Where we start, where we finish

Two days into my freshman year at college, I had a professor correct me on the phone:

"It's Doctor, not Professor."

Oh, I thought. Huh. Doctor, Professor, whatever. I was just glad I had remembered to say something other than Miss or Missus, which I knew was not correct collegiate etiquette, and I naively thought I would be well received for my supposed manners.

"It's Doctor, not Professor."

I felt like an idiot. I was embarrassed. And totally pissed off at this woman.

Give me a break. After all, I was calling her because she was my faculty advisor for that year, the woman who would sign off on my schedule, recommend me to classes, or wave me off of others. It was a mandatory thing, but I was excited about it because she was an English prof, someone I wanted to know working in the department I wanted to work with. I had stopped by her office earlier that day only to find a note suggesting that she wasn't available (like I had been told she would be) and could I call her at such and such a time to chat. Like she had a life or something.

"It's Doctor, not Professor."

This women was condescending. That was the issue, gentle reader. After all, I'm, well, me. I don't appreciate being corrected. About anything. By anyone. Ever. Especially by a woman I had never met.

Man, am I glad I finally met her.

It didn't happen until almost three years later. We took care of the schedule-counseling thing over the phone, and I was promptly switched to another faculty advisor. Most of us were. Apparently her adopted daughter was severely sick that semester, and she had life or something to deal with.

"It's Doctor, not Professor."

I didn't even know she had children on that particular day. And I am positive that she did not mean to convey anything by her correction other than the baseline, uttermost fundamental idea that I --- a puke-faced freshman she did not know --- had not provided her with the proper title. Hence the term correction. I wish I would have known all these things, because Doctor Professor turned out to be one of the best and one of my favorite instructors at school. And I wasted two years kind of hating her and a third year kind of avoiding her until my senior year rolled around and I finally took her.

She was phenomenal. As a teacher, as a lover of literature, as an expert resource, as a human being. Talk about time wasted.

"It's Doctor, not Professor."

Indeed. I started by hating her for that comment. I finished by making that comment about her on her behalf. Shame on me for taking so long to get there.

By the way, don't let the setting throw you; this isn't a teacher-student-centric story. I hope it's bigger than that. I know I've remembered it as bigger than that.