What Truly Matters? by Gabriel

What Truly Matters? by Gabriel - July 2016 Scholarship Essay

“Could I borrow Gabe for a moment?” The streaming sunlight from beyond the door flooded my eyes that were adjusted to the dim, shadowed pools from the classroom’s projector. With swimming spots dancing across my vision, I almost missed the sound of my own name. My eyes slightly watering, I turned to the teacher, who gave a nod before resuming the lecture. The professor who had spoken my name already strode down the 600 hallway as I scrambled around desks to get out the door.

His name is Michael Williams. Most just call him Doc.

We walked down a cramped set of stairs and across an open boulevarde dappled with sun and shadow. He chose not to give me any words on that walk, but his presence itself, as it is for some, spoke loudly enough.

Two weeks prior, we had read a story in his class, and he had assigned an essay. Both of these escape my memory. I can recall quite vividly, however, the awful tension that comes with failing someone that you would do anything not to let down.

We came to his room and took our seats. I tapped my foot at a desk while he relaxed, arms steepled on his desk, an old rolling chair his seat of authority. The comfortable couch that now defines his room then dwelt in some room far away. I expected some anger, a few questions, maybe a cutting look of disappointment before he looked down with a resigned sigh. I, one of the few to earn his respect, had just thrown it away. He had coined me an english savant after just three days in class. Not any more, I thought.

“What’s happening at home?”

Needless to say, I anticipated that about as much as an eight year-old at 11:59 on the 24th expects to see his parents setting presents around the tree. He cared as much for my unfinished essay as he did for any excuses I might have manufactured. I had let down the teacher whom I most highly regarded only to realize that he valued my person more highly than my intellect, a truth that I had always thought went the other way around. My body quietly trembled, muscles clenching uncontrollably, tears falling silently. It was that kind of wild self-conscious sobbing normally reserved for the people who either conceived you or married you. As I cried, Doc simply waited patiently for me, not at all tired by waiting. When I finally managed to recover my capacity for speech, we discussed what I needed to do and what he needed from me. I left his room with a posture marble statues would envy, a bounce no playground ball could match, and a smile full of more joy than any grade will bring.

I walked back to class under a sky bluer than it had right to be and clouds a more starched white than cotton fresh from the plant. I shared their joy. Despite Doc’s concern, I never did tell him what had occurred at home. Truth be told, he didn’t want explanations; he wanted to offer understanding. With those four words, though, he shattered my own understanding of priorities in a manner that’s left them still in the air. Each time they come close to settling again, a second glance at life tells me quite clearly that I have far too many questions to think I have the right answers - just as it should be.