The Way of the Warrior-Wizard
Chapter 2: A Carnival of Lenses

The camera loomed in his face like a hovering monster in themurky, dark waters of Loch Ness. “Professor” Duncan MacGregor felt like jumping back into the safety ofthe car his elder sister Mairi was driving. He crouched against the door for a moment, temporarily panic-stricken bythe “Carnival of the Lenses”. His German Shepherd, Davy, hopped out and stood close by his side in order to reassure his master.

“Duncan MacGregor!” Mairi hissed at him in her stern Scots brogue, “No shenanigans,now! Face the bloody cameras, but dinna tarry wi' them long.”

“Aye, Mairi,” Duncanreplied meekly, using the Scots dialect to address his sister.

He peered shyly at the CBC reporter who was eagerly holdinga microphone up to his mouth. Davy had protectively lodged himself between Duncan and the reporter, but he quickly pulled his guard dog back with the leash. He might be able to hide his fear from other human beings, but Davy knew his anxiety-prone master only too well. Still, it would not do to frighten the journalists, no matter how terrified he felt at this moment.

Duncan had hoped that by coming to King’s University inthe relatively small town of Queenston, Ontario, that he wouldavoid media attention. He had obviouslybeen wrong. The media, it seemed, wereall over the world no matter where he went. He had been a foolish John-a-dreams to assume otherwise.

“Duncan MacGregor,” one reporter trumpeted, “You are theyoungest professor in the world...how does it feel?”

“I...uh...it feels fine,” Duncanstammered, “although I believe there is one younger in Japan.”

“It’s been said that you have one of the highest I.Q.s inthe world, at just fourteen years of age. How do you feel about that?”

“I feel...awful,” Duncanlamented in utter humiliation. How manyother professors in the University had cameras tagging alongafter them asking questions about how they felt about everything? Not verymany, he would wager.

“How do you feel about your first day at King’s?” askedanother reporter, shoving her microphone even further up his nostrils. God bless her, though, for asking a politequestion.

“I’m eager to begin teaching,” Duncan answered truthfully. The sooner he could get out of this mediacircus, the better.

“Are you nervous about your first day, Professor MacGregor?”she asked.

“Only about these bloody cameras,” Duncan replied anxiously, “and please, justcall me Duncan. I have a number of oldernieces and nephews who are known as “Professor MacGregor”, so I think becauseof my age, I would simply prefer to be known by my Christian name.”

He hoped fervently that the hoard of reporters would let himthrough to the lecture hall, but they had effectively blocked his way. Finally, Mairi had to elbow her way through,dragging Duncan and his canine companionalong with her.

“That’ll beall, ladies and gents,” she boomed firmly, “the boy needs some time to preparehimself for the first lecture.”

Thank God, Duncan breathedprayerfully, I never thought as I wouldescape them.

As Duncan, Davy and Mairi entered the lecture hall, however, Duncan realized that hehad not entirely escaped the camera-monsters. Insidethe hall, in addition to the fifty or so students who were eagerly awaiting theyoung professor, were two more camera-men. Although their cameras were smaller, it was obvious that the crew wasplanning to film some kind of university documentary about him. Duncan’sheart began to pound. He was supremelycalm about the prospect of teaching fifty students; and that, to him, was purejoy. Teaching them and having hislectures filmed by the camera, however, was not so joyful. He felt his face flush hot withembarrassment.

The Dean walked over to him and shook his hand warmly, aswell as that of his elder-sister.

“Hello, Professor,” he greeted him, “and Mrs. MacLean,” hegreeted Mairi, shaking her hand, “I am the Dean of the Faculty of Arts andScience at King’s University. My name isJohn Andrews. Duncan, I hope you won’t mind. Apparently, the Department of Film and Mediahas arranged for a crew of students to film parts of the first day of yourlecture. I’m sorry if this is throwingyou for a loop.”

“Twelve loops, I’d say,” Mairi told him, but Duncan simply noddedpolitely.

“Normally, I’m ill at ease with cameras filming me while Iteach,” he explained, “but if it’s students who are doing it for a project,then of course I’ll make adjustments for them.”

“Thank you,” the Dean replied, seeming quite relieved, “it’svery gracious of you. This was mymistake; I ought to have been more aware that this filming was going to takeplace, and then I could have at least warned you in advance. Please, accept my apologies.”

