By Rick Hata

During the spring of 1990, I studied philosophical issues relating to education at UW-Madison taught by an esteemed professor named Fran Schrag. In this upper-level graduate course, I was expected to read, analyzed, and explain complex social theories such as postmodernism, social constructionism, and other “isms” that I barely understood.

In 1990, learning and research tools for graduate students vastly differed from the tools that we have today. In 1990, we did not have ChatGBT, Google, or You-Tube. Pocket cell phones did not exist, only large, bulky car phones for the very wealthy. The internet in 1990 was available for scientists and researchers, but not for the general public. In 1990, there was little help for readers who were struggling to understand the obscure writings of a French social theorist named Michel Foucault (foo KOW)

Most of the readings for this class came from (foo KOW)’s original writings translated from French into English. The first time I interacted with his writing, I felt confident for I knew, as a former reading teacher, how to identify the topic sentence, the main idea of the topic sentence, the supportive detail sentences, and the concluding sentence. “Extracting the main ideas from each paragraph should not be difficult,” I naïvely thought.

But after reading and rereading his (so called) “paragraphs” several times, I could not even decipher the main idea of each paragraph. I could not identify a topic sentence or a central message. Many sentences contained several unknown ideological concepts that I could not define. To me, his words and sentences were babble . . . and endless prattle that didn’t make sense.

As the weeks progressed, the day came to take the dreaded mid-term essay exam. Fran Schrag posited five questions and the students furiously wrote their responses for two hours.

Two days later, we met in class to receive our results. The ten students found their usual spots at the rectangular table. I felt especially nervous as I sat in class. No one spoke . . . the mood felt somber as we awaited our judgement. Professor Schrag sauntered into the room . . . expressionless as always. “I will begin by passing out the results of your mid-term exams.” I felt a knot in my stomach as the professor slowly walked around the rectangular table to hand deliver (face down, of course) the papers that reflected his judgement.

The professor walked behind me and handed papers to Ting Hong who sat on my right. Ting had the ability to prattle incessantly about hegemony and power dynamics, while I struggled to grasp their meanings. Upon receiving his papers, he uttered a quiet “thank you” then quickly read the professors comments written on the sides of his writings. Being nosy about the performance of my neighbor I slowly leaned my body towards Ting’s papers . . . and slightly turned my head so I would be able to gaze upon Ting’s grade. Ting flipped to this final page and there at the bottom of the page sat a big, fat, red F . . . emphatically circled. WHOA – Ting Hong got an F.  Ting – the master of postmodern speak. Was there any hope for me?

Fran Schrag continued to circle the long, rectangular table passing out our test results. I dreaded the moment when I would receive his judgement. He approached me . . . then gave papers to my colleague Bill Gritzmacher who sat on my left. For several years, Bill had eagerly read and devoured critical theory and his face seemed to light up brighter than a Christmas tree when critiquing the concepts of emancipation . . .dialectics . . . immanent critique . . . praxis (and his favorite ecstasy), intersectionality.

Though I didn’t want to appear as nosy . . . I wanted to know his grade. Bill received his writings and quickly read Professor’s Schrag’s comments written on the sides of some paragraphs. I slightly tilted my body to the left and slightly turned my head so that I could gaze upon his final score. Bill eventually turned to the final page . . . and there at the bottom of the page sat . . . a big, fat red F . . . emphatically circled. WHOA – Bill Gritzmacher got an F. Now I knew there was no hope for me.

Eventually, the professor handed me my papers. I quickly flipped to the last page and, sure enough, there sat at the bottom of the page a big, fat, red F . . . emphatically circled. I felt my confidence sink deeper than the Titanic and I felt confused as to why he would judge our performance so harshly. He provided no rubrics nor definitions of what an A verses an F paper would look like.

No one spoke . . . no one felt enough energy to lead a discussion. Suddenly a woman who sat across the table from me gathered her books together, rose to her feet, and announced . . . “I’m leaving . . . I’m sick of this class.” Fran Schragg appeared stoic and perplexed and silently watched the woman storm out the door.

Courageously another student raised his hand. Professor Schrag gave a nod for him to speak, “I just want to know, he timidly asked . . . is there any hope?” The professor looked baffled and muttered . . . “Any hope?” Schrag did not have the interest nor the empathy to ask for clarification. We managed to muddle through the next hour and a half until the end of class.

The next Sunday morning I received a surprised phone call from Fran Schrag. After saying a brief hello, he asked me what I thought the F on my paper meant. I replied, “Well . . . I thought that the big, fat, red F . . . which you emphatically circled equaled my grade on my mid-term. “Oh no” . . . he said with a slight hint of warmth, “That big, fat, red F . . . which I emphatically circled . . . was not your grade for the mid-term. The F meant that I read your paper. It’s the initial of my first name.

© 2026 Rick Hata

Rick is an ESL instructor at Madison College who lives and writes in Madison, Wisconsin.