Justice Scalia's Message To Law School Faculty

I heard Justice Scalia bestow this wisdom in 2013, and never forgot it.

I became a law professor in the fall of 2012. In January 2013, I attended the Federalist Society faculty conference in New Orleans. Justice Scalia was gracious enough to speak at the evening reception. His remarks stuck with me, and affect much of what I do.

That speech in New Orleans was not recorded, but Justice Scalia offered similar remarks at the dedication of George Mason Law School's new building in March 1999. Thankfully, Chris Scalia and Ed Whelan reproduced that speech in Scalia Speaks.

Here is an excerpt:

To the faculty: Before I became part of the problem in Washington, I used to do what you do—and I miss it. Allow someone who is now at a sufficient distance from his teaching years that he can see rather more clearly what he did right and what he did wrong to give you advice.

During the last few years of my academic career, I had become—or at least thought I had become—something of an expert in my chosen field of administrative law. It was easy to get what I wrote published, and I had a lot of insights I thought worth writing about. I reached the point (which I had seen some of my older colleagues reach, but thought I would never experience) of begrudging the time that I had to take away from my research and writing to devote to teaching class, and to the preparation for teaching class. (The preparation, as you all know, takes much more time than the teaching itself: at least three hours of the one for each hour of the other—unless you have not taught the course before, in which case the spread is much greater.)

When I look back at those feelings now, I think what a fool I was. The Great American Law Review Article—let's face it—has a shelf life of at most ten years, after which it is of little more than historical interest. And the Great American Law Treatise endures not much longer. But I still encounter students whom I do not remember, but whom I taught at Chicago and Stanford between 1976 and 1981, and indeed whom I taught at Virginia between 1967 and 1971, who come up to me with great warmth and affection, and say what a lasting impact I had upon their love for, and their approach to, the law. And many of them, I assume, have similarly infected others. In fact, I occasionally encounter students who were taught by my father at Brooklyn College in the 1940s and 1950s, who come up to tell me what a terrific teacher he was, and how he affected their intellectual life.

So do not delude yourselves. Research and writing is of course a part of the academic life—and perhaps the part that makes you best known, for the time being, beyond the walls of your own institution. But the reality is that the part of your academic career that will have the most lasting impact—and that will be remembered after you are gone—is those hours that you spend producing a living intellectual legacy, in the classroom. Of course administrators ought to be aware of this as well as faculty. Some law schools value teaching more than others; I hope George Mason will always be a teaching law school.

These words affect everything I do as a professor. Students have to come first.

Whenever a student asks me for something, and I am inclined to reply "I'm busy" or  ignore the email, I remember what Justice Scalia told me, and reply to the student right away. My response may be "I can't help you right now but we can chat at some point in the future" or "I don't know the answer but I'll try to find someone who does." I always try to provide some guidance. Indeed, I routinely get emails from students at other schools seeking advice, as no one on their faculty can stand in a position to help. I am especially eager to provide whatever assistance I can.

I am infuriated by professors who do not respond to student emails. Unless a professor is on leave, there is no excuse to not respond to a student's email within 24 hours. Professors are only expected to teach a few hours per week, but the responsibilities are not limited to the classroom.

I've written many books and articles, but I know that when my time comes, those tracts will collect (virtual) dust. My students, and the students I have influenced, will be the true embodiment of my legacy.