Dr. Cecil Blankenship - the man who took chances on people

What chance was there that a little orphan boy (who had seen his father murder his mother when he was only four) would ever amount to anything?

What chance was there that this unspeakably traumatized little boy would someday earn his doctorate degree in education?

Who in all this world would have bet that this boy would one day serve 50 years as an education professor at East Tennessee State University?

And what chance in Hades was there that this same boy would someday go on to become arguably THE most beloved faculty member in the history of ETSU?

(By the way, although I have no literal proof, I’d bet the house that someone, somewhere, at some time along his young life’s path must have “taken a chance” on Cecil Blankenship (and very likely more than just one person and just one time). The so-called self-made man (or woman) that we sometimes hear touted in our culture is a complete myth. We are the most highly social of primates. In fact, our social structure is more complex and far-reaching (whether we are aware of it or not) than any other creature on the planet. Therefore, we all need other people (in some form or fashion) for us to truly succeed at virtually anything meaningful and worthwhile.)

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I first met Dr. Cecil Blankenship in December of 1988. I had high hopes of being accepted into the prestigious MAT (Master of Arts in Teaching) program at ETSU, of which Dr. B. was the chair.

On paper I didn’t stand a chance. My college GPA was light years behind many other applicants. I had completely lapsed my last year or two in college - paying far more attention to pretty girls and late-night parties than to open textbooks.

So I knew full well going into the interview with Dr. B. that I didn’t stand any semblance of a reasonable chance of being admitted into the MAT program. But for some reason I asked for an interview anyway.

Near the end of my surprisingly long interview, Dr. B. looked at me and said, “I like your spirit, Ben. But our program is already full for the coming semester, and even if it weren’t, there are so many more applicants ahead of you who are far more qualified. Many have a 4.0 GPA in their undergrad degree and obviously took their grades much more seriously than you did. From your transcript it looks like you might have partied a lot there at the end.” Dr. B. shook his head. “Two F’s your last semester? I’m sorry, Ben, but we just can’t get you into the program. (Dr. B. then motioned toward a huge stack of MAT applications on his desk.) How could I ever justify taking a chance on you, when I have dozens of applicants with four years of straight A’s?”

So I thanked this kind, honest, deeply genuine man and plodded slowly on down the hall, my mind scrambling for what I might do now that my big dream of changing careers at age thirty and becoming a teacher was now completely shattered.

Just as I was about to round the corner to the stairwell, I heard footsteps behind me.

I was in such a stupor I couldn’t even bring myself to turn around. Then I heard a voice.

“Ben, come on back to my office and we’ll do your paperwork. I know the program is full, and there are more qualified candidates ahead of you, but there’s something about you that makes me want to take a chance on you and get you in right now. I’m gonna bet you become a teacher.”

Several decades have now passed since I heard those words from Dr. B.

Eventually, near the end of my long teaching career, I received the following handwritten note from Dr. B. in the mail.

It is difficult for me to think of anything in my possession which I treasure more than this note.