Daniel Porterfield, Ph.D.
In the spring of 1981, my sophomore year at Georgetown, I desperately hoped to become a resident assistant in a first-year dorm. Twenty-two years later, I still remember hinting at this aspiration to Fr. Otto Hentz, who urged me to go for it. I still remember tentatively showing my draft essay to Peter Radell, my former R.A., who I respected mightily. And I still remember nervously walking down first Copley to the apartment of the young hall director who would conduct my first interview for the job.
A graduate student in philosophy, the hall director organized our time more for conversation than cross-examination. This method inspired me, as did his vision of residential learning, and his deep passion for Georgetown.
So the next fall, when I became an R.A., I really threw myself into it. Some weeks, sleep and study didn't seem to matter. I centered each day around my 54 freshmen on 4th Darnall -- a great group -- and the junior high school kids I mentored and brought to campus a lot.
That November, the philosopher-hall director took me out to dinner, to see how I was doing. As we puttered along in his crummy little car towards some dive in Arlington, I recounted all the different events I'd organized for my freshmen -- the speakers, the parties, the faculty dinners, the trip to a soup kitchen. I so wanted him to see how I'd lived up to the faith he and others had shown in me.
But finally, as my account came to a close, he spoke gently and from experience: "You know, think about whether you're doing too much for them. Maybe your role is to help them learn to create their own community, one they can sustain without you. After all, they've got a lot of talent, they can do for themselves, and -- you know -- you won't be their R.A. forever."
That hall director's name was Jack DeGioia. It's funny how the meaning we all make together at Georgetown can last a lifetime.
