This substitute teaching experience is a neverending source of material for me. Today, I was introduced to a group of fourth graders as a former student of their school, the Marsh. They couldn’t believe that someone so old used to learn in the same place as them. (The beard really throws little kids off. They never think I’m as young as 22.) I told them I’d gone to the Marsh before it was in its current building, to which one boy replied, “You must be like 64!” Luckily, a little girl corrected him: “Yes, but he looks young. Like 29.”
A child’s inability to gauge age aside, it’s been nice to find that I’m remembered by several teachers who haven’t seen me in years. After a few weeks of coaching and subbing today’s young’ns, I’ve discovered that there is something to be said about the legacy you leave behind. Talking to former teachers from my high school and grammar school days, I’ve gotten an idea of my own legacy throughout my years within the Methuen Public School system. Well, maybe “legacy” isn’t the best word since that implies some level of greatness, as though a statue of my likeness has been erected and placed in the center of town…or in the hallways of the Marsh Grammar School…or in front of Methuen High School. (If you’re out there Mayor Manzi: not a bad idea.)
No, “legacy” gives me too much credit. Instead, let’s use the phrase “the mark I’ve left behind.” After hearing the stories old teachers have to tell about me, I’d have to say I succeeded in leaving behind a good, respectable mark. For instance, when I was subbing at the Marsh School today, my former eighth grade algebra teacher (now the principal) told a story to a couple other teachers and me about how I used to dominate the mental math problems in her class. At the end of each class, she would list several numbers and a variety of mathematical operations in a sequence for 10-20 seconds and when she was done, the first person to answer correctly got a sticker on a large poster board in the back of the room with everyone’s name on it. For example, she’d read off a card, “10 times 3 divided by 6 plus 4 divided by 3 plus 12 times 2 minus 5.” Eighth grade mathematical whiz kid Kiel would raise his hand right away (most likely doing that annoying thing smart and eager students do: waving one hand wildly in the air while jamming the other hand in the raised arm’s armpit) and smugly give the answer, “25.”
And that’s how I earned my stickers. What else mattered, right? No one even came close to getting as many stickers as me. She remembered how she used to send me out of the class to get a drink, and when I came back she’d already be halfway done a problem, but somehow when she finished I still had the right answer before anyone else. Yep, I guess you could say I was pretty smart, albeit obnoxious, math student.
Not all stories are a point of absolute pride. When my freshman English teacher Bud (now a good friend of mine) recounts stories from my first year with him, he remembers the one morning I came into class singing a song by NSync with that beautiful, angelic, pre-pubescent voice of mine. I remember that day with reddened cheeks, and still have no explanation why I would do that in a place as cutthroat as high school. (As my friend Gil/the Mean Girls would say, “It’s social suicide!”) It’s nice that an old teacher has a funny story that he’s remembered about me to this day…even if I don’t believe it’s necessary that he shares it with other teachers when I work there now.
I’ve seen signs of my mark in other areas too. Students in high school occasionally recognize me from the video yearbook I co-produced when I was a senior. (It’s impressive they’re able to connect the dots between the baby-faced, curly haired boy of the movie and the short-haired, bearded bandit of present day.) As long as they continue to show the DVD to media production classes, a legacy – I’m sorry, “a mark” – of one of my former accomplishments will remain in tact.
Similarly, a high point in my writing career came during my sophomore year of high school when I wrote, along with my best friend Tom, a ten minute sketch called “Kiel’s World” for a minstrel show. After talking to the theater arts teacher last week, I learned that whenever she reaches the minstrel show segment in her class, she uses our sketch as an example of a parody. Although official documentation of the sketch is long gone, “Kiel’s Word” is still alive and well. (“Kiel’s World” was a parody on the “Wayne’s World” SNL sketches; instead of two young rock enthusiasts hosting, it was two nerds that talked about Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and were hopeless with girls. Not that far off from my reality, except I didn’t really sound like the pimply-faced geek from Family Guy like I did for the sketch.)
So what’s the point of all this? I promise it isn’t just to toot my own horn and tell you all the wonderful things people think about me. (That’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve been informed in the past that there are people out there who think I’m “an arrogant douche.” Their words, not mine. It should be noted that these people have never gotten to know me personally. If there are people who HAVE gotten to know me personally and think I’m an arrogant douche, please come forward now. With your help, I can change, baby.)
Back to the point…realizing instances where I’ve left a good mark behind reasserts my self-esteem at a time when it’s pretty shot. It’s very easy for a person to feel like he has no self worth when he’s graduated college and can’t find a real use for himself in society. A lot of people are facing this right now, and I can only assume, based on my own experience, that they are also questioning their importance in the face of this adversity. But before you start dwelling on what you haven’t done yet, look back on what you’ve done already. I promised you’ll be more impressed with yourself than you might expect to be.
…although for every sticker you earned along the way, there’s an NSync-singing moment lurking in the shadows. Leave them there - it’s where they belong.
