Meanwhile, I managed to land a job at Adams State College as an adjunct instructor teaching, yet again, freshman composition. At the west end of Alamosa, the 81-year-old institution (today officially named Adams State University) had a conventionally lovely campus that clearly looked more Western than Southwestern. Tall narrow-leaf cottonwoods shaded lush green lawns. Pueblo-style architecture was non-existent; brick, pitched roofs, square corners, and a lofty white steeple were the order of the day.
Because Adams was a four-year institution, I was now back among many instructors with doctoral degrees who were either tenured or on tenure tracks. For the same reason, I assumed, correctly or incorrectly, that its students were academically of a higher caliber and more committed to completing a higher education than your average community college student. My classes consisted of fewer Latinos. The presence of one or two African Americans in each of my classes was also a change from teaching in west Texas. Most of my students were from Colorado and bordering states. A good number of my White, non-Latino students were from rural areas like the San Luis Valley, and thus they had what I sensed were conservative upbringings. What remained the same was the English department’s teaching angle: rhetorical approaches to composition, using yet another reader chock full of short essays.
The reading comprehension and writing abilities of my students were somewhat better than those of my community college students. Still, it was a chore to generate class discussion, and I continued to dread reading and grading papers. The college had a football program, so during class I occasionally had to rouse a “Grizzly”―that is, an Adams football player―out of what appeared to be a slumber. Another first was the young man who wrote, vividly and with surprising coherence, about the joys of masturbation; I don’t recall the rhetorical approach that framed his discussion.
A colleague of mine, who also had a desk in the small common room for adjunct instructors, was Wayne. A graduate of Adams, he had a bachelor’s degree when we met, yet he was far more experienced than I at teaching, both at the secondary-school and college level. I envied his apparently successful pedagogical methods and his ability to roll with the challenges. He lived with his wife, also an educator, in the frigid, hard-pan mining town of Creede, northwest of the Valley. In addition to reading and writing, his passion was downhill skiing. And snow: His prose offered more descriptions and discussions of the white stuff than any I’d ever read; indeed, he was Thoreau’s “self-appointed inspector of snowstorms,” reading, for his own safety as well as transcendence, snow like a book. He eventually went on to get his master of fine arts and publish a book about ski-bumming, mainly at Wolf Creek, and living with a literally delicate heart. He still lives in south-central Colorado, and we remain friends to this day.