Big Change

I started a new chapter in my life this week. I’m now in a Masters program to get my teaching credential for the state of California. I’ll be a Math teacher. Yup, I’m chucking technology and going into something that can have a lasting impact on society.

Over the past fifteen years I’ve created programs and worked on projects for weeks and months at a time that became obsolete and tossed aside with absolutely nothing to show for the years of work and experience it took to create them in the first place. It kind of leaves you with a WTF feeling about doing it at all.

There is a scene in the Jack Nicholson movie “About Schmidt” where he sees his entire life’s work at an insurance company boxed up and left by the dumpsters after he retires. I don’t want that to happen to me. At least by becoming a teacher I can see what the results of my work will be. If a kid knows more than he did when he started, that will be my lasting legacy.

It’ll also free up time for me to pursue my writing. Instead of constantly retraining to keep up with the latest greatest technology that the world doesn’t really need in the first place, I’ll practice a craft that I can build on. Who knows where I’ll be with it in twenty years.

And for all you jaded teachers out there that read this and think I’m totally naive about what teaching really is like, I’m not naive. I’ve been around one of the world’s best teachers for the last fourteen years, my wife. On what really matters in the world, her score card of achievements for making a better society puts me to shame. She has parents and past students approach her constantly and they thank her and tell her what a difference she’s made in their lives. Let’s see an iPhone, flat screen TV or Xbox do that.

Smogged

We got our notice from the DMV, (Division of Motor Vehicles to those outside the USA), that our minivan had to be smogged this year before we could get our new tags. So, as I usually do, I waited till the last minute before we got fined, woke up on a Saturday morning, and drove to the Smog Check place that we use.

This Smog Check business is a ratty little building made of corrugated metal that looks like it would be at home in any third world country. It’s been there for years. The reason I always go to it is, no matter how bad or old my car is, it always passes. I’ve never had a car fail smog check at this business and I’ve had plenty of cars over the last twenty years in Riverside.

So, I got up, threw on some clothes, got a coffee at Starbucks and pulled into it’s parking lot just before 8:30 AM. I got comfortable with my coffee and an Elvis CD and waited for it to open in a few minutes.

Smack in the middle of “A Big Hunk O’ Love” a Toyota Land Cruiser zipped up beside, not behind, me in the parking lot. I looked at this guy thinking, “What the hell? There are only two cars in line, me and him, and he’s trying to butt in front of me?”

Then I noticed that he was oblivious to my presence because his thumbs were tapping away, texting, on a Blackberry that was resting on his steering wheel. I go back to my coffee and Elvis, and waited. And waited, and waited. 8:30 turned to 8:45, no worker showed up. At about 8:55 we both got out of our cars, he was still texting, and stood around.

“Well”, he said, “I guess around here 8:30 really means 9. Where I come from 8:30 means 8:15.”

I thought to myself, “This guy runs a business and all his employees hate his guts.”

He asked, “What kind of business is this anyway?”

I looked at him, then at the sign and said, “It’s a smog shop.”

He continued to rant, “I’m going to complain!”

“I wouldn’t do that,” was my reply. “The guy that works here is probably out of prison or a gang banger.”

Just then we both heard a low, subwoofing, “Thooom, tha thoom…thoom, tha thoom… and into the parking lot rolled a beatup, bondo buggy. It was low to the ground and the driver was sunk into the front seat with one arm on the wheel and the other hanging out of the window holding a cigarette. He parked, got out of the car and walked to the business door with a set of keys. He wore a torn sweat shirt, shorts and a baseball cap turned to the side. From his ankles to his neck he was covered with religious tatoos.

I leaned closer to texter, “My vote’s prison.”

Then I asked, “Are you gonna complain?”

He looked at me frustrated, walked to his car and drove off. The guy running the place watched him go and had this, “I don’t give a shit”, look on his face.

I got my car smogged and talked with him for about fifteen minutes. He was actually a really nice guy.

Passion

When I was younger I did a lot of different things. I could pick up hobbies and get pretty good at them very fast. It used to piss off people I knew. And I just took it for granted. It’s not bragging, I just have many talents. You’d think that it’s a blessing, and it is, but it’s also a curse.

You become a “Jack of all Trades and Master of None.” If something I did became difficult, and it always did, then I casually tossed it aside to pursue something else. My life is littered with half completed projects. Throw in a healthy dose of ADHD and you have a real mess.

I used to wish I had one real love, one real passion, like medicine or science, that I could throw myself into. I’d be much farther along in life. I don’t have a passion.

I don’t have that one thing that I long to do. Yes, when I was younger, I had dreams. Everybody does. My dreams were particularly unrealistic. But I figured, somebody’s gotta do those things so why not me?

I joke with my wife that she’s more of a coach for me than anything else. She really keeps me focused. Or she tries to anyway. God bless her for her patience. She told me a long time ago to develop some kind of passion for something. And if it couldn’t pay the bills, then it would be that one thing I could do for my own enjoyment.

But what is it?

I’ve gone through so many ups and downs in the last several years that I’ve become totally numbed to anything else except raising my kids. I’m sure people in my position have had the same experience. I don’t remember what it was like before. I only remember the short past. What did I do in the past that I enjoyed?

It’s all a blur.

I’m sure that this is the sort of thing that some therapist could spend hours, weeks, and months helping me unravel. I can’t afford the luxury of paying someone to listen to me prattle on. Maybe that’s why I blog? I don’t know.