In the classroom, MacIntyre followed the example of Socrates, who demonstrated to those in his company the depths of what they did not know. My first graduate class with him was on twentieth-century ethics. I read all the books for the fall semester the summer before, so I thought I was ready to impress. On the first day of class, he began in stern British schoolmaster style, “I’m Alasdair MacIntyre, but if you don’t already know that, you probably shouldn’t be in this class.” Unlike other professors, he did not address us as “Christopher” or “Rebecca,” but as “Mr. Kaczor” and “Ms. DeYoung.” The only exception was “Master Resnick,” who had gained his MA already. MacIntyre announced that in order to earn an A on a paper, we would have to write an essay of the caliber that he would put his own name on it. An A minus meant he would almost put his name on it. My first paper came back with a grade that I had never before received. Indeed, a grade I had never before seen: B minus minus.
A philosophical version of a Marine boot camp instructor, MacIntyre left us in much better shape than when we began. As Lee Marsh put it, “When I met Alasdair MacIntyre, I realized how much I did not know and why I should know it.” We learned that there was such a thing as a stupid question. One grad student asked, “What are the Thirty-Nine Articles?” MacIntyre replied, “Do you happen to know where the library is? It’s not too late to learn.” We were kept continually off balance, often not knowing where the jokes ended and the serious warnings began. One day, Alasdair announced, “I happen to be one who believes torture is not always wrong—something you may want to remember.” He warned us, “Never call me at home unless you want to no longer be a student in the graduate program.” This admonition was entirely unnecessary as most of us were afraid to speak with him even during class time. Graduate students brave enough to visit his office, dark as a cave and lit by a solitary lamp, found it adorned with a Gallic cross and a photo of the Jewish-born philosopher Edith Stein, who died in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. One day, having finally earned paper grades in his classes better than B minus minus, I ventured into his office to ask for his coveted letter of recommendation. It took courage to request one. He told one grad student, “I can certainly write you a letter, but it is the kind of letter that keeps you from getting a job.” Fortunately, his letter of recommendation for me was not that kind of letter.
Not only did he help us on the job market, MacIntyre’s virtues gave his students an example to emulate. When doing a directed readings class with one undergraduate, MacIntyre remarked that there was a recent article in French very much relevant for their discussion. Unfortunately, the student couldn’t read French. So the next time they met together, MacIntyre provided the student with a translation he had made of the article. Alasdair had a great love for American football, especially Notre Dame football.
Read it all.
