(This will be the only time I discuss this subject in a public forum).

“It’s my estimation that every man ever got a statue made of ’em was one kinda sombitch or another.”
-Capt. Malcolm Reynolds

This line from the Firefly episode “Jaynestown” has been repeating in my head for over a week. It speaks to the hard truth that one should never meet his heroes because they’re not perfect or above reproach.

That’s harder to do when you already know your hero.

Last month, Dr. Dennis E. Hensley, founder of my alma mater, Taylor University’s, professional writing program and one of the most influential people in my life, retired suddenly. His current students were shocked. The theory was that he did so because of several deaths in his family and his wife’s stage four cancer. The students planned to send him some well wishes.

Then the truth came out.

He left because a former student came forward saying she had been sexually assaulted by Dr. Hensley in 2004 (which was during my time at the university’s Fort Wayne campus). This opened a floodgate of accusations spanning decades.

I avoided most of the uproar for a while because this was reported just before G-Fest XXV, and I didn’t want my weekend tainted. Once that was over, I inundated myself with articles.

There’s a lot I could say about this; a lot I’ve wanted to say. For the sake of this blog, I will focus only on how this revelation has affected me.

If Nick Hayden was the Obi-Wan Kenobi to my Luke Skywalker, Dr. Hensley was our Master Yoda.

One of my schoolmates and fellow Dr. Hensley students wrote on Facebook that this whole thing felt like someone had died. Indeed, those early stages of grief hit me hard. I didn’t want to believe it. I even tried to tell people not to jump to any conclusions and remember that these were only accusations. (Ironically, this was a journalism rule I learned from Dr. Hensley). This brought me under fire, albeit briefly, which was why I wrote what I did last week.

From denial I quickly moved to the anger stage, but it was anger without a target. I didn’t know if I should be angry at Dr. Hensley, his accuser(s), or the MeToo movement. That’s why I’ve waited as long as I have to say anything. Anger rarely, if ever, leads to sound reasoning, and in this outrage-addicted internet culture, it can be dangerous. Regardless, I was angry because something had been taken from me—the Dr. Hensley I thought I knew.

The man who reassured 18-year-old intimidated prospective student me that I had the talent to be in his writing program.

The man who teased me for having an e-mail at a now defunct website called www.Godzillafans.com. 

The man who found every typo I wrote in my papers and everything I did right.

The man who plastered “EYE OF THE TIGER!” on every “A” I got.

The man who told me how to conduct myself as a professional writer and what to expect in the industry.

The man who got me my first byline.

The man who put me on student newspaper staff as soon as I walked onto campus.

The man whose teaching style I so admired I wanted to emulate it as a teacher myself.

The man we described as a “teddy bear with sharp teeth” because he wasn’t afraid to tell you what you did wrong but he’d do everything he could to help you succeed.

The man who had an entire bulletin board—the “Brag Board”—dedicated to showing off his students’ publications and achievements.

All of these and many more—and now I have to reconcile them with these accusations.

Ironically, like the woman who first came forward, I, too, once confided something personal to Dr. Hensley. I won’t go into details, but something happened where I distrusted most everyone at the school, including my friends. It was my senior year, and I knew it might affect me academically, so I told him what happened. He was understanding and encouraging. He gave me a week to breathe and then sent a letter to my mailbox saying it was time to buck up and finish strong. I took it to heart.

In the time between his sudden retirement and the reporting of these accusations, I sent Dr. Hensley an e-mail saying I’d heard he left Taylor and that I was praying for him and his wife. I also mentioned that I would soon be starting grad school and working as a graduate teaching assistant and a writing tutor. He replied saying he knew I could do it.

If that is the last communication I ever have with “Doc,” that’s how I want to remember him.

But that’s the statue—and those always come crumbling down.

(I recommend reading James Watkins’ blog on this matter. He’s given the best assessment of it that I’ve read).

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