I think every young elementary school kid had that
assignment that asked, “what do you want
to be when you grow up?”
Although only six or seven at the time, I clearly remember
the seemingly simple assignment and the ease at which I provided my answer.
“A Poet,” I wrote
simply.
Influenced by the antique poetry books of James Whitcomb
Riley and other lyrical ghosts that my aunt Judy would often send to me, I
wanted to evoke the same metre and rhyme that danced from my precious pages.
Looking back, I imagine my teacher must have had a good
chuckle at my response. Most of the other kids my age likely answered more
predictably and realistically with responses like “Dr,” “Teacher,” “Lawyer” or
“Father/Mother.” There was no practicality in wanting to be a poet. But then,
was there any practicality in asking a six year old kid what they wanted to be
when they grew up?
I had not thought much about that assignment or my answer
until recently. Events that had transpired over the last year and another
impending birthday had resurrected the question and caused it to roam
aimlessly through my head like a novice game of Pac-Man.
In no mood to answer, I tried to muffle the increasing
volume at which the questions of “what do you want to be when you grow up” and
“are you who you wanted to be when you grew up” were sounding through my head.
But if I had been successful at quieting the annoying chatter before, the
questions began to blare with a deafening pitch following Christmas.
As a Christmas gift to my parents, my sister had converted
our old home VHS tapes into DVDs. We excitedly rushed into the living room with
the prospect of watching our younger selves at dance recitals, sporting matches,
school events and other big and small life happenings. And as the younger versions of our selves suddenly
flashed across the screens, we squealed with delight. We laughed often
throughout the viewing as we teased each other about bad haircuts, embarrassing
outfits, and overall silly behavior.
Mostly, though, we marveled at the passing of time.
“It seems like
yesterday.”
“I remember that day
so vividly.”
“I can’t believe how
long ago that was.”
The most memorable video would become a scene from a past
Christmas. At first glance, there was nothing out of the ordinary. My siblings
and I appeared to be fairly young and there was the typical and excited chaos
that accompanied every childhood Christmas. A shot of my brother as a newborn,
the youngest of the four of us, revealed that he had been born just barely a
month before the video was taken.
Eventually, the camera panned to and settled on my father. Amidst
the chaos of wrapping paper and four squealing kids, he sat, laser-focused, while
playing with our new Nintendo console. He looked like a kid himself as he
frantically pushed the buttons on his controller.
“Always such a kid,” I laughed as we watched him desperately
trying to beat Super Mario Brothers.
As I muttered those words, I suddenly wondered exactly how
old my father was during this particular Christmas. I darted my focus to the
small time seal on the bottom portion of the screen. After struggling and
straining my eyes for a moment, the lettering slowly came into focus: December 25, 1988.
Quickly, I did my own math. I was seven; an aspiring poet.
Next, my father.
Subtract the difference in years. How old was my dad again
now? Subtract the difference from that number…
“THIRTY-FOUR!” I
gasped.
“Huh?” my father
looked at me quizzically.
“You were thirty-four in this video, the age I will be in
just over a month!”
Even as I said it aloud, it didn’t seem right. Sure he
looked young, but the man in the home movie was a FATHER; he had FOUR kids. He
couldn’t be the same age as the “about to be 34 year-old, un-married, no-kids”
me that was presently watching.
After blurting out my realization, my father and I glanced
at each other silently. Typically someone who could read my father in a single
look, I couldn’t translate what lie hidden behind his unfamiliar expression. I hardly know what I was feeling, for that
matter.
But as I watched my seven-year-old-poet-aspiring self dance
around my thirty-four year old father, I couldn’t help but wonder about the
person I had become. I couldn’t help but ask myself if I was who I had imagined
I would be.
Aside from wanting to be a “Poet,” I am not sure what else I
would have imagined “thirty-four” to be if you had asked me during this very
Christmas video. I probably would have
assumed it to look much like my father’s life.
Professional.
Wife.
Parent.
Given those
simplistic terms and convenient definitions, I certainly was not living up to
my thirty-four year-old potential as I was at best today, only one of those. But of course, I have realized life is far
more complicated than that and we are far more than simply “what we want to be
when we grow up.”
What my father was at thirty-four was more than simply a
lawyer, husband and father as well. He was a sports nut, a prankster, a friend, an
athlete, a dreamer, and many other aspirations that probably lived quietly and with
hopefulness in his soul. And though he
was an adult by all definitions and a father of four, he was still a kid at his
core. Amidst the chaos of professionalism, marriage, children and all the responsibilities
that those entail, he was still a young guy, probably asking himself if this is
what he imagined thirty-four would look like.
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| Just two kids... |
As I ponder further about “who” I am today and what my “thirty-four”
holds, I can’t help but be grateful for this journey and content with where it
has taken me. While my profession is not a “poet” per se, I don’t think my
seven-year old self had it all wrong. Life in all its madness, love, suffering,
joy, unpredictability, humor and mystery
IS poetry, and I am the poet of my own story; a story that I am still penning. It isn’t always pretty and it
is not always what I imagine and hope it will be, but it is mine. And so, as I enter “thirty-four,” I borrow
the thoughts of my old friend, James Whitcomb Riley, and with intention "and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads."
