I liked most of my teachers in college. They were, for the most part, friendly and competent, willing to help students. I liked them--but I don't remember them very well, except for Mr. Jones, my senior English teacher. He was an enthusiastic, sensitive man, who knew his subject and was determined that we would learn it and love it, too.  Mr. Jones was a tall, slim man in his midforties. Put precariously  on his nose, his glasses gave him a serious look. But they didn't remain there long, for he was always taking them off and polishing them and putting them in his mouth when he thought over a response to a student's question. When he walked into class, he was always carrying two or three books with strips of paper sticking out of them, marking passages he planned to read. I remember, too, the cardigan sweaters--he must have had a dozen of them. On rainy days he substituted a blue raincoat for the sweater. But what I remember best was his smile. When he smiled, his whole face lit up. His smile made you feel good, at ease.  Yet though he was friendly with people, he was a bit formal in class, and he could be firm on occasion. He never called us by our first names. He obviously loved his work and liked his students, but he kept his distance. He never deliberately embarrassed a student in front of the class with an ironic remark, but he could communicate his displeasure all right. He'd look steadily at the offending student for a few seconds. That was usually enough, but if it didn't work, he'd say something to the student in a lowered tone of voice. He didn't do this often, though.  Mr. Jones' personality and passion made him popular, but what I liked most about him was that he was a fine teacher. Yes, he cared about students, but he cared more about teaching them his subject. And that meant homework, lots of it, and pop quizzes now and then to keep them reading. He lectured occasionally to provide background information whenever we moved on to a new literary period. After a brief glance at his notes, he'd begin to move around as he talked--to the blackboard, to the window, back to the platform. But he preferred discussions. He'd write several questions on the board for the next day's discussion, and he'd expect you to be prepared to discuss them. He directed the discussion, but he didn't control it; he was a good listener and made sure we all had a chance to respond, whether we wanted to or not. If he was pleased with a response, he'd nod his head and smile. Occasionally he'd read a student's essay, praising its good points. But he was toughminded, too, as I suggested before. He really nailed you for careless work or inattention.  When you got an A from him, you really felt good, for he wasn't an easy grader. We used to complain about his grading standards, usually in vain, though he would change a grade if he thought the had been unfair.  We had many interesting discussions about Twain, Crane, and Dreiser, as I recall, but his favorite period was the 1920's. He loved the expatriates : Anderson, Cummings, Hemingway, Fitzgerald.  He was always bringing in books for us to read, but when he got to this period, he was a walking library, I think he'd read every book ever written by or about Hemingway and Fitzgerald in the twenties. Yes, Mr. Jones was a fine teacher all right: he knew his subject.  But more than that, he made us want to continue to read it and study it on our own. How did Mr. Jones deal with naughty students?
He didn't criticize them in public. He drove them out of his class angrily. He communicated with them patiently and regularly. He called them by their first names to answer questions.