I don’t stand out much for looks. My shoulder length hair refuses to be brown alone, and invites red highlights to mingle with it. At five feet seven inches, I am neither too short, nor am I too tall. My mid-section is a banner that betrays the rest of my body and lets the world know of my affection for cheeseburgers. Though my face hasn’t caught up with my age, my brown eyes can be as ancient and intense as the Mojave desert, or as passive as a piece of driftwood floating down a broad, lazy river on a summer afternoon. My hands tell my true age. They are branches of an old pine tree – knots for knuckles and bark for skin.
My voice is a chameleon kaleidoscope. Its colors change constantly to match its environment. To my wife, my voice is the nectar of a honeysuckle, or a warm blanket on a cold night. To my students, my voice is a flag of encouragement, or a ruler across the knuckles. To my friends, my voice is articulate and impassioned as we do our best to solve the world’s problems one beer at a time. To the audience my voice is captivating and versatile, Marvin Gaye one moment, Robert Plant the next. I speak with gentle honesty, but if I let them out, the words in my head will cut like a cleaver in the hands of a butcher.
I refuse to pick favorites, and this is a trait that goes from the surface of me right down to the root. I have at least three favorite types of music, two favorite bands, and five favorite guitar players. In seven days, I will list seven different favorite movies. I’ve been called laid back, and I’ve been called a “Type A” perfectionist. I am both a visual and an auditory learner. I use my right brain just as much as my left. I am the analytical science major who marvels at the speed of falling objects and the poetic rock-musician mesmerized by the beautiful tone of a Fender Stratocaster bending a perfectly distorted E note. I am the gentle advisor giving sage advice to lost friends and the cruel judge spitting out sarcasm in response to a repeated mistake. I am the self-absorbed taskmaster who forgets to eat until the job is done, and the lazy couch potato skipping days of work to watch a season of The West Wing. A bull keeping silent watch on a hill – I am almost unnoticeable if you are not looking directly at me, and unforgettable if I am crossed.
I am a teacher – strong and confident in my classroom. My patience, limited at best in other situations, knows no boundaries when I am working with my students. I speak clearly and with great zeal; holding my students’ attention like an anchor holds a massive ship in a violent storm. Teaching slowly and intentionally, the mysteries of my curriculum open up like lilacs blooming in early May. I champion the underdogs and shout from the mountaintops that each and every student can be whatever he or she wants to be. I am a lasting impression. I am an influence.
I have been a sensitive young boy, crying over the thought of his mother leaving him. I have been a lonely junior high school student, struggling for acceptance. I have been a cocky, arrogant eighteen-year-old driving much too fast down a dry dirt road, believing that the world really was my oyster. I have been a fanatical Christian, convinced that the color gray does not exist. I have been a student and a dropout, a bully and a defender. I have been, a Staff Sergeant, a wedding officiate, and almost a black belt. I am a son, a brother, and most importantly, a husband, but in reality I am much more than all of those things.
2 comments:
Pretty rad, mon frere...I can see how that was tough, but very much spot on. You're a walking dichotomy.
Thanks. Dichotomy is a good word that I forgot.
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