“No apology is necessary, Dean Andrews,” Duncan assured him warmly, glad to have someoneelse sharing his embarrassment about the whole issue, “I am quite content tohave them here for the first day. I ameager to begin my teaching responsibilities!”

“Well then, let’s waste no more time!” Dean Andrews replied,delighted with the young teacher’s positive attitude, “I’ll introduce you tothe class, and you can get started. Iwill supervise you as you teach here for about the first week.”

“Yes, Sir,” Duncanreplied politely.

The two went to thefront of the classroom, and a hush fell over the chattering lecture hall. Mairi took Davy from her younger half-brother and went to sit down at a spare desk, forshe also intended to supervise the first lecture, what with all these “bloodycameras” lurking about.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Dean began, “it is my pleasureto introduce to you a very special young man whom you probably already know asProfessor Duncan MacGregor, and who has recently been lecturing at the University of Drumnadrochitin Scotland.”

A burst of applause interrupted the Dean’s introduction, andhe happily waited it out, before continuing, “Duncan, in spite of his age, is wellqualified to teach you this course in Introductory North American History. He earned his Ph.D. in History by the time hewas twelve years old and became a lecturer at the University of Drumnadrochitby the time he was thirteen due to a brilliant gift he had developed in the artof presenting information. Although hehas only been lecturing formally for the past two years, he has also, in oneform or another, been involved in tutoring and teaching since the age ofseven. He has co-written numerousarticles and textbooks on European and North American History and has recentlypublished a work of non-fiction, “Acknowledging the Past”, of which I’m suremany of you have heard. I could no doubtgo on longer about his many accomplishments, but I’m sure you’re anxious tohear from Duncan himself. So, without anyfurther ado, Professor, I welcome you to King’s University.”

Duncanstepped up to the podium, nodding his thanks to the Dean and to his class as heacknowledged their applause. He was gladthe flattering preamble was over. Everytime he had to endure listening to the list of his celebrated accomplishments, healmost wished he had not accomplished so much. On the other hand, such praise was welcome news to his ears as well ashis ego. As long as he did not let hisego take precedence over the learning needs of his students, Duncan was content to have them hear hiscredentials.

“Well, now,” he addressed the students, “enough about me andmy silly resume! You came here to learn some history, did you not?”

Duncanpaused to allow his class some amused chuckles.

“I’mhonoured to be teaching you, and to be here at King’s,” he continued,“and—oh, yes! Thank you, Dean Andrews, for your gracious words.”

Dean Andrews nodded, smiling broadly.

Duncanlaunched into his introductory lecture, learning some of the students’ names ashe went along, and inviting their input into the lecture through the habit ofasking them questions. Duncan liked to employ the “Socratic Method”when teaching, as he felt it encouraged greater participation amongst thestudents and therefore created a more valuable learning experience, one of which theyfelt a part.

Throughout the lecture, Duncan entertained many questions. This group was not shy. The students were obviously fascinated by theyoung man and wanted to ferret out his vast display of knowledge. Duncan,however, was more interested in hearing the students’ points of view. As the students quizzed him, he would in turnquiz the students.

“It’s your interpretations of the colonization of North America in which I’m interested,” he told them,“was it a good thing? A badthing? And for whom? Was it an explorer’s dream or a nightmarish conquest?At our next lecture, I would like you to bring a couple of written pagesdetailing your own personal interpretations of the material which I’ve just nowpresented. Are the European conquerorsguilty of thieving, murderous tactics? Ought we to acknowledge the shame ofpast mistakes, or does the result justify the means? Is it simply too far inthe past to give a damn about? Does the European conquest have reverberationsin today’s society? These are all questions to which I look forward to hearingyour answers.”

“Professor,” asked one student, “will we be graded on thesepages?”

“Grades!” scoffed Duncan,“Forget about those intellectually stifling things. This is not about grades, this is aboutsomething far more urgent: this is aboutlearning from our collective past. Howwill you, as University graduates, negotiate the future if you have not fullyconsulted the past?”

“Professor,” asked another student, “can these pages betyped? Does it matter how many pages we write? What’s the minimum number ofwords?”

