Troubling thoughts on mortality
Despite all of the constant reminders, sometimes it is hard for me to accept just how fragile and transient life is. I received an e-mail this morning from my mother informing me that a beloved high-school teacher of mine, Mr. Ryan McKeithan, died at his home on Monday night.
Mr. McKeithan was my debate and forensics coach for the four years of my high school career. He sharpened my critical thinking skills, made me a better communicator (though I could have stood to listen to his lessons more often), and gave a lot of the nerds and geeks a classroom to call home. As long as we produced results at the debate tournaments each weekend for him, he was content to give us the run of the classroom during school to do what we wanted while he sat at his desk and did whatever it was he did back there.
He was a quiet man, filled with conviction and a steadfast belief in the methods he thought were right, even when the students disagreed with him. Even though we had our disagreements over how to be successful in high school policy debate (which I still think I won... after all, I won local, regional, State, and went on to Nationals), he never pushed his personal style preferences down my throat. He coached when needed and also knew how to stand back and let a student try to fly on their own.
Along with the tragedy of his death, I have come to the realization that I can no longer afford to think of myself as a child. To paraphrase a character from one of my favorite movies, I almost always feel like I’m living a sort of practice life and that this is all just a test for the real thing I’ll get to later. When your teachers begin to die, it’s hard to tell yourself that you aren’t getting old.
In a bit more than a week, I will be 25. What do I have to show for it, though? I have plenty of interests but still don’t know ‘what I want to be when I grow up.’ I’ve only barely started assuming adult responsibilities like living on my own, and I’m starting to get sick of handling the small things like going grocery shopping and making sure that the ceiling of the microwave gets sponged off periodically. I’ve never smoked, had alcohol, tried illicit drugs, been to crazy college parties, kissed a woman, climbed to the top of a mountain, walked along the beach, left the country for any appreciable length of time, or any number of other things I’m expected to have done by now. I lived through the 80's and 90's but can rarely identify with the pop-culture references of those decades because, in a real sense, I didn’t participate in living them.
In almost 25 years on this planet, I haven’t lived what should be 25 years worth of experiences. You never know how many years you will be allotted in the grand scheme of things. If we think that we should make every moment count, then why haven’t I so far?
Mr. McKeithan was my debate and forensics coach for the four years of my high school career. He sharpened my critical thinking skills, made me a better communicator (though I could have stood to listen to his lessons more often), and gave a lot of the nerds and geeks a classroom to call home. As long as we produced results at the debate tournaments each weekend for him, he was content to give us the run of the classroom during school to do what we wanted while he sat at his desk and did whatever it was he did back there.
He was a quiet man, filled with conviction and a steadfast belief in the methods he thought were right, even when the students disagreed with him. Even though we had our disagreements over how to be successful in high school policy debate (which I still think I won... after all, I won local, regional, State, and went on to Nationals), he never pushed his personal style preferences down my throat. He coached when needed and also knew how to stand back and let a student try to fly on their own.
Along with the tragedy of his death, I have come to the realization that I can no longer afford to think of myself as a child. To paraphrase a character from one of my favorite movies, I almost always feel like I’m living a sort of practice life and that this is all just a test for the real thing I’ll get to later. When your teachers begin to die, it’s hard to tell yourself that you aren’t getting old.
In a bit more than a week, I will be 25. What do I have to show for it, though? I have plenty of interests but still don’t know ‘what I want to be when I grow up.’ I’ve only barely started assuming adult responsibilities like living on my own, and I’m starting to get sick of handling the small things like going grocery shopping and making sure that the ceiling of the microwave gets sponged off periodically. I’ve never smoked, had alcohol, tried illicit drugs, been to crazy college parties, kissed a woman, climbed to the top of a mountain, walked along the beach, left the country for any appreciable length of time, or any number of other things I’m expected to have done by now. I lived through the 80's and 90's but can rarely identify with the pop-culture references of those decades because, in a real sense, I didn’t participate in living them.
In almost 25 years on this planet, I haven’t lived what should be 25 years worth of experiences. You never know how many years you will be allotted in the grand scheme of things. If we think that we should make every moment count, then why haven’t I so far?
posted by The Academian | 9:58 AM
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