Rest in peace, Evan Hill; in praise of the ultimate teacher

I didn't know I wanted to go into broadcasting until I got out of college. It wouldn't have mattered if I'd discovered microphones and cameras as an undergrad, as my school, the University of Connecticut, didn't offer broadcasting courses. What it did offer to a student who wanted to do something creative was a world-class college daily newspaper and four journalism courses. Since I loved newspapers and burned to write, I signed up for both.

As I walked into the classroom for the first time, I knew this was no ordinary course. The room was set up with tables arranged in a horseshoe, various brands of manual typewriters sitting in front of the chairs. A neat stack of yellow paper sat next to each typewriter; I later discovered this was for the benefit of editors and typesetters, as yellow was easier on the eyes of those who read for a living.

The teacher was a kindly, white-haired middle-aged magazine and newspaper writer named Evan Hill, who might have been described as a Southern gentleman if we weren't in New England. That first day he explained the parameters of the class; rule number one was that we checked our opinions at the door, and heaven help the student who let said opinion trickle into a news story. We were now journalists, and as such we were observers whose job was to tell our readers what we knew, not what we thought. We also had to respect our fellow students and call them by proper names. Everyone was Mister or Miss something-or-other. We would be polite to anyone we interviewed. We learned the meaning of "off the record." Within one hour I knew that wearing tee-shirts and bell-bottoms to this class wouldn't cut it.

Because Mr. Hill had created an actual newsroom. He was not only training us to write, but to be professional.

He warned us about his one pet peeve: the lack of a thing called an "end mark." This was a simple code to tell editors and typesetters when they'd reached the end of a story. We were to simply put the number 30 surrounded by hyphens at the end of our stories, like this:

-30-

Naturally I forgot this on my first assignment. It was handed back to me, covered in so much red ink I wondered if someone had attempted suicide and bled all over my copy. There was a big red "D" at the top of the page, but what caught my eye was the notation at the bottom of the page.

"End mark, dammit."

End mark, dammit? Oh, I could tell Mr. Hill was gonna be my kind of teacher.

I politely knocked on his office door later that day and asked if my writing was that bad. "You have good writing ability," said Mr. Hill. "But you can do better."

"Would you give me a chance to re-write this?"

"Of course," he said.

So I re-wrote it and handed it to him after the next class. I later got it back with two notations.

"Better" and "End mark, dammit."

It quickly became apparent to all of us that this was not a course for those obsessed with grade point average. There were some really sharp minds in that group, many of whom went home trying to explain C's and D's to parents while telling them this was the best class on campus.

There were no quizzes, no final exams, no textbooks. Mr. Hill tested us every day with real, hands-on experience.

One day he started the class with, "You have one hour to find a story and have it on my desk."

We sat there, puzzled. "Find a story…where?" asked one student.

"I don't care," said Mr. Hill. "Get out and find something, write about it, and be back here with it finished in one hour."

We all bolted out of the classroom and went in a dozen different directions in search of anything that would make interesting copy. Amazingly, everyone completed the assignment on time.

And just like that, Mr. Hill had taught us how to find a story and hit a deadline. It was the first of many "wax on, wax off" moments.

He also stressed the little things, the elements that gave a story life. "I want you to feel your feet on the floor," he said. "Did you notice how the floor felt before I told you to do that? You didn't." He wanted us to look past the obvious, to find those special things that took an average story to the next level. A story was a tapestry beyond mere facts, and we had to find the threads that would weave it into something special.

Despite the lousy grades, no one ever cut this class because you knew every single session was different. Mr. Hill often brought his friends from newspapers and magazines into the classroom, to give us a taste of what it was like in the real world. He took us on a field trip to the Hartford Courant, to meet reporters and see all the behind-the-scenes stuff that went into producing a newspaper.

Evan Hill was king in the classroom. He never yelled, never called out a student in front of the class. On one occasion he gave us one of his unusual assignments and he caught me rolling my eyes. He then hit me with the greatest line I've ever heard from a teacher. "Mr. Tatano, don't look at me in that tone of voice."

While other kids looked forward to spring break, we couldn't wait for Mr. Hill's one week adventure at a newspaper called the New London Day. For five days we played reporter, going out on actual assignments which ended up in a special supplement to the paper. Mr. Hill sent me to a dusty, dark courthouse in North Stonington, Connecticut, to look up century-old stuff from the archives.

That taught me to dig.

Those who completed all four classes were invited on a special outing. Mr. Hill handed out the invitations, and we wondered if this was another clever ruse designed to teach us something.

Kite flying on Horse Barn Hill followed by dinner.

Kite flying? With a teacher? I'd never flown a kite but I knew this had to be code for something else. Surely Mr. Hill was going to send us off in search of Jimmy Hoffa's body.

But when we arrived at the appointed location we were each handed a kite and spent the afternoon appreciating the simple pleasure provided by Mother Nature's winds. Was that a lesson? Mr. Hill would never tell. But sure enough, we had dinner at his home later that evening.

For our last class we all decided to dress as a team. We had shirts printed up with "Hill's Angels" on the front and a big number 30 on the back.

One of the students wrote a wonderful piece about our teacher in the campus newspaper before graduation, but Mr. Hill felt it was unnecessary, telling me, "That sort of stuff belongs in an obituary."

A few years ago I caught the Richard Dreyfuss movie "Mr. Holland's Opus" on cable. It's the story of a teacher who thinks his life has been a failure until all his former students return to say thanks for touching their lives. The next day I called the University, got Mr. Hill's address, and wrote him a long letter. I told him what a great influence he was on my life. He wrote back, telling me to drop by if I was ever in the neighborhood.

I wonder what he thought of what passes for journalism today. He had such class, such impeccable ethics, such devotion to the printed word and getting the story right. I'm sure the bias that has filtered into our profession made his blood boil. He remained a decent human being in an industry that chews up souls and ethics and dreams like a meat grinder.

When I learned of his passing, I started doing Internet searches of the classmates I remembered. Every one had pursued a career in journalism or something media related. The few articles I found that had been written by my cohorts still had a touch of the style he'd taught us so long ago.

Christa McAuliffe once summed up her profession perfectly. "I touch the future. I teach." God only knows how many futures were touched by Evan Hill.

I'm sure his family has something profound in mind for his headstone. But knowing Mr. Hill's incredible modesty and dry wit, I'm sure he'd appreciate the following:


Evan Hill
1919-2010
End mark, dammit
-30-




.