K.C. Potter

Reprinted from Vanderbilt Magazine, Volume 80, Number 3, Summer / Fall 1998 • Download PDF here

K.C. Potter knows how to make cheese. Every student at Berea College in Kentucky has a job on campus, and when he was a freshman there he was assigned to the creamery. It was hot, back-breaking work, stirring a brew of mostly milk in an immense stainless steel vat, but it was work that Potter found satisfying. At least until a new "get tough" manager was hired, he says.

"He and I tangled the very first day he was on the job. He came into the cheese room, and I was standing there, resting, waiting for the next step in the process to begin. He snarled at me, called me horrible names, and told me to ‘get on that ladder and start cleaning windows.’ I looked at him and said, ‘Nobody talks to me like that.’ And I quit."

This unpleasant encounter ultimately would loom large in the way Potter, 59, has dealt with Vanderbilt students for the past 33 years, 20 of those as dean of residential and judicial affairs. He explains, "I do many things poorly, but relating to young people is the one thing that I do well. I treat students just as I would any adult. They are very young, which means that sometimes their judgment is not so good, but they are people, and they should be treated carefully and respectfully."

It is a simple secret to Potter’s extraordinary success as a mentor to countless students, success that can be measured in part by the continual attention he has received since announcing his June 30 retirement last spring. "This retirement business is hard work. All these receptions, letters, and calls from former students—all this fuss has floored me. I never expected such." Potter’s fans have been pouring out of the woodwork. At Reunion ’98 in May, a Saturday afternoon reception in his honor was scheduled on Rand Wall. En route to the designated site, he was cornered by a group of alumni on Rand Terrace, where he stood for the next two hours, swapping stories with former students who all wished him well. The throng never made it to the wall.

A note to Potter from Don Matheson, BA’72, reflects a sentiment that rings universal among his legion of supporters: "I’m sure that I was only one of thousands of students whom you steadied and put back on the tightrope toward adulthood at times when we might well have slipped into an abyss. Speaking for myself, you had the touch to be able to keep the twinkle in your eye that bespoke friendship while making crystal clear that I was acting like an idiot. … In later reflections, I came to see you as sort of a catcher in the rye. Your friendship and direction helped me and stuck with me more than you could know."

Movies and Mentors

Potter spent his early childhood years in Fallsburg, a small village in eastern Kentucky. His father worked for the railroad and traveled a great deal, so much of the time the household consisted of Potter, his older sister, and his mother, whom he describes as a "fiery woman. I once saw her shoot out the window lights in our dining room because a man was standing on the back porch peeping in." Potter revealed his mother’s keen independent spirit at an early age. When he was six years old, he would catch a bus, unaccompanied, and ride seven miles to Louisa to watch Saturday afternoon cowboy movies. "The bus driver knew who I was, and if I was dilatory about returning to the bus he’d come looking for me. Those were gentle times."

Later the family moved to a mining village at Van Lear where Potter’s younger brother was born, then to a small farm in Thelma. During the summers Potter and his siblings farmed, raising strawberries, watermelons, and assorted vegetables to sell to local groceries. In those days, he dreamed of a career as a high school teacher.

After a disappointing introductory education course at Berea—he liked neither the professor nor the course work—he dropped his plans to teach and eventually majored in history and minored in English. When he was a senior, he applied to law school at the University of Kentucky, thinking law school would provide a solid foundation for a city manager, his new career objective.

As was common practice in those days, a Vanderbilt law professor traveled to the Berea campus to interview prospective law students. Potter, the only senior interested in studying law, was summoned by the chairman of Berea’s history department to meet the gentleman. "Bear in mind," he admits, "that I had not the slightest interest in attending Vanderbilt law school. It was an expensive private school, and I could not afford the $600 tuition.

"I was not in a good mood about meeting this man, so I was a bit testy. We argued over whether Red China should be admitted to the United Nations, and I think he liked me because I spoke my mind. He took a very personal interest in me and promised that he would watch my application if I applied, which meant a great deal. With his personal encouragement, I applied and was promptly admitted. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that the law school had just finished a new building and needed students."

In addition to receiving a half-tuition scholarship, Potter supported himself as a law student by working as a dormitory resident adviser. While classmates worked as law clerks during summers, he spent his working with children at a summer camp in New York. "That should have been my clue that I probably was not going to practice law or be a city manager, but I didn’t notice," he says.

After receiving his Vanderbilt law degree in 1964, Potter became a clerk for Tennessee Supreme Court Judge Sam Felts. Known as a scholar of the court, Felts was 76 when Potter began working for him, writing law memorandums for his opinions. Potter credits Judge Felts with teaching him to be clear, concise, and direct. "He believed that no paragraph should be more than nine lines because people got tired of reading at that point and needed a break. He used words that were commonly understood rather than legal jargon. And he wanted everything simple and well understood."

Within a year Potter received a phone call from a friend and law student who worked in the Vanderbilt dean of men’s office, urging him to apply for a new position—assistant dean of men. Potter thought the position would provide useful administrative experience for a future city manager. "If I had known myself better, I would have known that the assistant dean’s position was the job I wanted," he reflects.

Decades of a Dean

In 1965 Potter joined Vanderbilt and took up residence on West Side Row. His next-door neighbor was Madison Sarratt, former dean of men and himself a legendary figure at Vanderbilt. "Dean Sarratt had a great way of letting the air out of me," Potter says. "I remember complaining about the fact that I didn’t make much money, nobody was listening to what I had to say, and so on. He said, ‘Oh yes, but you’re just like me, you’re doing exactly what you want.’"

