Hendrix College - Troubadour Yearbook (Conway, AR)

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There were fifteen students at Hendrix, he said. Perhaps. But he didn't realize that we dreaded learning. Our books grew heavy. Our hands got sticky before a quiz. The library was cold at night. We wanted to sleep or eat . . . or talk . . . or think. We cried inside when the old, secure ideas fell . . . especially when no new ones could yet replace the old. The instructor said we were wrong, and we rebelled. He said, Pm not sure, and we knew distrust. But sometimes the process seemed worthwhile. A professor once said, I was a junior in college when I knew that I burned inside to learn. And we com- prehended. A few of us. Sometimes. And then we stayed after the bell to ask questions or we walked to the Union to talk longer. Then truth stared up at us from a black cup of coffee or tapped us lightly on the shoulder as we sat cloistered in the stacks. Then there were not enough magazines in the library. Not enough time to stay in lab. It was in those moments that we decided that we could not live without learning. Then the whole process seemed worthwhile. And then we understood why the teachers still stayed.

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