ELSA SCHMIDT
I moved to Potsdam from a small town east of Buffalo. It was 1999, and I was 18. My father and brother had both recently died, but my mother and aunt drove the five-plus hours to drop me off. Then they drove away, and I was on my own. It should have been a major decision, but I had chosen Potsdam without much thought. I was accepted at NYU but couldn’t afford it. I’d never heard of the North Country or Potsdam, and didn’t know anyone. I probably chose Potsdam because I was nervous about college and wanted to be alone. I was there to learn, and was determined to focus and to prove myself.
It was with that mindset, before the first-semester classes began, that I started my first reading assignment for PHIL 101, Intro to Philosophy: Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling. In my dorm room, I read: “The Old Testament story of Abraham’s Journey to the mountain to sacrifice Isaac,” and “There was once a man; he had learned as a child that beautiful tale of how God tried Abraham,” and then I had a meltdown. I had never been to church and had no idea who Abraham was. I was on page one of book one, and I was already behind. I was terrified that on the first day of class, my new professor—you—would call on me to explain the meaning of the story of Abraham in front of my peers, that I would be unable to do it, and that I would fail at college and at life. So I panicked.
I picked up my book and proceeded door to door down the hallway of my dorm building. I had never met these people before. Anyone who answered the door found me, a wide-eyed stranger in the hallway, desperately and urgently looking for someone who had read the Bible. I don’t remember my exact words upon first meeting my new neighbors that day, but it was something like: “Hi. I live down the hall. Have you read the Bible, and do you know the story of Abraham? I need to know it right now, because I have a reading assignment and I don’t know what to do.” (The Internet did exist then, but Google was founded only the year before and was not yet a household name. Unless I spent hours at a library perusing physical books for Biblical context, there was really no way to “look it up” yet.) Fortunately, two guys down the hall invited me in and calmed me down. (One of them became my best friend and told this story in a toast at my wedding. You were there.) Ultimately, I don’t remember you humiliating me on the first day of class, so I guess it worked out.
You’ve said your first memory of me is from a “Truth and Persuasion in Democratic Societies” honors course the same semester, when I apparently (though I don’t remember this) interrupted you mid-lecture by loudly exclaiming, “Why the fuck didn’t anyone teach me this before?!” (That is very embarrassing. My sense of decorum has since improved.)
Not long into the first semester I changed my major, and then added a second major in philosophy. Back home, my remaining family watched helplessly from the sidelines as (from their perspective) my future secure state teaching job with a pension flew carelessly out the window in favor of—what does a philosopher do, exactly? In their eyes, I was floundering, making insane decisions, and throwing my whole life away. But, I had stopped listening to them. Within about two months of meeting you, I went from shooting straight through a tunnel toward guaranteed safe future employment, to wholly rejecting any and all plans whatsoever in favor of learning for learning’s sake. It was as though you reached out, plucked me from the SUNY conveyor belt, whipped me around in a circle until I was dizzy, and threw me into space. (To be fair, you did disclose what you were doing, but in that moment, I didn’t realize that you were teaching about the elenchus by actually using the elenchus. Ah, you got me.)
I also know exactly when it happened. You had encouraged me to add the philosophy major, and you were designated as my advisor. Early on, one day, I sat in your office, asking you what I should do with my life, while you leaned back in your chair and blew pipe smoke out the window of a state academic building. You said I didn’t need to make that decision at all, and suggested that I instead focus on finding something that I loved to do and then working very, very hard at it. You assured me that if I did all that, then everything else would simply work itself out. I believed you, and I’ve hung onto those words ever since. Because of your advice, I took the classes I was interested in, and always felt not only free but affirmatively obligated to remain curious about new things—always seeking out the thing that I most loved to do, to ensure that the plan would work as intended. I later applied the same approach to choosing a career, and to finding a husband. And, you were right. It worked every time.
As the years went on, I returned to you whenever my life needed steering in the right direction. At first I went to see you in your office, and later I went to see you at your house. We sat at your kitchen table, or on your back deck. We drank a lot of coffee. You smoked your pipe. (I loved the smell of the pipe.) Later, we drank wine. You told me I’d like Spanish reds, and you were right about that too. In the early days, when I most needed it, you gave me a home away from home. I played flute duets with a very young Tess in the living room, and watched Galen perform with his first band in high school. You fed me spaghetti and microwaved nachos.
At school, you were always my champion. You encouraged my involvement in school leadership. You introduced me to school administrators and invited me to represent the student body on committees with state and local business leaders. Were it not for you, I would not have even known those opportunities existed. Instead, because of you, after four years, I was a graduating senior receiving two separate bachelors degrees, with a pile of medals (including a SUNY Chancellor’s Award) around my neck. On graduation day, I sat on the stage next to the President of the College, and the Chair of the New York State Democratic Party gave me a hug and handed me a fancy pen with a handwritten note wishing me luck at law school. All of the doors that opened for me that day, I owe to you. But also, during all those long early-morning meetings, I watched and learned as you modeled the behavior of a citizen actively engaged in the Democratic process, committed to fighting for truth and transparency, and willing to endure discomfort when necessary to maintain integrity. I owe those lessons to you as well.
Just as casually as I had chosen Potsdam, I chose law school based entirely on your seemingly-offhand suggestion. As I recall, the conversation went something like this: Me: “I’m graduating this year and don’t know what to do next. I’m very organized, so I think I’d be a good secretary. What do you think?” You: “You should probably go to law school.” Me [knowing zero about law]: “OK.” Years later, I’ve argued in marble courtrooms with gilded chandeliers, but my favorite part is thinking and writing alone in a quiet room—concentrating, parsing words, and crafting arguments. I love my job every day. It’s rewarding, it’s fun, and it’s what I’m best suited to do. I owe my happy career to you, as well.
In 2014, I got married. You and Denise came to my wedding. I looked to you for approval, and you gave it. And you hugged me, and it was so important to me that you were there. At each of the most pivotal moments in my adult life, you have not only been there, but you’ve often played a major part. When you met me, you owed me nothing, but you voluntarily assumed a quasi-parental role when I needed it, and you did so naturally and without hesitation.
You are easily the most influential person in my adult life.
To Tess, Galen, and Devin: Thank you, each of you, for sharing your father with me. To Denise: Thank you for sharing your husband. I know there were many times when he should have been at home spending time with his family but instead he dutifully put on that gold striped shirt and brown vest and showed up to support me at some terribly painful formal banquet. I also know there have been many other students over the years who have received the same attention. Please know that I appreciate not only his sacrifice, but also yours. Thank you.
To David: On the occasion of your retirement, I’m reminded of a night in Potsdam when you and I sat together at a bar. You were teaching me about different types of scotch. When you got to Johnnie Walker Blue Label, you essentially brushed it off as not worth discussing, explaining that it’s typically reserved for gifts exchanged between high-powered businessmen on special occasions. You and I may not be particularly high-powered, but this is a very special occasion. Cheers to your career, and to your life’s work. You’ve set an example of integrity, taking principled stances despite sometimes significant risks and costs. You have fought when no one else would. And, you’ve spent years giving generously to others in need while expecting nothing in return. If more people acted like you, the world would be a better place. Kant approves. You are an extraordinary human being. I’m truly honored to know you, and I could not be prouder of you. I wish you many years of joy with your family, and most of all I wish you the peace of looking back on your life’s work with pride and contentment.
Congratulations.