"You cannot build a reputation on what you are going to do."
This is a quote from Henry Ford that hangs above my desk at work. I stare at it fairly often, considering how to approach each day and all of the things that I would like to accomplish in a given 24 hours. I give all of my efforts to achieving each of those goals, and some days I feel like I succeed more than others. This quote has been somewhat of a mantra for me this year.
But I don't know that I've been true to it.
I don't know that I fully grasped why I loved the quote when I initially found it, but through a variety of conversations with some of my closest friends and family, I think I am starting to.
I latched onto the idea of building a reputation through the most prevalent thing in my life: my job. There is nothing in this world I would rather do than teach. I live to be in front of a classroom, delivering crucial information, watching lightbulbs ignite, creating a passion for something that I love in others. Showing others that you can live life your own way and succeed at something special. And naturally delivering clever quips, quotes, and colloquialisms to help my students remember and personalize the information.
However, something has been missing. Maybe for a long time, maybe forever.
I've been working toward 'building a reputation' for as long as I can remember. I was born into a family of successes. My grandfathers were both military men who built their lives from the ground up, one as a plumber and the other as an electrician. Coming up in the Depression and still carving out their own place in the world is something I greatly admire.
My father is the definition of hardworking and self-sacrificing. He was let go from a job he gave over 20 years to and never seemed to waver in his example, that putting your head down and going to work would pay dividends. I don't know that I ever heard him complain. He would come home and put his briefcase on the porch and shoot hoops with me until the sun went down, despite how tired he was. He would coach my basketball teams, teach me to use a knife to create, and never hesitate to watch a Van Damme movie with me when I couldn't sleep.
My mom went back to work when I was young to provide a good life for myself and my siblings, never wanting to leave my brother and I but doing so to make sure we could have the things we wanted and needing. She would take me to get a soda on days that were horrible and pretend not to notice when I would stay up late watching TV with my sister. She would let me read when I was scared to go to sleep, and even not ask too many questions about my dating life when I knew how bad she wanted to know.
I don't know if I've ever properly thanked either of my parents for that, but I will spend my life trying to show them how much it meant and that it did not go unnoticed. I could keep going on the legacy I was born into and the examples I follow, but that really isn't the point.
I was recently challenged to 'spend time and get real' with myself. I was rocked by the challenge and have spent the majority of the week thinking about it. Finally, we've found the rub. That's the purpose. That's the point.
The point is, my focus for "success" has always been my occupation. I've thrown myself into every job I've ever had, trying to be the best at what I do. I have cleaned toilets until my arms felt like I'd been swimming in the bowl, made sandwiches that I still crave, washed cars until they sparkled, massaged fused cervical vertebra to eliminate a migraine that had been raging for a week, and taught with every shred of passion and determination to maybe inspire that one student who didn't know how amazing they were. Successes and failures are in the eye of the beholder.
I've spent so much time and energy on trying to succeed at my various occupations that I think I've forgotten to succeed with myself. When I look into the mirror I see my occupation. I see what I bring to my classroom, what I bring to my clients. But I don't see the man that brought me there. I see the ripples, but not the pebble that broke the surface of the water.
When my daughter gets older and has her own children, I doubt she is going to talk about how awesome her dad was in a classroom. I doubt she will speak of his ingenuity in a deli or his proficiency at washing and waxing Mustangs. What I hope she will say is that her dad was a man who loved his family and friends, followed his passions, and refused to accept any effort less than his all.
She can't say that right now because it isn't true. Occupations only last so long. Legacy, reputation...these are forever. My daughter deserves a complete view of her father's life, not just what he didn't do when he came home from teaching.
She doesn't care about the lightbulbs. She won't ever see the smirk of a student laughing at a silly etiology of the name of a bone or the gratitude for an acronym to remember where a trigger point refers. She will never see the patients (awkwardly) hug her dad to thank him for relieving their pain. What she will see right now is a man too tired for the gym, too drained write and record a new song, and too complacent to finish a novel he's dreamed about for his entire life. A man who gave up on what he wanted from life for what he wanted from work.
She will see emptiness. Opacity. Excuses. One dimensional living. Not success. Not tenacity. Not determination. She will see Atlas, carrying the world on his back but never fully rising under its weight. And that is not the legacy, the reputation I want to leave for her or my other children as they arrive.
I want them to look at my life the way I look at my family, my ancestors. I want my daughter to think I walked with giants, the way my father did and the way his father before him.
If this were to be my last day, then I would have utterly failed.
But it isn't my last day. That's really the beautiful part of this whole thing. I still have time.
I will follow in the footsteps of giants and leave something my daughter and my descendants will take reckoning of.
I will leave an impact, a legacy, and hope to God that it's worth something.
Consider this a declaration:
1. I will hold a copy of my novel The Nemesis Diary in my hands by Christmas.
2. I will release a record of my own music that I am proud of, not embarrassed of.
3. I will expand my vision to being more than just a teacher.
4. I will have more than just 'work friends', though they will continue to be an integral part of my life. I have men I consider blood brothers that I haven't seen in over a year. This will change immediately.
5. I will run my 10th half marathon and continue to train to running a full marathon by 2018.
6. I will entertain casual interests like archery, making leather bracelets, and learning more about hundreds of other things.
You'll notice these are personal goals and this isn't even half of my list. To create a change, you must begin with yourself. Growth is painful. I am not afraid. I am refocused, realigned, and reborn. A phoenix only rises from ashes, and I've been burned enough. As tears roll down my cheeks as I write this I swear to you, to my daughter, to myself...I will not be nothing.
A storm is coming. I am not afraid of the rain or thunder because I AM THAT STORM.
I come from a line of success, and I refuse to be anything less. This world will remember my name.
Is that real enough for you?
Sb
