Everybody says that children are the leaders of the future. Deep stuff. Any Joe Schmoe student can, and most likely will, go into his or her third grade classroom with nine years of such infant propaganda having been forced into their minds through world media. Therefore, one of the most important parts of a child’s learning experience would be a teacher.
I grew up in Waterbury Center, Vermont. Many people would describe it as “quaint”, or “rustic”. I described it as “home” when I lived there, but probably agree with everybody else now. My parents are middle class workers. If you like ice cream, you’ve probably heard of Ben and Jerry’s. My dad worked there. I was a regular child growing up, and I like to think that it entails sneaking into your parents’ room around midnight, and sleeping in their bed when you’re five years old. I did that. One night I began to make my way to my parents’ room, taking my usual route down the hall. As I made my way past the living room, I saw that the sofa bed was pulled out, and naturally assumed my mom had moved there due to excessive snoring. Finally, I made it into their room, and up into the bed. My dad was sleeping there, and I dozed off, realizing that yes, he really did snore.
Morning broke, and I noticed that my dad’s arm was across me. As I pushed it off, I noticed two things. 1) The arm draped across me was MOST DEFINITELY black, and 2) MY DAD IS NOT BLACK!!! I dove out of the bed, and bolted across the room. This man had already gotten my parent’s, and I had to protect my sister. I went to my most important possession- my NERF bow, with foam arrows. I would be able to stop the intruder, and give my sister precious time to flee to the neighbors while I sacrificed my life for the family. My screams, (I was five. There was no such thing as yelling back then.), awoke the man from his slumber, and he began to stumble out into the living room. I unloaded my sheath of arrows, and began to charge him when I was snatched from the ground. There were more! A roving gang of outlaws had entered my home, and I was out of arrows!
I turned and prepared to meet my maker. My eyes made contact with my captor, and I saw that... wait... it couldn’t be... it was my dad. He explained that his high school friend Larry had come to town, and my parent’s had given up their bed to the weary traveler. This is one of my finest stories, and after numerous tellings, it made me realize. I want to be a professional story teller. The only catch is, the job doesn’t really exist outside of 1867 Montana. The next best thing I could do was be a teacher, and use my innate abilities (or so I like to believe) to pass on knowledge and information to the generations to come, because, hey, they are the future.
I was a theatre geek in high school. I think that I was well liked outside of that department, but inside, I was the golden boy. When I found out that Drama was a required class for all sophomores at Dundee-Crown High School, I knew the class would be a breeze. I would slide by on looks and charm alone in that one. The first day was a big surprise. You would assume that, once past fifth grade, most people should be able to read aloud. This was not the case. Looking at lines of dialogue seemed to be the most baffling thing anyone could do. Everest seemed easier than reading a script. Out of the thirty of us in the class, five could read without stopping and gasping for breath minutes in. It became our job to help out the other twenty-five. It was like being in a kindergarten class that averaged at about 5’ 7”, and would help to be one of the deciding factors in my choice of college majors.
As I have said, I grew up in the fine state of Vermont. From my experiences, it is a very liberal state. In Vermont, two people, of the same sex, can be joined in a legally binding civil union. It’s the closest thing to gay marriage in the United States. I never heard anybody with something bad to say about interracial couples, or about any race for that matter. I didn’t experience racism until I was nine, and that was when my dad told me that, when we move to Illinois, “You might meet some racists.” I never met a racist person in Vermont, or for that matter, more than one person of a different race (that being the aforementioned Larry) during my nine years in that fine state.
Illinois was a complete culture shock. I went out of my way to make sure people knew I wasn’t a racist, and after research, had finally figured out that they didn’t have a second head or claws. I met people from South America, Eastern Europe, Mexico, but thought they were all just Americans. They worked with my dad, so they were Americans in my eyes. Vermont may have been colorful in the fall, but Illinois was colorful all year round. The complete difference in the two states was easily the most diverse thing I have ever experienced.
