Another Door

As it turns out, I do not run from this place, although I have had numerous opportunities and several provocations. Is it procrastination, a lack of conviction, or do I cry with egg in my beer? Certainly, there are some small satisfactions in my life that I had never previously experienced, and because of other commitments, could not have experienced in my prior life in New York.
Ever since reading Frank McCourt’s ‘Tis, I have had a hankering to be part of the educational system. Earlier than that, actually, before he wrote Angela’s Ashes, before he came to one of our parites with his brother Malachy, and they regaled us with tales of the opportunity that came their way on their return to America. Yes, before Frank spoke of the joy of connecting with kids and how he made a career of something he was virtually qualified for albeit without license, I had longed to teach, but somehow I always settled for clerical jobs. I recall reading a novel called The Fly wherein there was a scene that took place in a teachers’ lounge as observed through the eyes of the title character, and I was much charmed by viewing various films when younger such as To Sir With Love and Goodbye, Mr. Chips. I guess I have always longed for that sort of adulation—to be the one teacher who has a strong effect on his students. Realizing that my writing will probably never bring me lasting notoriety, teaching and being remembered was one kind of fame I could aspire to. It couldn’t have happened in my other life, but there was always the future, the unknown and unforetellable future.
In April of 2000, with the passing away of all I had grown accustomed to, every conceivable future opened its door to me. At that time, I had no desire to enter any. I wanted my own existence to end. I returned to the church and prayed for guidance. I worked (in an office, of course) during the day and at night I led a solitary and contemplative life, waiting, just waiting, I suppose, for everything to disappear—to awaken from a nightmare of loneliness.
The days drifted into months and I realized in December of that year that nothing had changed—except everything. And then, through a chance encounter and the discovery that throughout those long lonely months some doors had remained ajar, I chose one and slipped through, unnoticed, and soon found myself on the other side of one of those unforeseeable futures.
From what I had relearned during my Sundays in church, I could perhaps come to believe that this turn of events was predestined and, my underlying character being rather lethargic, this would be the easiest perception to come by, but it frightens me to think that stranger metamorphoses might await me. The fright is there in the notion of changes whose timing is off, much like the fear of Alzheimer’s Disease erasing a lifetime of knowledge.
I digress.
Now, I am an English teacher working at Tec de Monterrey, but with barely enough hours this semester to sustain a “way of life.” There is only that modicum of satisfaction in my performance that helps me to persevere whenever the doubts creep in. My first semester was average. At the end of the second, I was awarded a citation. Last semester, though personally satisfying, did not bring any notice of achievement. This, my fourth, which began Monday, the 11th, feels so far like another open door, only this one appears to require a key. I hope with my reverberations I do not miss finding it on the side of the road as I race forward, for that must be my direction. I must not be diverted by confusion nor dissolution.