For the one who honed my craft

I had a love/hate relationship with his class.

I thought he was arrogant, condescending, demanding, and full of himself. I remember he used to use language in the classroom that was not really befitting the Jesuit halls of the prep school I attended, but somehow - it didn't really seem to offend. He had this manner; you longed to dislike him but no one ever did. We wanted to roll our eyes at his defiant stare, but found ourselves smirking in spite ourselves when we saw the twinkle flash from his eye.

Don't ask me what a funeral director was doing as a creative writing professor for high school students, but that is exactly what he was. Tall, lanky and hilariously morbid, he would slink between the aisles of our classroom like a ghoul. Walking past us slowly, hands clasped smoothly behind his back, he would pause at a random desk. The pulse rate of the student would skyrocket and though we tried to hide our terror, the rapid tremor at our jugular would betray us. With sick pleasure, he would slide towards the next aisle. There was no need to pelt that student with an unanswerable philosophical musing. Seeing the fear he induced had been enough for his twisted sense of humor.

We should have all detested that class, but not one of could find it in ourselves to ever speak those words. Because sick as he was, morose as he feigned, we loved him. We absolutely adored that man.

He gave us tools of the English language we never knew existed. Power surged from our fingertips as we typed our way to the unfailing admiration that would rise in his eyes, paper after paper, play after play. Poetry popped with new passion. Prose presented particularly posh! 😏 At 17 years old, we felt like real writers. He expected it, and we wanted nothing more than its validity.

He was one of the only teachers that called me by my real name. Though I hated it from others, from him - it felt appropriate. Addressing us with formal names began to morph us. Winding its way deep into the core of our being, those rarely used aliases began identifying us as the mature adults he was shaping us to be. It felt forbidden and secret, like he was retaliating against some unspoken directive to keep us children. But it was only giving us a foretaste of the future landscape, and helping us choose identities and set our standards high. We loved him because his expectations replaced our cowardice with confidence. His pride at the end of the year proved we deserved a seat at any table, and could even lead at the head, should we so choose. Before the world would belittle us with threats of failure and mediocrity, he dared to whisper greatness into our spirits.

When I think back to some special teachers I've had over the years, I want to endorse my homeroom Latin teacher, or my sophomore year algebra professor. I excelled in their classes, and I was most likely the teacher's pet there. My art class teacher was a family friend so of course, I had special favor in his room. There are several others that bring a quick smile to my face as I flip through pages of of memories in my mind, but I do believe that Vincent Vanston placed first among my choices. However, Mr. Vanston did not have a favorite. He feigned equal detest for us all! haha But we all positioned ourselves to be his best, his brightest and his most brilliant. And deep down, he made us all believe that we were.

Thank you, Sir. You will forever be remembered for making me believe.

This post was my tribute for someone that has passed, outside of our family. It is week 2's prompt for our DreemPort collaboration with Hive Memorial Forest, a community started by @beeber for memorializing posts on the blockchain, in honor of those who have passed away. Thank you @beeber!