My elementary school days were not indicative of any great future success. In fact, I can only remember two instances in which my work stood out in any way. The first was when I was seven. I wrote a story story called 'The Mud Man' that told the tale of an average guy who gets transformed into a mud-mutant and is tormented by ravenous worms. Granted, it was a decent effort for a seven-year-old but it wasn't exactly a literary dynamo.
My second, and more influential, success came when I was eleven or twelve. Each year all the students at our school who were old enough to know how wrote speeches and presented them within our classes. The best speech from each class went on to the school finals and the winner usually got a plaque to hang on their wall until the end of time. I assume that this was so, years later, when bitter divorces, firings, and custody battles were wreaking havoc on their self esteem, winners could look at the wall and remember better days. Regardless, it was a prestigious event and each passing year meant one less chance to gain St. Mike's immortality.
It didn't help that my closest friends were all keeners that had swept the school finals from grade four through grade seven leaving me with only one chance to pull even. By the time the grade eight speech competition rolled around I had put added pressure on myself to perform by not reading The Outsiders, our assigned book for the term, and failing the subsequent test. In short, my English mark hung in the balance.
Needless to say, I procrastinated on writing the speech until the last possible night. Lord knows how I filled my days back then but, from what I can recall, it involved a lot of Discovery Channel and Animorphs books. I may have been a slacker at school, but I was definitely a pure bred nerd. When it came time to sit down and draft what I would say, I could think of nothing better than combining what I had learned from hours of TV watching and pleasure reading; my topic would be animal intelligence.
I remember sitting in front of the computer but I don't recall doing any actual research. The speech was mostly a mosaic of facts that I could remember from shows that had interested me. When it was all said and done, I had something I felt comfortable presenting, even it it wasn't the masterpiece that would win be a plaque.
The following week my class presented our speeches one by one until finally my turn arrived, late in the week. Each day that my name hadn't been drawn gave me a slight advantage. Back in those days, by younger brother and I fought in the manner that all brothers do and we frequently ended up in our rooms for large chunks of each night. Out of either fear for my grade or nervousness about speaking in front of my class, I spent that week motivated to learn my speech backwards and forwards. I spent hours in front of the mirror going through the pages line by line trying with every fibre of my being to get through it without screwing up.
By the time I stood up to deliver what I had written, the cue cards I had crafted were meaningless. I straightened up, took a deep breath, set the cue cards on the podium and recited my speech word for word from memory.
I don't know if my classmates were impressed. In all likelihood I lost their attention a few lines in because, let's face facts, you really can't expect a bunch of eleven year old kids to listen to anything without bright colours and a talking dinosaur for more than 30 seconds. Luckily, whether or not my peers were entertained didn't matter; the only person of influence in the whole thing was my teacher, Mr. Folia, and somewhere between Alex the super smart parrot and Koko the signing gorilla I had won him over.
At the end of the day he took me aside and, for what might have been the first time in my academic career, congratulated me on a job well done. From there things were a blur. I was elected to go to the school finals and made it into the top 3. My main competition was from the other grade eight class. One of the popular girls had written what was, by all accounts, a tear jerker about teen suicide. My friends from the other class basically told me not to get my hopes up and that she was a shoe in. We were a supportive bunch in those days.
I don't necessarily believe in fate but what transpired around the speech finals at St. Mike's that day back in 2001 comes as close as anything I've experienced to evidence in favour of it. I stood in front of the school and, in the manner of someone who has done time in the trenches of rote memorization, delivered my speech exactly as I had given it to my class. I sat down and watched as the girl who would surely hand my ass to me stood up too approach the microphone. She rose from her chair, took a step forward, and proceeded to drop her stack of cue cards, shuffling her self right out of contention. Score one for being grounded daily.
Her speech was still amazing but fumbling her delivery because of nerves and lack of total memorization landed her in second place. I had won. Unfortunately, plaques were just outside the school's budget that year so all I got was a certificate that has since been lost to the ravages of time. I did get another sort of trophy though. Before we were sent home that day, Mr. Folia took me aside once again. He told me how proud he was of me and said that I had a real gift. I can't recall the exact words but the sentiment stays with me to this day.
In addition to a pat on the back he handed me a book. I must have really impressed him because it wasn't the sort of book an adult usually hands to an eleven year old. There were no pictures, the font was small, and the story, though gripping, was not exactly age appropriate. The book was 'Into Thin Air' by Jon Krakauer. I took it home and, over the next several weeks, ignored my school work, devouring every word.
Before I read that book it hadn't even occurred to me that people could spend their lives climbing mountains. I'd never even seen a mountain so my idea of what one was might not have completely formed. Since then one of the major drivers in my life has since become a strong drive to climb mountains and live a life of adventure. I'm very much aware that this is probably not what my teacher intended, but that's the way the cards landed.
Fortunately, there was another effect that the book had on me that has since failed to fade. I have come to very much enjoy writing. This blog will hopefully serve as a testament to that and will allow me to develop skills that will help me out as I pursue whatever opportunities life throws at me. For those of you who have made it through this post (which ended up being far longer than I anticipated), I welcome you along for the ride. Feel free to share comments (positive or negative) and suggestions for future topics. I hope I can improve in my writing so that you may enjoy reading these posts as much as I know I will enjoy writing them.
In the mean time, I would just like to give my thanks to Mr. Folia, wherever he may be. I dedicate my musings to him and to all teachers who have ever inspired their pupils.
-Steve
