"I Told Three Big Lies That Changed My Life"
A story from the comments section
Three days ago, I invited you to share stories of people who inspire you—and promised that the responses would be worth reading.
They definitely were. So I want to share one of them today.
The story below comes from Jason Patera, who heads The Chicago Academy of the Arts. I publish it here with his permission.
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Three Big Lies
By Jason Patera
The day after my 16th birthday, I told three big lies that changed the course of my life.
It was 1992, and I worked at this giant musical instrument store just outside Chicago owned by two brothers and their father. I mostly carried boxes, tuned guitars and set up drums, and tried to act cool when girls or rockstars came in the store.
Girls and rockstars came in frequently. I succeeded in looking cool far less often.
I did what every kid with a cool mom in my neighborhood did the day after their 16th birthday: I walked into work brandishing my new driver's license as proof that I was now an adult, and emboldened with my newfound sense of independence, I quickly told three lies to my music-store bosses.
“Of course I have car insurance.”
And: “I totally know my way around downtown.”
And: “I can absolutely drive a delivery truck.”
An hour later I was pulling up to the doors of 1010 W. Chicago Avenue — a massive old building that they told me was a weird “arts high school.”
My job was to deliver and haul up the stairs a truckload of equipment that Oprah Winfrey had just donated.
Walking in, I couldn’t believe that this was a high school. My school was surrounded by police cars and barbed wire (and it was never entirely clear if both were there to keep people out, or in.)
At this bizarre place, though, there was this amazing artwork everywhere. There was a jazz jam session happening right there in the lobby. Some kids were rehearsing Shakespeare in the stairwell. Every railing had a ballerina draped over it; every floor was a stage; every wall seemed to be part of a gallery. They had even turned a hallway into a theater.
The weirdest thing, though, was that everyone looked so… alive. It was already 4:00 in the afternoon, long past when my school got out, but these kids looked like they were just getting started. They greeted me — a total stranger — with this odd enthusiasm, as if they enjoyed being at school, and didn’t mind at all if a weirdo like me was hanging out.
I never left.
I immediately started leaving my own school early (or not going at all) and driving to this place instead. It never occurred to me to apply to officially attend. I didn’t know anyone who went to a private school. I’m not entirely sure I even really knew what one was.
One of the people who seemed to be in charge, Pamela Jordan, pretended to see something in me, and decided to put me to work as something of an intern, a “job” that lasted for the next several years.
I set up the sound system, made copies, and crawled around the attic, laying cable for the theater’s new lighting system. I played in a bunch of shows, too: drums, mostly, for musicals that my own school would never do.
Sometimes, Pam had me sit in with the jazz band, and later I got to help set up a little recording studio and assist students with their projects. One day, when I was 19, she even let me sub for a class and I taught a mini lesson in the history of rock music.
Soon after, Pam sat me down and said, “what are you doing with your life?”
That was easy: I was going to be a rockstar.
Pam had other ideas. “You’re a teacher,” she said. I felt movement in my soul. “You’re going to college, and you’re going to get your degree. And when you’re done, you’re going to come back here and teach in our school.”
That’s exactly what happened. I graduated from Berklee College of Music on Friday, the 14th of August, 1998. Three days later I was in front of a classroom filled with that same gear I had delivered to that massive old building a few years prior.
At The Chicago Academy for the Arts, I’ve been an intern, a classroom teacher, a department head, the Assistant Head, and for the last decade or so, the Head of School. It’s the only place I’ve ever worked since I lied to my bosses at that music store more than three decades ago. During that time, Pam has been my mentor, my coach, my confidante, my teacher, my family, and my friend. And when I got married last summer, Pam officiated.
I think of Pam every single day, because if I didn’t, I would never let someone who reminded me of me in our school. But those kids, they’re the ones who need me and my teachers the most.
I know that I can never pay Pam back for what she did for me, but I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life paying it forward.
If you want to pay tribute to someone who made a difference in your life, you can do it in the comments below.
My boss at the factory (where starting at age 19 I had my first regular-hours daily job) was an Indiana farm boy who grew up to be a polymath: engineer, mathematician, cultural history expert, musical instrument maker, telescope maker, expert caver, steam engine builder, logician, humanitarian...His name was Phil Wood. Phil had a couple of decades in engineering and manufacturing at a very large company before starting his own shop. I worked for him almost 20 years til he retired. I moved on from the factory not long after that. What I took from him were many wonderful memories, and one supremely important lesson: if someone is genuinely in need of your specific talents, find a way to help them, irrespective of payment.
We had many visitors to the factory from fans of our products and of our product support. Many of those visitors had an idea about something they thought was important to design and make for one reason or another. Phil encouraged 98% of those folks to go home and build a model of their idea and then they'd talk more. Of those other 2% there were compelling reasons to help immediately, mostly based on their physical needs for some sort of adaptive tech to make their extraordinary life circumstances easier.
Phil would stop what he was doing and sort out a path to a solution, then get to making whatever it was. This was very time-consuming work, and if he ever charged anyone the going rate they'd never have been able to pay. But he did it anyway because he recognized his own insights and experience were likely the only available affordable source of such solutions.
So he made a number of machines, conveyances, prototypes and other sundry items, essentially for free. That is what struck me – the sense of duty and responsibility to assist people in need. I have in my own meager way tried to carry that forward in the decades since. I also exhorted all the folks who attended his memorial service to do the same. If not for themselves, maybe in honor of Phil as a kind of legacy.
My music teacher in a small town high school. Andrew Gilsenan-Reid. Was the first teacher who cared and could see that I wasn't doing ok. I'd go to school but then just skip all the classes. He sat me down, asked me if I was ok, and then said that he didn't care if I didn't go to any other classes, but he wanted me to come and hang out in the music rooms instead of smoking in the rugby stands. I spent the next 2 years just playing music and practicing anything and everything they had there. He changed the course of my life and sent me on a path that has lead me to play around the world and eventually to run my own music label that primarily works with other C-PTSD and trauma survivor artists who need extra support.