Fourth Grade
In the gym at 5:30am before work, I had a flashback to a decade ago in my life. Our fourth grade teacher’s name was Mr. Bowman. He was a tall man but, looking back, it seems he was prematurely aged by the Vietnam War, he walked with the posture of someone who can stand just fine but has been worn down by trauma. It was obvious, though, that his dry yet hilarious sense of humor preceded the war he experienced, and he connected with us in a more mature way than many of my high school teachers.
Mr. Bowman was the first person to teach my about photography, bringing a camera to school one day and showing us we could freeze motion if the shutter was fast enough and the ISO was right. He taught us how straight lines could curve, the importance of art in our lives, and that a good dose of fresh air was more important than another 15 minutes of studying. He let us work at our own pace, putting up on the board what needed to be done for the day, and letting us get to it at our own cadence.
I did a double take, seeing him walking around Lifetime Fitness that early morning. Indeed, when I looked up again he was gone, vanished in the same way a memory fleets from the conscious mind. I looked around a bit more and saw him once more and half-entertained going to re-introduce myself. I am, though, a shy sort, but I know what I would say if I had talked to him before he blended back into the recesses: “Thank you for shaping who I am, and giving me a vision of who I want to be.”
And just like that, he was gone.