When I was in college in the 90’s, Seinfeld was still dominating our catch phrase vocabulary. As you may recall, one of the most popular lines from the show concerned an extremely anal retentive soup counter owner who demanded brevity, silence, and meekness from his customers. Infringing upon these rules resulted in the sudden loss of your soup-purchasing opportunity, as he would yank the cardboard cup away from you and shout, “No soup for you!”
Jerry called him the Soup Nazi.
One of my literature classes in college was run by a man who demanded respect and precision at all times. His formality was excruciating. If a student spoke out of turn, she would be singled out for a condescending lecture about decorum. One young woman in our class said she walked by his desk and saw a hand-written letter that he’d opened that began with, “Dearest Father…”
We called him the English Nazi.
Maybe his greatest offense against our barely post-adolescent sensibilities was when he told us to draw poetry. Keep in mind that this was a class mostly populated by future English teachers; it wasn’t some 100-level freshman requirement. We all loved reading. But, when he told us to read Keats and Shelley and Browning and draw pictures of the scenes they described, and our earnest scribblings were met by curt, withering dismissals of our perception, we were astounded.
“No. That’s not what it looked like,” he would say of most of our work. Continue reading