Professor Tjossem was born on March 14, 1923 in Marshalltown, Iowa -- a farming community. He passed away on May 27 this year at the age of 100 at his long-time home in Appleton, Wisconsin. He taught at Lawrence University's English department from 1955 to 1993. He leaves behind four children, five grandchildren, and countless students whose lives he changed
Herbert Tjossem believed America's best achievements were its colleges, and proof of that fact were its international students. After his retirement from Lawrence University's core faculty 30 years ago, his connection to the campus community only deepened, as he mentored wave after wave of international student -- me being one of them. In a recent Facetime call, he told me: “I've met more students after retirement than I did when I was actually working at the university.” It sounded like retirement done right. No wonder he lived to 100.
As a discombobulated freshman back in the day, he helped me find my way and hone my focus, and we quickly became friends. Every time I needed a break from campus, I would pop by at his house, and he was always available. Nearing the end of my time in Appleton, when I told him my parents wouldn't be able to make it to my graduation, he said: “Don't worry, I'll be there. Will that do?” And he was.
After graduation, I crashed at his house for two weeks, trying to figure what the hell to do with my life, and he was a force that kept me steady through the storm. We would hold seminar-style hangouts in his sun porch for hours, with him telling me stories about growing up in Iowa during the Depression, or his shady work in association with the Psychological Warfare Division, or how he had a gig at a theatre and got to see the world premier of A Streetcar Named Desire on stage starring an unknown Marlon Brando, or how he saw Jacques Derrida speak at Yale and felt that “there was no substance to it.” He gave me crash courses on how you could tell the wine was high-class and how you knew the corn was fresh by pulling back its ears.
He had a BA from the University of Minnesota, an MA from the University of Chicago, and a PhD from Yale, and taught English at Lawrence for 38 years before retiring. But still, more than just disseminating life lessons, he would ask me things -- and listen with the focused concentration of an apt pupil. That was the thing about Prof Tjossem -- he was always learning. Even on his 100th birthday when we were Facetiming, he was trying to figure out how to work his iPhone.
After I graduated from Lawrence and was headed back home, it was Prof Tjossem who dropped me off at the airport. “We'll stay in touch,” he said, and I thought that was just one of those things people just say. But no, he meant it, and he dropped me an email soon afterwards. We were in touch continuously ever since. He was like a teacher, a therapist, or a father as needed, but mostly just a friend -- someone you could tell anything to, and count on him to listen, and though old enough to be my grandfather, there was not a whiff of condescension in him.
He keenly followed my work, and would give me honest feedback with the gloves off when needed. He was a fan of Sehri Tales which was a challenge my wife founded, and was quick to grasp the concept. He was overjoyed when he heard I was headed to Iceland to attend the Iceland Writers Retreat, and I promised him I would tell him all about it when I got back. I never got around to calling him in May, I kept putting off the call “until tomorrow.” And then I got the news: Professor Tjossem had passed away.
His death leaves a canyonesque void in so many lives, including mine, but his life lessons, his examples, are now part of my thinking. Now that I'm older, wiser, and a far cry from that untested college freshman I once was, I'm in a better place to pay it forward. So if I see a situation where I can pass on a bit of that support, I ask myself: What would Prof Tjossem do?
Rest in peace, dear friend.
Abak Hussain is a journalist, and Lawrence University graduate, class of 2006.
