Sunlight streams in the partially closed blinds of David Olson's corner office onto his cluttered desk. The professor sits with his ankles crossed and arms resting on the chair on a late Friday afternoon. He is a rather short and stout man with thinning, brown hair. He wears black pants with a plaid button-up shirt. His face is kind, his demeanor almost jolly. A small refrigerator drones on in the background.

As he speaks of his background, he often closes his eyes as if the memory is replaying itself in his mind. When his eyes are open, his gaze falls on the corner of the room like he still vividly pictures his memories through his open eyes.

Born in the small town of Marinette, Wisconsin, he moved to Northern Michigan as a boy. "I was a goofy kid," says Olson, who aspired to be a creative writer.

When he was in seventh grade, he and his family moved to Detroit. He joined the football team, but it was not his niche. "I wasn't making it in athletics. I was bookish." He became more interested in girls, but unfortunately, it seemed most girls preferred the athletes. "They weren't interested in boys who knew the quadratic equation," he says, laughing. After moving through high school as a "dorky kid," he attended the University of Michigan during the Vietnam War. "I was a part of the anti-war movement; I wasn't into rebellions. I went to the peaceful rallies." He was required to draw a number for the draft in the lottery and was relieved when he drew high.

He transferred to Grand Valley in Western Michigan, and after graduating, he worked several jobs. He describes one that sticks out in his mind—a job as a weapons inspector for the Army. "That was not a fun time in my life." Olson thought he could prevent someone from using a faulty weapon. The training alone was almost enough to send him running away. During poisonous gas training, he was wearing a rubber suit with a pin-sized hole in it. The gas entered the hole and traveled up to his mask. "The gas got into my suit and I passed out. I thought I was going to die. I handed out my resume every chance I got," he says with a chuckle.

Shortly after working as a weapons inspector, he found a job working for the government as a grants man at a municipality where he discovered that local politics can be corrupt. "I didn't know exactly what was going on, but I knew it was bad." He decided to go back to get his master's in counseling. He enjoyed working as a counselor because he found it gratifying to help people with their problems.

Olson went to work for a junior college in Georgia as a vocational counselor where he became involved with domestically abused women without really knowing what he was getting into. "I wasn't used to the violence, and I wasn't trained to help the women." Still, he tried his best. He decided at this point that he wanted to be a librarian. He earned a master's in library science, and became a librarian like his father. He worked at a small Catholic school in Livonia, Michigan, where he met Therese, whom he later married. He then decided to go to the University of Texas to work toward his Ph.D.

He studied public speaking, and worked as a speech writer for state senators and legislators. He also began free-lancing, but made little money at it. Therese was working for Southwestern University, which opened a position for a faculty member to teach public speaking. Olson was hired as a part-time professor and taught one class.

He soon picked up a full load of classes, and Southwestern made him a visiting professor, which usually means you stay for a year. Instead, Olson stayed for seven. Each year, he thought the University would let him go because that was the way it worked, but his contract was renewed each year. When the University planned to hire a tenure-track professor, some of his colleagues from the Communication Department convinced the University to allow Olson to apply for the position regardless of his lack of a doctorate. "I didn't want to leave. I had become attached to the students," he says. "I had an advantage since I was working at the school already." He was offered the position, and now he feels as if he has really found what he loves to do.

With a tenure-track position at a university like Southwestern, students often call him "Dr. Olson". He says it doesn't really matter to him what his students call him "I wouldn't want anyone to say ‘he's not a doctor.’ I used to make a joke about having three masters. I told students that technically they could call me ‘Master, Master, Master Olson’ or ‘Tri-master Olson.’" He keeps a sense of humor about teaching college without a doctorate, but has considered going back to finish it.

Olson keeps a very busy schedule, partially due to his method of teaching. Each student in his public speaking classes meets with him for an individual review of each speech. "I believe in many ways that Southwestern is the best school I have ever been to or taught in. The faculty/student relationships that are possible here are like nothing I've seen. It truly is a family atmosphere, and nothing duplicates this. When I think of who I am, it's who I am in relation to this school."