“Write as little or as much as you like,” Duncan answered her, “write by typewriter, bycomputer, by pen, by pencil, or by paintbrush. Only make sure that what you write is true to your beliefs and yourheart. And please, don’t be afraid todisagree with me; there’s nothing worse than receiving fifty essays, each oneof them agreeing fully with my own ideas! Explore your beliefs as the earlyexplorers ventured onto this great continent.”

Duncanwas greeted with enthusiastic applause at the end of the lecture. He had succeeded in doing what he hadintended: he had sparked their interestand had sustained it throughout the lecture. After all, Duncanhad always reasoned, if the students were all asleep there really was littlepoint in delivering a lecture.

“I would like to meet with each and every one of you as webegin this historic adventure together. Next lecture, we shall set up appointments and we will discuss yourindividual learning needs,” Duncantold them, “thank you very much for attending.”

Another burst of applause greeted his expression ofgratitude, and Dean Andrews came over to shake his hand. The students then broke into chatter andbusy bustle as many of them hurried to go to their next classes. Others, however, hung around patting Davy or approaching Duncan to congratulate,thank, or quiz him. After some twentyminutes of questions and chatter, Duncanwas allowed to leave with Mairi, Davy, and Dean Andrews.

“Duncan,as it is your first day here, please allow me to buy you and your sisterlunch,” Andrews invited them cordially, "dogs are generally not allowed in the restaurant, but since Davy is a working dog I have arranged for him to be permitted into the premises...we will be given a private table, apart from the other patrons if that is all right with you."

“Thank you, Dean Andrews, we would be delighted,” Duncan responded,continuing to keep his scots brogue in “low gear” while he was operating withinthis professional capacity of University professor.

The Dean took them out to “The Rookery”, a swank but popularrestaurant in Queenston. The triochatted politely while they waited for their meals, with Davy laying obediently at their feet.

“Well, Duncan,I must say I was very impressed with your teaching today. It’s my belief that we’ve made the rightchoice in taking you on here at King’s.”

“I certainly hope so, Dean Andrews,” Duncan responded, eager to please the man, “Idon’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“That’s not likely, if the quality of teaching that I sawtoday continues. You are an excellentteacher, Duncan...and I don’t hand out compliments unless I mean it.”

“Thank you, Dean Andrews,” Duncan replied, “I am honoured.”

“Yes, Mr. Andrews, we have a fine young mannie here,” agreedMairi, “though we sometimes wish he would not grow up quite so fast. He was at summer camp last month just, as hismother wanted him to have a ‘normal summer’, as she called it.”

“Incredible!” the Dean laughed heartily, “I have a bit ofdifficulty picturing you at summer camp, young man, what with your impressiveteaching career...but of course, you are only fourteen years old. It’s easy to forget that when we listen toyour lectures. Which camp did you goto?”

“Camp Algonkian,” Duncanreplied softly, not sure whether to feel embarrassed or not. He had enjoyed his time at the boys’ camp on Lake Algonquin,but he had felt like an outsider the whole time. He had successfully kept his “professor”identity a secret until one day, when the boys visited a small conveniencestore on a road trip and spied a newspaper with his picture on it. Duncanhad been mortified, because he had lied to the other campers about who he was,denying that he was “that teacher-kidthat everyone’s been talking about”. He had even changed his name to “Conan” whenat the camp because he had been afraid that the others would think him anarrogant prig if they knew that he was a ‘child genius’.

When they had confronted him with the picture andcaption—‘Wiz-kid to join King’s in Fall,”—he had felt humiliated. To his surprise, however, the boys hadaccepted him for who he was rather than shunning him as he had expected. He had even developed a close friendship witha boy named Darren Rogers. Darren hadtaught him an important lesson that summer in peer relations and in simplybeing himself rather than being dishonest out of fear that he would be calledan “arrogant prig.”

As Darren had said to him, “We already know that you’re anarrogant prig, Dunc—us knowing that you’re a professor isn’t going to changeanything!”

Remembering his summer at camp brought back bittersweetmemories of his awkwardness about how to behave in social situations involvingpeople his own age...at least, those who were not related to him. When socializing inthe presence of adults, such as the Dean, he was able to behave in a flawlesslypolite manner, and adults had come to expect that sort of behaviour fromhim.

