I remember it like it was yesterday. Quantitative analysis. I can barely do arithmetic, so this class stressed me out so much that I was subject to swamp ass just thinking about entering the room.
I remember when I realized I was going to fail. I needed a B+ on the final to get a D. A D!! Obviously, a D would kill my GPA (and all us post grads know how important a GPA is for getting a job… and that’s utter sarcasm). So, I didn’t go to the final exam and took the incomplete like a champ, determined to pass it the next semester.
After a good cry, I realized I had no one to blame but myself. My professor, amicably known as Dr. Death was a sweet, small Indian man who kept the mood light and was the most brutally honest man I’ve ever known. He’d come over to me while I was cramming the night before one of his 4 hour tests and say “Ali, go get a beer – if you don’t know it now, you won’t know it tomorrow.”
I wish I had taken his advice instead of freaking out. But now, I see he is retiring and the alumni network is putting together a little memory scrapbook. I can’t wait to show him the love….