Oh, I’d played the adjunct game a year or two, and I’d taught workshops and seminars galore. But this is full-time, and that’s different. I felt like a minor leaguer being called up to the big show.

I started reading textbooks, taking notes; visiting web sites and libraries to search for anything about "college teaching," "higher education" and the like. I began joining and sometimes even starting theoretical discussions about the role of media in the society, the effect of deconstructionism on the "concept of journalism" (something I saw in a textbook), and whether editing was a fascist act. I began to think about how I could systematically pass along what I’d been doing all these years. I was feeling good about my transition from professional to professor.

Then in June one of my colleagues-to-be, Alex, sent me a sample test for a course he and I would teach in the fall. I could answer about half the questions. Not a good sign. I took it as a cue to panic — and to read faster.

I couldn’t tell anyone, of course. How would it seem if somebody who was supposed to be an expert didn’t know the material? Every other college teacher — even rookies like me — knew his or her material front to back, right? I felt like a fraud. I’d signed the contract and our house in Colorado was sold, so there was no turning back. But soon, I thought, I would be revealed for the fake I was.

This insecurity had some strange consequences. For instance, at a convention during the summer I happened to bump into the college’s former president, who’s now chancellor. We’ve known each other for a few years.

"I’m so glad you’re going to teach," he said, at his encouraging, enthusiastic best.

"Well, I’m going to try," I answered feebly. His face first registered confusion, a does-not-compute blank stare. Then mild shock. I could imagine him thinking, Who hired this flake? At that moment I wouldn’t have blamed him. But within a second he snapped out of it and said something about my doing just fine, and then excused himself.

I kicked myself about that little episode for a week.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. Once I calmed down and saw what the test was asking — voila! — I realized I actually did know the answers. Then when classes began, I discovered to my pleasant surprise that I really did know this stuff. If a student asked a question, I knew the answer. If a lively discussion started, I found myself steering it like the captain of a yacht. I wasn’t a fake, after all.

I don’t know if other new teachers feel those same anxieties, but I found out that most of us struggle with staying up in our preparation. I had high hopes of coming to school with my semester’s lectures in place, with all my illustrating videos and recordings cued and neatly lined up, with all the other supplementary materials not only chosen but ready to roll out at a moment’s notice; a pedagogical F-16 fighter squadron.

It’s not turning out that way, and an informal poll tells me it doesn’t for most first-year profs. The battle cry of the new professor (and a few vets, too) is: "Just stay one step ahead of the students and you’ll be all right!" It’s comforting to know that others in my situation feel the adrenaline rush of pulling lecture notes together an entire five minutes before class begins. During fall break, I saw a fellow newbie at church. "How’s the break?" I asked.

"What break?" he answered. Enough said.

That’s just a part of the education I’m receiving now that I’m teaching. In fact, the larger lessons have little to do directly with the class work. As would any major change, this one has encouraged some self-discovery. No, "encouraged" is too weak a word. How about "prompted"? "Compelled," maybe. Forced. Psychologically pinned me to the floor, held open my mouth, and poured a half-gallon of revelation down my throat. That’s the sense of it.

For example, I never realized I could feel good about instilling fear.

You should know that basically I’m a nice guy. At least that’s what most folks who’ve spent time around me say. So I was surprised when on the first day of school, I felt a pleasant jolt when I petrified one of my classes.

It happened in the basic reporting and writing course I teach, a required lower-level class for communications students. But this semester it’s composed entirely of juniors and seniors, and I found out why a few days before classes began: Several of them put off the class from last year when they found out my predecessor was leaving. They decided to take their chances with the new guy.

So after we took care of the preliminaries on Day 1, I told the 14 students gathered around the computer lab, "If you skipped last year, hoping for an easier time now, you should know a couple of things. First, I’m borrowing heavily from last year’s syllabus, so you’re not missing much. Second, new teachers are notorious for misjudging the work loads they give, and in order to avoid being labeled as pushovers, we tend to give more work, not less." (I have no idea if that’s really true, but that’s what I heard, and I wanted to make a point.) I paused to let the words sink in.

"Sometimes it’s better to go with the devil you know than the devil you don’t," I concluded. "In other words, it probably wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve ever done."

As I watched the color drain from four of the 13 faces around the room, I felt warm and happy inside.

One student even dropped the course a few days later. He told me he had a scheduling problem and he’d take the class next semester. But later some other students told me that he thought things might go better in the future. In a word, I scared him out. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

There was a time when I’d be aghast, thinking I was turning into a troll who terrorized young people as they tried to make their way down the road to graduation. I might have even gone to the student and asked him to reconsider.

But no. When I heard why he dropped the class, I smiled. It was only a small grin, but still I smiled. Not because I wanted to torment anyone, but because I knew he — and his colleagues — were taking this seriously.

But then a disturbing question hit me: Am I turning into a sadistic power freak? Apparently not, if the first informal "reviews" I’m hearing are to be believed. It seems I’m gaining the reputation I wanted: approachable, reasonable, knowledgeable, even friendly — but tough. That, too, made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Even the reporting class and I seem to be getting along well.

Here’s the bonus: I’m getting over the need to be "liked."

I would love to be a buddy to my students, and in fact I leave my door open a lot for them. I enjoy their stopping by, whether they want to talk about class work or just chat. And I enjoy the company of some students so much that I would love to just hang out with them.

But I’m not here to be their buddy. I’m here to teach them, and those two roles are different. Having my students’ friendship or approval is icing on the cake. Keeping a reputation as a "nice guy" is beside the point. I won’t do them any favors by fudging deadlines or inflating grades or greasing the academic skids for them. They won’t get those breaks later, after all.

The paradox is that this may be a case where I can have my cake and eat it too.

On the morning of my first major test — based on the same one that had panicked me a few months earlier — H., a freshman in my Comm 101 class, came to my office. She had a few minutes to kill and decided to use them to pry whatever information she could from me.

H. speaks with a southwest Virginia accent as sweet and thick and fast as warm molasses. "Is the test gonna be hard? I don’t think so, ‘cause you’re a nice guy, so laid back in class and all." She paused. "Well, I don’t know. It’s the laid-back part I worry about. My hardest tests are always from the ones who put you so at ease. Oh, I’m worried now." She scooted out the door.

H. was absent the day I handed back the tests in class, so she came to my office the next day to get hers. "I heard it was tough," she said. I handed her paper. "I knew it," she said. She was in the top half of the scores; still, she seemed a little disappointed. "Well, that’s not too bad, I guess." She started to walk out but stopped and turned to say, "But I was right. You’re a nice guy, and it was a hard test."