Friday 03 July 2026
There will be a day when the “last day of class” indeed will be the last day of class. Eventually I will retire from teaching. I will give my final, concluding remarks to students.
What will I say? What should I say? How will I say it?
What will I say on the last day of my war class?
This time last year (during my post-op recovery), I strongly considered ending my war class. Last summer wasn’t the first time I considered wrapping up the war class. Teaching and writing about the subject matter of war always have worn me out, not just psychologically but physically. This time last year, I felt beat up. I was, and not just from the operation. My mind and heart were damaged from staring too long into war’s abyss. I must admit, I did “put up a good fight.” For twenty years I have been teaching about war crimes. Until that Spring 2025 semester, I never admitted out loud to students whether I should be teaching the war class, not just “can I still teach it.”
Afterall, it’s not a “happy” theme. It’s supposed to be sobering and overwhelming. To counter those effects, I convinced myself that “the course teaches itself,” fooling myself that I needn’t protect myself from the effects of regularly teaching Francisco Goya’s The Disasters of War prints or Kim Nguyen’s War Witch film or even Anna Politkovskaya’s A Small Corner of Hell: Dispatches from Chechnya journalistic prose.
Was I “defeated”? Hard to say. Exhausted? Definitely.
Teaching the war class was my professional identity. It was my reputation as a teacher that I carefully cultivated. So, I couldn’t just “retire” the war class, like I have done with other course themes. And honestly, what would I teach as a replacement? I have taught previous courses on injustice and protest, trauma and memory, and authoritarianism; however, these alternative subjects were only mere variations of the war class, equally melancholy and difficult.
Students have told me: “you don’t mince or sugar-coat your words,” “you don’t bullshit,” “you make it real,” and “you don’t hold anything back,” aspects that describe—according to these students—my methodology and approach to the war class. In other words, I say aloud what they’re too afraid to say themselves. Some students specifically sign-up for my sections, hearing about my class from their friends who took my classes—wanting to experience the class for themselves.
Therefore, I feel I need to “live up to the billing.” I can’t deliver a “watered-down product.” “They pay good money.” I need to “make it worth their while.”
Yes, I still give a shit. Yes, I am “old-school.”
I would make my life (and teaching) easier if I stopped teaching the war class; however, would I be “happy”? Would I regret it?
I think I have broken a symbolic, psychological pattern in my intellectual and scholarly life. I walked away from Herman Melville and American Literature because they both hurt me too much—the twins. I didn’t want to be reminded of what that dissertation and doctorate cost me. So, I chose Holocaust and war crimes studies.
But now, those topics, too, have been “baptized” in “sweat, tears, and blood.” The Katyn Massacres memoir, like the Melville dissertation, also is overshadowed by death—Steve’s. Should I also count my own “brush with death”? Who’s next? I know I’m being slightly superstitious and naïve, but there’s now a real-world pattern. At times, I’m terrified to imagine the next writing project.
What to do?
I have taught Goya since my West Point days—a long time. And finally, “it” happened. This past February 2026 I questioned whether I should continue teaching Goya. As I ended the lesson on Disasters of War, I muttered: “Oh no,” in response to feeling as though I “broke something inside”—like a “blown gasket” or “punctured tire.” I knew it wasn’t heart related, but the sensation was as unnerving as if it were. I think the front row students heard me. A worried student asked me, “What’s wrong, Professor?” I whispered back: “I think I should stop teaching Goya all together.” I think the student understood what I meant.
The last day of my Spring 2025 took place the week before my scheduled open-heart surgery, and—just in case—I treated that day as the last day of teaching the war class. I didn’t necessarily prepare a “final” speech for the Spring 2025 students. I just spoke. On the second to last day of the Spring 2025 semester, I told them I was cancelling the Final Exam because I was having open-heart surgery.
I was very candid. There was an empty chair in the middle of the classroom. Walking toward it, I turned the chair around to face them, sat in it, and I explained what was happening to me that semester. I wanted to be among them, not speaking from the podium. I wanted to show them I was human, too. Scared, too. I told them about the struggles of teaching that semester. The constant anxiety about the surgery, mortality. Hiding panic attacks during class lectures. I even showed them my worry stone.
“I lied to you since the first day of class. I never intended on giving you a Final Exam. I withheld important information from you. I learned before the start of the semester that I needed to have open-heart surgery before the summer…. Well, it’s now: ‘before the end of summer,’ and well, I’m having it next week,” I said. The students listened.
“I know, I know. You’re disappointed that you won’t be taking a Final Exam for this class. To make it up to you, I’m giving everyone a half letter grade bump. Fair? Do you forgive me?” I said, trying to laugh. Instead of laughing, students were crying. The worst Dad joke ever.
“My surgeon wanted to perform the operation in March/April. I said: ‘No. Can I finish the semester first? The Final Exams are scheduled for Monday May 12th.’ His reply: ‘Cancel the Finals.’ I nodded, adding: ‘Done. I just want to finish the course with them.’” The surgeon permitted me to do so.”
Yes, I still give a shit. Yes, I am “old-school.”
“I didn’t want a substitute teacher to finish the class with you. Honestly, the only teacher who could substitute for me lives in Texas, and you didn’t pay big money to take a Zoom class. Anyway, I need to finish what I started. I need to do this for myself,” I confessed.
“So, really you have no reason to show up to next Monday’s class, the last day of the semester. Technically, the course is finished as of now. Nonetheless, I want to finish this class the ‘right way.’ I want to finish my job by teaching on the last day of class. I need to finish our examination on David Wood’s Moral Injury. For a professor who claims to focus on moral issues, I would be a fraud, a phony if I didn’t show up to class next Monday, the 5th,” I asserted.
“I hope to see you; if not, teaching you was one of my greatest moments in my teaching career. I don’t like saying: ‘good-bye.’ I prefer: ‘Hope to see you around.’ Don’t be a stranger. My biggest hope is that this class isn’t your last class in the Humanities. I hope that this Spring isn’t the last time you will ever read a book, see an ‘artsy-fartsy’ movie, or visit a monument or museum. Cultivate your humanity! Don’t be a stinking swamp-creature of hate [to borrow a phrase from Anna Politkovskaya].” I concluded.
On Monday May 5th, all but one of the students showed up in class. We finished our discussion on David Wood’s Moral Injury. One of the best moments in my life!