Dr. Pascucci is a man of mystery.
No one knows how old he is, but his full head of white hair gives away that he
is way past the retirement age even though his tennis-serve of someone half his
age. Even fewer people know how many languages he speaks but it is rumored at
about seven. But that’s not what makes him so amazing to me. “Scucci” as
his students like to call him, was the first teacher to demand the most of me,
and then some.
On the first day of Latin class,
Scucci had us sing his favorite Latin song “Gaudeamus Igitur.” It was the
first of many sing alongs in Latin. After we finished singing, Scucci jumped
right into the first declension endings. “A! Ae! Ae! Am! A!” He recited the
endings again and again, each time reciting them to a different tune. By the end
of class he had us at the chalkboards vigorously writing the endings we had just
learned, racing to be the first to finish. “Ring! Ring!” The bell caught us
by surprise. The forty-five minute period had gone by so fast.
Fall term came and went, with
Latin class being the highlight of my school day. But as much fun as I was
having in Scucci’s class, his comments that came with my grade caught me off
guard. They read, “Smita has more ability than she sometimes cares to use and
to demonstrate. Grade fluctuations reflect not any irregularities in Latin
material, only Smita’s wavering application.” Ouch! I thought. The
rest of his comments were kind, but his opening sentence hit home. I promised
myself that one day I would make him proud.
As the years progressed I saw that
Scucci was the hardest teacher I ever had, but he was also the most
entertaining. In class he told stories about his times in Europe when he was a
soldier fighting off the Germans, the things he had seen as a bartender while he
was a student at Columbia. Sometimes he even wandered off into fiction.
According to him, Sophia Loren just wouldn’t stop calling because she couldn’t
resist his dazzling good looks. These stories always ended with him saying, “How
did we get on that subject? Interesting! Back to the Latin!”
The last time I saw Dr. Pascucci
was on my way from the library to the dorm to sign in for the night. I heard him
singing Andrea Bocelli, his favorite singer. “Salve Magister!” I yelled as I
walked toward him. He stopped singing but continued speaking Italian. I was
caught off guard, so I just blurted out the first Italian word that popped into
my head, “Bertucci’s!?!” I replied. He laughed and said, “Smita, you
must take Italian next year! That would make it four years with me! Are you up
to it?” I told him I never turned down a challenge. We continued walking in
opposite directions. “See you later!” I said. A few days later Dr. Pascucci
suffered a stroke that left him unable to continue teaching. I was devastated.
Shortly after his stroke I left
for spring break. Dr. Pascucci was unable to write any comments. I only had the
number, which at this point didn’t even matter to me. I wanted to know if I
had made Dr. Pascucci proud. Had I shown the “academic endeavor” he had
always lectured about? I went into my room and compiled all of the comments I
had gotten from Dr. Pascucci over the past three years. The last comments he
gave me began “Smita’s ability is now being used to the fullest.” and
ended, “We can do even better, and we will!”
The next term I went back to room
G in Pearson Hall where I had spent my entire Latin career, and awaited my new
teacher. He didn’t push me like Dr. Pascucci had, but I didn’t need that
anymore. I was Dr. Pascucci’s student, even when he wasn’t the one teaching
me. The drive that he had instilled in me when I was a freshman was now
internal. His expectations and standards were now my own. I now know that I will
be Dr. Pascucci’s student for the rest of my life, and for that, I cherish
him.
USED FOR: Harvard, MIT, Yale, Northwestern, Penn
COMMENTARY:
This story is very sweet and
moving. However, the anecdotal dialogues were a bit hard to read and follow.
From this essay, the reader can understand and appreciate the mutual fondness
and respect between the author and Dr. Pascucci. That being said, there are
several glaring weaknesses. First, we don’t learn anything about the writer
other than his/her appreciation of a teacher. Perhaps, Dr. Pascucci’s
background could have been excluded thus freeing up more words for the writer’s
insights and personal development. Second, she has a wonderful gift of pulling
the audience into this sentimental story. But you, as a reader, feel for the
teacher. The writer's role in this story seems secondary. Also, this story
reminds me of a great Italian movie, Cinema Paradiso. She is like the young boy
and Dr. Pascussi's like Alfredo. - Gil
The writer is a very engaging
story-teller and knows how to pull the right strings in the reader. This could
have been sappy, but with the humorous anecdotes, it avoids that tragedy. While
speaking about her teacher, we’re also able to learn a few things about her -
that she likes being challenged, she works hard, and she’s someone that a
great teacher really believed in. However, I would have liked to read a bit more
on how she actually started working harder, and what pushed her. That step seems
to be skipped. Instead, she could have lost some of the details about the
teacher - while they were amusing and interesting, the essay could have done
just as well with less information. The other main problem I see is that there
are several very obvious grammatical errors that could and should have easily
been fixed. But all in all, one of the better essays I’ve read. The grammar
problems, though, could stick her into the borderline/waitlist pile rather than
the accept pile at the type of schools she’s applied to. - Jeyun
