After returning from Vietnam, my desire for a master's degree in business administration began to take shape. Living in Kalamazoo, Michigan, at the time, I decided to take a chance and applied to Western Michigan University. However, I wasn't surprised when the rejection letter arrived, citing my low undergraduate grades as the reason. Several years later, I decided to give it another shot and aimed for Eastern Michigan University in Ypsilanti, Michigan. This time, I was determined to find a way in, even though I expected another rejection. Little did I know that fate had an interesting twist in store.
Between the time of my application submission and the forthcoming rejection, a new dean had taken the helm of the graduate business school. This dean was not your typical academic; he had recently retired from the FBI and was known for being a friendly and approachable guy. I seized the opportunity and scheduled an appointment to discuss the rejection.
On the day of the appointment, I walked into his office, and there he sat behind his imposing desk. We both knew the purpose of our meeting, but exchanged pleasantries as we waited for one of us to break the ice. After a moment, he asked, “How can I help you?” I calmly replied that I was there to inquire about the reasons for my rejection, although I already knew the answer.
With an unchanged expression, he explained that my grades fell below the minimum standards for admission. I decided to push the envelope and asked if there were any students who had been admitted despite not meeting these standards. To my astonishment, he admitted that there were, and I could sense an opening.
Curious, I inquired about the conditions under which these students had been admitted, prompting him to mention a few minority groups. It was then that I saw my opportunity. I asked him explicitly, “Students who are in a minority?” He hesitated but confirmed it. That's when I made my move, declaring, “That makes me a minority.”
The dean's face showed surprise, but he leaned forward with anticipation, asking about my specific minority group. I answered with a question of my own: “How many students do you know who have a grade point average as low as mine, trying to get into your graduate school?” His response was simple: “None.”
I seized the moment and confidently declared, “That makes me a minority.”
The dean leaned back in his chair, studying me for a moment before finally saying, “Get me some letters of recommendation, and I'll think about it.”
With that unexpected turn of events, the windmills of my mind had not only turned but had also opened a door to my dream of pursuing a master's in business administration. It was a lesson in creative problem-solving, persistence, and the power of seizing the opportunities life presents, even in the most unlikely moments.
The interview had left me with a sense of hope and anticipation that I had not felt before. It was clear to me that the dean truly wanted me in the graduate business program at Eastern Michigan University. He had seen something in me, something beyond the grades on paper, and he was willing to give me a second chance.
All he needed now was the foundation to justify his decision, and that foundation was to be built upon the letters of recommendation. Over the next couple of weeks, I stayed in touch with his secretarial staff, eagerly awaiting news about the status of my letters. The information I received was promising; most of my recommendations had been received by the department. It was time to follow up and get the dean's final decision.
As I arrived for the second interview, a mix of anxiety and hope filled the air. I was in good spirits, but I couldn't shake the uncertainty that came with waiting for a life-changing verdict. The dean welcomed me into his office, and just as he had done before, he sat behind his desk with his poker face firmly in place. We exchanged pleasantries, but this time, I sensed something different. He wasn't going to initiate the conversation, and my anticipation grew.
After several seconds of silence that seemed to stretch into an eternity, I decided to break it. “So, what do you think?” I asked, my voice betraying a hint of anxiety. The dean, in his own dramatic fashion, paused for what felt like an unnecessary amount of time, perhaps to heighten the suspense. Then, with a hint of a smile, he finally responded, “I think you're a graduate student.”
I could hardly believe my ears. I maintained my poker face for about three seconds, ensuring that I had heard him correctly. The weight of his words sank in, and I couldn't contain my elation any longer. A grin spread across my face as I realized that my dream of becoming a graduate student had come true.
Before I allowed myself to get carried away with excitement, I needed to be sure of any probationary terms that might come with this second chance. So, I asked him directly, “Do I have any restrictions, probation, or special requirements?” His response was nothing short of relief and a confirmation of my achievement: “No restrictions, no probation, you are a full-fledged graduate student.”
This was a moment of personal triumph, a testament to my belief in self, and the resourcefulness I had displayed in overcoming obstacles. It reinforced the idea that opportunities can be found even in the face of adversity and that taking responsibility for one's situation can lead to remarkable outcomes. My journey as a graduate student had officially begun, and I was prepared to embrace it wholeheartedly.
One of my earliest and fondest memories takes me back to when I was between four and five years old, walking alongside the fence that separated our property from the neighboring farm. My father was behind me, finishing up an apple.
“Want to finish this, Lynn?” he offered, handing me the mostly eaten apple.
I accepted eagerly, munching away as I led us along the fence. With a playful tone, he warned, “Don't throw that apple core into the neighbor's yard when you're done.”
“I won't,” I promised him.
But as we walked, he kept repeating, “Make sure you don't throw that core over the fence.” With each reminder, the idea of doing exactly that seemed increasingly amusing. Eventually, the temptation became too much, and I threw the core over the fence before sprinting away with a burst of giggles. My dad let me think I could outrun him for a bit, then scooped me up in a chase that had us both laughing.
When he caught me, he asked with mock sternness, “How are you going to get that core out of the farmer's yard?” Honestly, I had no plan.
The solution was as playful as the mischief itself. He lifted me up by my ankles and held me over the fence so I could grab the apple core. It was a moment filled with laughter and a gentle lesson on consequences, creating a cherished memory of the simple, joyful times I spent with my dad.
The first time I used the Post-Lecture Quiz (PLQ), I kept it simple. The class began with a short lecture—no more than fifteen minutes—covering the basics of the topic.
Then I showed them what the concept looked like in practice by working through a version of the PLQ myself.
Each student had a copy, so they could follow along as I explained how the questions tied back to the lecture.
After the demonstration, I handed out another version of the PLQ for them to try on their own.
Before long, one student became stuck.
In the past, I would have stepped in with another “mini-lecture,” giving my best explanation in the same style as before.
But this time, I suggested he look around for help.
Almost immediately, another student called over, “Come here, I'll show you.”
Sometimes they even walked across the room to lend a hand.
That moment changed the tone of the class. Students began explaining the material to one another, often in their own words or by pointing to a different spot on the PLQ.
These fresh perspectives clicked in ways my lecture alone sometimes did not. Study groups formed naturally, and the classroom shifted from quiet listening to active problem-solving.
My role also changed. With students helping each other, I was freed up to step back and watch the whole room—evaluating progress, noticing patterns, and deciding when to guide the discussion.
I didn't hand out the graded version of the PLQ until the majority of the class felt ready.
That small shift gave them ownership of the process and turned the PLQ into more than just a quiz.
It became a tool for learning together.
The Post-Lecture Quizzes had already reshaped the classroom, but the second major change went even further.
I decided to make the test bank available to students. At first glance, this looked like giving away the answers. But that wasn't what happened at all.
What followed surprised me—and not for the reason you might think.