Memories of Professor N
Classroom She Left Behind
When I think about it, I wasn’t a fan of Professor N.
No, I was more like an anti-fan.
Professor N was someone whose ‘code’ didn’t quite match mine.
There was always a subtle tension in her class. We all knew that if we let our guard down for even a moment, we might be embarrassed by an unexpected attack. In a discussion-style class, if we lost the flow and missed the moment when someone was being attacked in a certain context, we ourselves could become the next target. I couldn’t defend myself. I thought this method of intimidation didn’t create a good learning atmosphere.
I also wondered: why is such fear-inducing behavior necessary? I couldn’t help but wonder—was this perhaps a reflection of the professor’s own fragility? Like a hedgehog, wrapping its delicate body in a forest of sharp spines to protect itself.
Professor N was a sensitive and intelligent person.
If she sensed some kind of hesitant or disorganized dynamic about learning—what is called the death drive—beyond the speaker’s conscious awareness, she would name it without hesitation. Students often felt as though they were being cut by an unannounced blade. When we protested that this approach wasn’t psychoanalytic, the professor would respond that we were being trained as psychoanalysts, not as clients, and thus our unconscious should be open to sudden interpretations.
But if one were truly ready for it, then why would it have remained in the realm of the unconscious, rather than coming into consciousness? The professor’s confident demeanor—her smirk, as if she were the victor—felt cruel to the students who sat there, stunned and blank. Any attempt to challenge it as a misinterpretation of one’s unconscious was quickly followed by the natural judgment: “You couldn’t possibly grasp it all—it’s the unconscious, after all.” Once the language of the unconscious enters the conversation, it becomes nearly impossible to resist the authority of the professor at the level of consciousness.
"Despite all these shortcomings, we are in this space to study psychoanalysis. We are here because I want to move forward."
But this life drive the students carried seemed faint, obscured by the dynamics of death that the professor emphasized.
In such cases, the students who were singled out often fell behind in the class and appeared left alone. While others tried hard to follow the professor’s interpretations, the student whose unconscious had been interpreted often seemed to suffer a kind of psychological trauma when faced with their own story.
Then one day, I was caught in her radar.
When we exchanged a few thoughts about my case, the professor, in her signature way, pointed out something in me. Since it was a part I hadn’t been aware of, I couldn’t fully grasp her intention, so I asked again, “Excuse me?”
The subsequent attack went even further. The professor interpreted that I was like a “helpless child” who refused to understand what she was saying. She said that no matter how much she tried to teach me, I would reject it—just like a baby who refuses to suckle when milk doesn’t immediately flow from the mother’s breast.
“Then try again.”
"On that day, I didn't back down—I stood my ground. The professor, visibly flustered, questioned why she should have to do so."
“What helpless child in the world asks its mother to try again?
If a mother gives up nursing just because her child doesn’t suckle at first—
then maybe it’s not my helplessness, but yours that’s the problem.
Maybe… you’re the one resisting loving me.”
At that moment, I saw the most bewildered expression I had ever seen on Professor N’s face in my 10 years of studying abroad.
She later tried to explain herself again, and I challenged her interpretation. This memory has stayed in my body. Even now, when I recall that moment, my heart races. After class, several students came to me with a thumbs-up, saying, “You won.”
The catharsis I felt at that moment went beyond the simple logic of having neutralized the professor’s attack—it was more than just winning an argument. I felt that, for the first time, I stepped outside the realm of logical debate and made emotional contact with her. The professor, who had always seemed to stand at a distance, interpreting only the darker sides of me as if broadcasting them, didn’t necessarily agree with what I said that day—but I truly felt that my words and emotions resonated with her.
However, during my time at the school, I ultimately failed to receive genuine affection or understanding from her. Perhaps that moment of contact was, in the end, the last true encounter I ever had with her.
These days, the procedure seems to have changed a bit, but before beginning a dissertation, one had to become a doctoral candidate by presenting three major cases from one’s clients before a panel of professors and answering their questions. This was called a case presentation, and I received praise from many professors for mine. Some may not remember my name, but they remembered the cases I shared—and some later came to talk with me again.
But later, I heard from my fellow that although all the committee members praised my presentation, there was one professor who criticized me, saying I lacked confidence. I didn’t even have to ask who it was—it was obvious.
Oh!! Of course!! I thought to myself at the time,
“Go ahead, professor. Keep being that way. But I’ll outlive you, so I’ll be the final winner!”
I comforted myself by landing imaginary punches in her.
But this past Monday, I received an email saying that the professor had passed away.
Just a few weeks earlier, when I heard she was in critical condition,
I had thought, “No way—someone as strong as her will bounce back in no time.”
That thought now feels painfully naïve.
I never had the chance to fully persuade her. I was never understood by her.
I thought I hated the professor, but for days now, my heart has been storming in her absence.
Where Are We Headed?
We walk the arduous path of scholarship, striving to understand each individual life in its depth.
We believe that something greater awaits us beyond this journey.
And yet, with each step, we move closer to death.
Perhaps that is why Freud said:
“The aim of all life is death.”
Amid the ceaseless conflict between life and death drives,
psychoanalysis ultimately seeks to support the dynamic forces of a life fully lived.
But still, the final threshold of every life is death.
I once spoke boldly, using my youth as a kind of shield,
saying I would outlive my professor.
Yet now, in the emptiness left behind, I find myself glancing around.
What did she leave with me?
Did I love her?
How am I walking toward death?
And when the day comes that I too must leave, like she once did,
what will I look like then?
Sometimes, I still see her back, sitting on the steps in front of the school gate.
She looked small, for some reason.
