speaking up

in memory of Prof Tim Riordan

Photo by Illia Plakhuta on Unsplash

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One of my favourite teachers was Dr Tim Riordan, who taught me Educational Philosophy at Xavier University, back in 1996. Dr Riordan was a charismatic professor and poet, whose lively lectures and intellectual vivacity helped to bring philosophy alive for me. Many of my class colleagues made it clear in their comments that philosophy bored them and seemed too abstract and irrelevant. I on the other hand paid attention to every point made and thoroughly loved listening to his intelligent speculations and wry observations. But listening was all I did: I was too shy to speak up in discussions. Working behind the scenes I felt more confident: I enjoyed the essay assignments immensely and wrote them well, receiving top marks. I still recall and value the remark he once made in the margins of an essay: “I like this – shows you have a sense of humour!”

Let me share a memory. Our final assignment was to deliver a presentation in front of the class. I don't recall the topic I chose to speak about, only the directive that we might use a limited number of cue cards but no slides and nothing else. I had prepared my talk, and when it was my turn I stood up in front of the 20 or so assembled in the classroom. And there I froze. I stumbled through my cue cards, trying to recall the words I'd intended to say. I mumbled self-consciously and turned a bright shade of pink. I plucked sentences from thin air, then ground to a halt, in a terrible staccato of sounds and silences. When I finally dared to look up, staring forlornly out at my audience, I could see Dr Riordan leaning in his chair against the wall, arms folded across his chest, with a slightly stunned expression on his face. And when our eyes met, his expression melted with compassion. I was clearly out of my depth, so clearly a terrible public speaker. It was humiliating, and awful: a magnificent trainwreck of a performance in front of someone I liked and respected. I'll never forget how embarrassed I felt; the urge to migrate indeed.

Eighteen years later, using the power of the internet, I reached out to him to let him know that I remembered him fondly and still valued his teaching. He was surprised to hear from me but gratified by my message, and he posted me one of his collections of poetry. I'm so pleased that I made the effort to tell him about the impression he'd made upon me, because he died a year later.

Now I'm thinking of him, again fondly, because I have recently had the opportunity to deliver a presentation at a conference about philosophy. The third Too Mad to be True conference was hosted in Belgium by the Dutch organisation De Stichting Psychiatrie en Filosofie (The Psychiatry and Philosophy Foundation) – with the theme 'the paradox of madness.'

Prof Riordan wouldn't have recognised me: I delivered the talk on a stage in a small auditorium, in front of a large group of people (perhaps around 70 in person and many more online.) While I resorted to reading from a full script (no cue cards for me, thank you!), I spoke clearly and slowly, answered questions thoughtfully and articulately, and survived the entire ordeal without freezing up or dwelling within dispirited gaps of silence. I was told by several people that they really enjoyed it, that it was an accessible and interesting presentation. I've even had a request to translate it into Dutch. I hope that I'll never forget how relieved and proud I feel.

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