Potter and Sarratt were neighbors for about ten years, during which Potter says Sarratt gave him plenty of sage advice. Unfortunately, he adds, he didn’t always listen. "In 1968, when the University passed a rule against the use of marijuana, Dean Sarratt suggested I ‘find a pothead and sit on him.’ Of course, I was bustling about, developing leads on all these students who were smoking marijuana. I disciplined 32 students at once and made all the local headlines. The state and federal officials became involved, and it went from bad to worse. If I had just followed Dean Sarratt’s advice—found one pothead and made an example of him—all that hullabaloo could have been avoided."

When the offices of dean of men and dean of women were combined in 1971, Potter was named associate dean of the new Office of Student Life. He held that position until 1977, when he was named dean of residential and judicial affairs. Among other honors, in 1994 he received the Bob E. Leach Award for outstanding service to students from the National Association of Student Personnel Administrators.

As the University’s chief conduct and housing officer, Potter’s verdict was final on issues of student conduct. He also oversaw housing for about 5,000 undergraduates and 200 graduate and professional students living on campus, and was responsible for the 12 sororities and 18 fraternities with Vanderbilt chapters.

His influence spanning four decades, Potter guided, admonished, and befriended thousands of Vanderbilt students. Throughout, he says, their nature was "somewhat predictable. They wanted to explore new things and be treated as adults, but they often behaved as children. They were frequently critical of the University, but when their parents visited they rushed to get a haircut and clean their rooms, then spoke about what a fine place this is."

Potter says the stormiest period for Vanderbilt students was in the early ’70s. The peaceful veneer of the mid-’60s had been chipped away by the Vietnam conflict and by growing unrest among college students nationwide who wanted a stronger voice in policies that governed their lives.

These early years in Potter’s deanship honed his considerable skills at diplomacy and mediation. A final Navy ROTC review in the early ’70s proved a mighty test. While ROTC students marched, a group of antiwar activists decided to stage a nearby protest. "They showed up with a flag, a washboard, and a tub of water, intent on washing that flag and cleansing it of its sins," Potter says. "A crowd began gathering, and I recognized several Army ROTC students and a few football players who took the position that the flag was not going to be washed."

Potter reasoned with students for the better part of an hour. Jeff Carr, LLB’66, now vice chancellor for university relations but then a member of the development staff, appeared on the scene. "I asked him to sprint down to the law school library to see whether or not washing the flag would be desecration and therefore illegal. He returned shortly and said that it depended on intent. I knew then that we could get away with sprinkling it, so we made that flag a Methodist instead of a Baptist."

Potter’s popularity with students is especially remarkable considering that as the University’s chief conduct officer he doled out punishments for their transgressions. It was a charge he met with an eye toward fairness.

Bill Arnold, BA’73, who worked for Potter first as a resident adviser and later as an area director in housing, explains, "K.C. had a unique ability to match the punishment to the transgression; I remember that he told me it was important to distinguish between the juvenile and the criminal. It was his combination of fairness and genuine concern for students that caused him to be so universally respected."

Potter’s impact on the University goes well beyond his relationships with individual students. He sought ways to strengthen the intellectual life of the campus. For example, in 1972 he helped establish the McGill Project, a cooperative program between the housing and residential education office and the philosophy department. Participating students live in McGill Hall and hold educational events throughout the year, often inviting faculty to discuss weighty issues.

According to Don Sherburne, professor of philosophy, emeritus, who also helped lay the groundwork for the McGill Project, "The program cost K.C. money; he gave up income-bearing rooms in order to have an academic presence in the dormitories. Any administrator who would do that certainly has his heart in the right place." Catcher in the Rye continued from page 19

Down on the Farm

Potter lived on campus and was on call 24 hours, seven days a week. In recent years, he says, the pressures of the job began to wear on him. Though he took vacations, he says he was "never really away from the University" until heart surgery in the winter of 1997. Following surgery he decided to retire, admitting it was "time for increased freedom." "Let’s face it," his brother, Jerry, says, "the bottom line is that he has given his life to Vanderbilt."

Potter has retired to his 177-acre farm in Hickman County, his two devoted "come-along" dogs, Samantha and Jack, ever-present at his side. He and James Sandlin, MDiv’69, special assistant in university relations, bought the property in 1971; Potter purchased Sandlin’s share in 1974. For years Potter has spent most Wednesday nights, weekends, and holidays at the farm. He built a Victorian-style home on the property in 1991. It’s a casual, comfortable spot—a screened-in porch wraps around two sides of the house, and a porch swing, a retirement gift from his office, invites guests to rest a spell.

He used to raise cattle, but now confines his farming to hay and gardening. "There’s lots of work to do," he says. "I don’t think I’m ever going to get my garden plowed. I’ve got tomato plants sitting on the back porch. It takes me seven hours to mow all my grass. The barn roof needs painting, so does the trim on my house. Will I get bored? I can’t imagine such a thing." If he does, however, Potter plans to take cases as a trial court mediator. He recently was certified in the area and boasts ample prior experience.

By any yardstick, Potter is a Vanderbilt treasure; his contributions to the University and its students will be recounted for years to come. But he views his achievements in simple terms. His greatest successes, he says, "have come in bits and pieces in dealing with different students over the years. The opportunities I’ve had to influence people—people who were in trouble, angry people, people who didn’t quite know how to deal with themselves—those moments have meant the most."

He offers a letter he received at Commencement in May from a parent whose graduating son Potter suspended for two years. In part, the note reads, "Because you found faith in him, he found faith in himself. You made a difference. You rescued a life."

"I know that young man would have made it," Potter says. "All along, he had the ability to turn himself around. I just happened to be in the right spot to give him a nudge, and that’s what this job has been: being in the right place at the right time to help people get back on track."