he takes the writer’s entire wardrobe. A year or so passes and the young burglar goes back to the writer’s home to get more clothes.

We had discussed this story for about 15 minutes, when a student opined, “This story doesn’t make any sense at all—for the guy to go back to the scene of his first crime.”

Very quickly, Alvin, my loquacious student, said, “The Hell it don’t! That’s how I got caught.”

The voice of authority had spoken, and no one else, including myself, could think of a thing to say. No one dared to laugh. Now by that point in my career I had become rather adept at responding to student comments, no matter what the students said, to keep a discussion going; but on that evening I was stopped. Finally the only thing I could think of to say was, “Alvin, you have been working very hard this evening. I think it is time to take a break.”

A student on the front row smiled and said, “You’re cool.”  After that remark, I knew I had established a rapport with these students, and I relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the semester.

[Professor Logsdon has taught 24 years at Western Illinois University and 27 going on 28 at Eureka College.]