Linda Jo (Mangum) Stephenson
B.A. in Journalism, 1969
We were freshmen together at Carolina in 1965 — Dean
Scroggins was in his first year as dean of the School of Journalism,
and I was a first-year student at USC. We met at Awards Day in
the spring. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon on the Horseshoe,
and I received the J. Rion McKissick journalism scholarship.
After the ceremony, someone walked up behind me and said in
a deep, gentlemanly voice, “Linda Jo.” He introduced
himself, and I later realized that from that moment on I had
a mentor, teacher, and friend. He made sure that I met Mrs. Caroline
McKissick Belser, who had endowed the journalism scholarship
in memory of her late husband, who had been dean of journalism
and president of USC — and that I thanked her properly.
Not long after that Dean Scroggins called me into his office
and offered me a student work-study position in the School of
Journalism. I learned a great deal in that position. One of my
jobs was filing the 40-odd newspapers that we received each week
into their proper slots in the J-school library. I remember that
each time I did that job, I had newsprint extending from my fingertips
all the way up to my elbows.
The dean made sure that the position was a learning experience
for me. He wanted to establish a student chapter of Kappa Tau
Alpha, the journalism honorary, at USC, and he asked me as part
of my job at the J-School to assist in the work of petitioning
to start a chapter. He also asked me to be the charter president
of the chapter. I worked on the arrangements for a formal inaugural
dinner at the Wade Hampton Hotel for several hundred people.
I remember how excited I was to stand in the receiving line with
Dean Scroggins and other J-school faculty to welcome the many
guests.
The journalism school was located in old Legare College on
the Horseshoe when I began my studies. I think it was my junior
year that we moved to the new J-school facilities in the Coliseum,
and as a student employee, I helped with the move. We used to
say that the Coliseum was the home of the journalism school,
but we let them play a little basketball there too.
During my senior year (1968-69) I was privileged to take a
graduate-level seminar with the dean. That fall Dean Scroggins
went on a faculty recruiting trip to the Midwest. He brought
back an application for graduate school at the University of
Wisconsin, Madison, and handed it to me. I looked at it and said, “Wisconsin?
It’s cold there, isn’t it?” “Just fill
it out,” he said. That’s how I wound up doing graduate
study at Wisconsin, where I met my future husband Ed, a beginning
physics grad student, the day I arrived in Madison.
I’ve keep in touch for over four decades with “the
dean” as we all called him. He and Mrs. Scroggins have
been wonderful, gracious friends all these years. After Madison,
Ed and I were in Berkeley, California; then Chicago; and now
Bloomington, Indiana. In all those places I’ve worked as
a writer-editor, mostly in higher education. As I look back,
I realize that my commitment to higher education is due in large
part to the role model that Dean Scroggins provided. He had a
profound impact on my life, but I realize that I was not unique.
He mentored many students over the years, guiding their studies
and their careers, helping them achieve their potential. Throughout
it all, he was the quintessential southern gentleman and scholar.
While he was mentoring students and expanding the J-school — in
number of students and faculty, as well as in academic reputation—he
was also building close ties with newspaper and broadcasting
professionals across the state and beyond. He has made major
contributions to state and national associations for high school
journalists, broadcast and newspaper professionals, and journalism
educators.
Whenever I went to Columbia over the years since 1969, I regularly
visited Dean and Mrs. Scroggins at their home on Sandale Drive.
I’ve never known a man more devoted to his wife and family.
His daughters Pam and Deb were always a great source of joy and
pride to him.
As I read the dean’s obituary earlier today in The
State newspaper, it warmed my heart to learn that he had
been a Sunday school teacher at the Forest Lake Presbyterian
Church in Columbia. I only wish I could have been a member of
that class too. This great teacher, scholar, mentor, and friend
has enriched the lives of so many people. I am thankful to be
one of them.
Gary Dickey (Journalism, 1972)
From InterCom, Fall 1984
It's been more than a decade since we
faced each other across the desk in a
showdown of sorts. A bewildering array
of transcripts, representing my
fragmented academic life to that point,
lay on his desk. For more than half an
hour, the dean had worked at the adding
machine, trying to combine the
confusion of quarter, semester, and
trimester hours from a half dozen colleges, correspondence courses,
and military and professional experience into
some comprehensible whole.
 At that moment he simply sat looking
at me while silent moments passed. The
steel blue eyes seemed to penetrate far
beneath the surface, and deep inside I
squirmed trying hard to keep the panic
from showing in my eyes.
At length he spoke quietly. "So you
think you're ready to graduate?" he inquired.
"I think I have more than the required
number of hours," I said.
Again the silence seemed to chill the
room as he selected one of the transcripts from the desk and
perused it as one would a restaurant menu.
"You barely made it over the hump in math, I see. I
don't know, Gary," he
sighed. "I just don't know ...barely over
the hump." His voice trailed off and
he bent toward me again, head lowered, eyes boring Into mine
as if to uncover every sin of my college career.
It seemed to call for an atonement of
some kind on my part. "Damn – he
would have to pick that transcript," I
thought. I had worked harder for that D
in freshman math than I had for an A in feature
writing.
From somewhere in the nethermost
reaches of my mind, a voice said: "You
can't outfox the fox – he has twice your
wit, strength, and maneuverability." At
the same time, I heard my own voice
mumbling something to the effect that
"math never was my favorite subject."
At that moment I decided that I hated
those blue eyes.
"That's one of those continuing
dilemmas we, as educators, will always
face – to know exactly what adds up to
an educated person," he was saying.
"And it's a point in your favor to know
where your weaknesses lie, as well as
your strengths."
"I contend that we can't always just
add up hours and say that 200 hours or
so equals an educated man or woman.
The hours on a transcript are merely an
indicator that one has been exposed to
certain skills - but the mark of a journalist
is how he puts those skills together
to get the job done."
"Oh damn - here it comes," I
thought. I hated those blue eyes even
more.
"Tell you what," he said, "You go
down and sign up for our practicum in
journalism. That's where we put all the
skills together. You make it through that
and I'll sign your diploma," he said.
Suddenly, the burden was lifted; I
floated. The blue eyes smiled - and I
loved those blue eyes. |
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