Tell Us About the Person Who Inspires You Most
Tell Us About the Person Who Inspires You Most
It's Open Mic Day at 'The Honest Broker'
Open mic day is like a holiday at The Honest Broker. Instead of writing, I get to sit back and read—because you do the heavy lifting in the comments.
And the comment section here is usually very good. As you may know, that’s not a given on the web.
A few days ago, I shared a list of people who inspire me. Today I am asking you to do the same.
Who has inspired you, and how did they do it?
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The individuals you mention don’t need to be famous. Sometimes the greatest inspiration comes from a person almost nobody remembers now, but they intervened at a critical moment in your personal development.
Mr. Rogers talked about that in his acceptance speech when he received the Lifetime Achieve Award at the Emmys in 1997—still the best award show moment you will ever see.
I still regret that I didn’t thank some people who made a difference in my life when they were still around.
I tried to make up for it later, when I was in my 40s. I’d track them down, and offer words of gratitude. It’s one of the most important things I did at the midpoint in my life’s journey.
But by then many of them had already left us.
Yet even posthumous tribute is valuable, adding to the karmic betterment of the universe, and inspiring others in turn.
This is your chance to pay tribute to the people who made a difference for you—motivated you, guided you, or maybe just offered a valuable role model from afar.
Please share your stories in the comments.
P.S.: If you’re looking for a supportive group setting to pursue the humanities project announced here a few days ago, the Catherine Project is offering its resources.
This an outstanding organization, and teaches humanities at a level few colleges can match.
You can learn more about the Catherine Project here.
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:
I lied and said:
“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 theatre.
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. My dad worked at the stockyards, and I didn’t know anyone who went to a private school. I’m not entirely sure I even really knew what one was.
The woman 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 theatre’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 rock star.
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 college 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 31 years ago yesterday. During that time, Pam has been my mentor, my coach, my confidante, my teacher, my family, and my friend. And when I got married a few months ago, 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.
My gpa. Hero in WWI, survivor in WW II. Escaped the nazis, saved my mom. Came to the states and painted like a friggin madman. Gave me a painting every birthday until he died.