15 Years Later

So it’s 11:03 on a Tuesday night.  I have a rule.  Don’t open any beers after 11 p.m. on a weeknight.  Doesn’t matter if it’s your first or your fourth.  It’s just a bad idea.  And under no circumstances should you open a bottle of wine.  You’re going to hate the alarm clock and you’re going to fight yourself for the first three hours of the next day. 

You can like or dislike my rule, I’m ok with that.  But I just broke the rule because Whildin sent me his last piece and it made me want to write.  There are moments in life when enthusiasm should circumvent common sense and wisdom, so let’s just back off for a moment on the rules.  I only missed by 3 minutes.  Maybe we should just let it go.  Here’s to you and me.

And so…

Why am I doing this?  I don’t mean writing on a Tuesday night, I mean teaching.  I’m here in this 15 Years Later project in large part because I’m a high school math teacher.  What cruel stages in life and what charlatan’s advice led me to this moment? 

To get to the bottom of that, we’ll have to discuss NOT getting what you want.

For god’s sake, Aunt Kitty wanted me to be a priest.  She’s been calling me Father Tim since I was 14 years old.  Do you know what kind of guilt you have to feel when you visit Aunt Kitty and she finds out that you’re STILL not a priest?  Let me just say that it’s a weight that you carry.  Keep it in your pocket as you walk.  

I’m a lot older than 14 at this point.  There are times now when Aunt Kitty has a hard time remembering people’s names and she sometimes talks as if people are in the room that aren’t even with us anymore.  But you know what I hear when I come in the door and go for a hug?  “It’s Father Tim!”  And she giggles.  You might even call it a cackle.  Either way, it’s the warmth of a fire in the fireplace on a cold Christmas Eve.  It comes with a beautiful smile that you’ve seen a million times and she takes the hug even if you’re not a priest.  Everyone should have an Aunt Kitty. 

Well, I’m not a priest.  I’m a math teacher.  But I am not a math teacher as a result of some deeply rooted innate love of math.  I don’t look at the mileage in my car and feel the need to write the prime factorization of the number I see.  I don’t read math books for fun while on vacation or any other time for that matter.  And I damn sure don’t collect math jokes just in case the opportunity arises. 

The truth is, I’m a math teacher because it just made sense to me.  And I’m pretty sure that I’m good at it.

Perhaps before we get into becoming a math teacher, we should discuss young Tim Larsen as a math student.  Let’s go back to 14-year old me and start there.  Here’s my experience in math classes as I recall.

It’s 1986 and I’m a freshman in Algebra at a Catholic High School on the border of Detroit, Michigan.  I could care less what this teacher is talking about, but I write what she writes on the board and when tests come around, I get A’s.   The next year, Geometry is the easiest class I’ve ever had in my life.  I remember hearing a kid behind me say, “This guy in front of me is saying the formulas before the teacher even writes them on the board.” 

But when I’m a junior during Algebra 2, I’m asleep while this man is talking about parabolas and completing a square because it’s just after lunch, you know what I mean?  And senior year, I’d rather be somewhere else. 

But when Father Willem, who is a large man, finds out that you don’t have your Precalculus homework done, he’ll let you have it.  He’ll grab your hair and yank your head around while the other kids laugh at you.  I’m not saying this because I’ve seen it, I’m saying it because I felt it.

Now during this entire time, Mom’s been at the following question.  In fact, I’d say she was after me about this since I was in 6^th grade.  I’m just focused on trying to get the starting position at third base on the baseball team, but she won’t let it go.  I’m playing around with the benefits of sidearm versus overhand throwing to first and she’s hitting me with, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I only have one answer to this question.  “A Major League Baseball Player.” 

Give her credit, she’s not one to quit easily.  “But what do you really want to be?”  I probably thought that my next answer, which I do not remember, was enough to get her to give up.  But instead I think she decided to just…wait.

Back to senior year.  I’m getting a decent grade in Precalculus out of fear for my safety and well-being.  My enthusiasms in life have nothing to do with Precalculus or the mysteries of Wordsworth in English Literature or who is likely to win the next congressional election.  I’m more interested in the reactions of a girl named Lisa when I call her on a Tuesday night.  But I can guarantee you that I had my homework for Precalculus done on Wednesday.  That shit hurts.

College is now right around the corner and the wheel has come around.  Mom asks once again, “What do you want to do when you graduate from college?”  I didn’t even see it coming.  This, to the best of my knowledge, is a direct transcript of that conversation:

Mom: What do you want to do when you graduate from college?

Me: I think I’d like to be an artist.  I’m really good at drawing things.

Mom: …

Mom: That’s really hard to get into.  There are a lot of people that want to be artists.  What else?

Me: I really like writing.  Maybe I could be a writer.

Mom: That’s really hard to get into.  There are so many writers…you should think about this some more.

Me (aggravated): What do you think I should do?!

Mom: The world is crying for mechanical engineers.  You should be a mechanical engineer.

What is THAT?!?  Drawing and writing are hard… but mechanical engineering…THAT’s easy to get into to?? 

So the next fall I’m a freshman at Central Michigan University taking classes to become a mechanical engineer.  Mom was happy, Aunt Kitty was disappointed, and Lisa never did call back.  I was miserable on so many levels.  I’m going to do us all a favor and make a long story short for a change.  Central Michigan University didn’t take.  I dropped out.

Turns out I had a different kind of learning that I needed to do first.

My story about how I actually became a math teacher is going to be for a different day.  I started out thinking I would tell that part tonight, but the truth is that it goes back further than I thought.  Today’s story isn’t about endings, it’s about beginnings.  It’s about not getting what you want.  But isn’t that how you learn? 

Aunt Kitty didn’t get what she wanted.  Nobody calls me Father Tim.  Mom didn’t get what she wanted.  I’m not designing things that make the world work more efficiently.  And to be honest, I’m really starting to think that Lisa’s never going to call.

But I can tell you this.  I’d never be here if it wasn’t for people like Mom and Aunt Kitty believing in me.  And nowadays, Mom won’t stop bragging.  Take that, Lisa.

I broke a rule tonight.  But sometimes, it’s worth it.  1:03 a.m.

Update: since writing this, I was asked to preside over a wedding for friends.  Two weddings, in fact.  As a result, I have been certified over the internet as a minister.  I’m not sure if I should let Aunt Kitty know.  She might be delighted and cackle and put a little extra in the next hug or she might be very disappointed that it took so long.  To be honest, I don’t know that I could live with either reaction.