If, however, he was introduced to people his own age, thesituation was often embarrassing for him. If he behaved like a young boy, the adults would be shocked by his “lackof professionalism”. If he behaved likean adult around other kids, on the other hand, they would call him a “snob” orsay that he was “just pretending to be an adult”.

How then, did one behave when both adults and children werepresent? Fortunately, Duncanusually only had to deal with one or the other set of situations, but rarelyboth at the same time. There were fewchildren in the University lecture halls, and not that many professors atsummer camp (although many of the camp councilors, to Duncan’s dismay, had been Universitystudents).

Duncantherefore had tended to develop two separate codes of behaviour, one child-likeand the other adult-like. At work, healways maintained a state of cheerful professionalism which helped him throughany awkward situations which might arise due to his age. He was always very careful, while on campus,not to display any child-like behaviour, because he was trying to prove himselfto be as professional and as capable as any adult. Childish behaviour would also not help him inhis eventual bid to become a full professor as opposed to an “adjunct” or“assistant” professor.

“Duncan,”Dean Andrews was saying, after having been engaged in a lengthy conversationwith Mairi about all of the young professor’s amazing achievements, “I wouldlike to invite you to a faculty luncheon next week to honour you and to hear someof your innovative teaching techniques. Youcan give our professors a few teaching tips—some are more interested inpublishing articles and books than in improving their teaching skills.”

Duncan’sheart raced. Addressing his colleagueswas fraught with difficulty, especially when he—a mere child—was perceived astelling them what they should be doing. He would have to tread with care.

“My ‘technique’, Sir, is really nothing new. It’s been around since the days of AncientGreece. Will there be anyone elseaddressing the Faculty?”

“Yes,” replied the Dean, “don’t worry, Duncan, you won’t be left carrying theball. You can make your comments short,if you wish—the talk should not go beyond fifteen minutes, anyway. I do think people would be most intrigued tohear about teaching methods that have been around since the days of AncientGreece!”

“With all due respect, Dean Andrews, I think most wouldalready know about the Socratic Method and some have no doubt employed it foryears before I was born. I learned mostof my teaching methods from watching other professors at work! I imitated theones that I admired most, and am presently developing my own style.”

“Exactly!” enthused Andrews, “That’s exactly what we’d liketo hear about—nothing formal, just a short chat, really. I know the Faculty members will bedelighted!”

“In that case, I accept the invitation, Sir,” Duncan repliedgracefully.

He was not sure, however, just how delighted his colleagueswould be. Some of the professors backhome in Scotland hadindicated that they found Duncanto be somewhat irritating, with his youthful enthusiasm and devotion to the artof teaching. Many professors had atendency to prefer pedantic dullness over enthusiastic brilliance. They also used to make fun of the fact that Duncan had, in hisearlier years, become a local “T.V. Star”.

When he was eight years old, Duncan had accepted an acting role in ahistorical comedy-drama called “The Perfect Snob”. The programme was about a young English Lordwho was spoiled and rude to his servants. Duncanhad merely been exploring the possibility of becoming a professional actor,since teaching at his age seemed far from certain.

In the end, Duncanchose to remain focused on his goal of teaching, but to his surprise, “ThePerfect Snob” became a perfect hit. Everybody was impressed by the acting skills of young Duncan MacGregor,and many urged him to drop teaching and devote himself to acting.

As much as Duncanloved to act, however, he did not want to give up his dream of becoming aprofessor at a University. Teaching hadremained his main goal, but he was obliged to come back and film a sequel to“The Perfect Snob” at age nine. Thisbecame very popular and was eventually turned into a T.V. series, although Duncan declined tocontinue the role past the age of ten.

It had, however, been very difficult achieving respect whenhe was known everywhere as being “The Perfect Snob”. Duncanin reality was a far cry from his character—he was impeccably polite andprofessional in all working situations. Theperception persisted, however, that Duncanwas an “arrogant, if brilliant, brat” and so he had developed aself-deprecating sense of humour to counter the criticism. He often made fun of his own supposed“arrogance”, which, truth be told, only ever surfaced at home when he was withhis younger brothers and sisters.

“Well, it’s settled, then!” the Dean said after finishing hisCaesar salad and paying the bill. As Duncan walked out of therestaurant with Davy, the Dean and his elder-sister, he hoped fervently that theFaculty would not absolutely hate him.