My first thoughts went to a YouTuber (cringe) and then to fictional characters (e.g., Aragorn – less cringe, but still intangible). I unfortunately can’t consider my dad, either. Finally, my thoughts settled on teachers from more than 10 years ago; a sad indictment of men.
The first teacher, Mr. S., was my middle school – 7th and 8th grade – Spanish teacher, a wonderful human. I remember on the very first day he loudly proclaimed to our class, who possessed no prior Spanish knowledge whatsoever, with hands gesturing wildy, “¡Levántense, por favor!” He then buzzed around the room, going from student to student, near-shouting in our faces. “¿Cómo te llamas?” He was met with blank stares. I racked my brain and an image of my older brother came to mind, who, having already taken the same course, had excitedly shared some of his newly-learned Spanish with the family. Mr. S approached me. “¿Cómo te llamas?” I responded, “Me llamo Alex,” and he beamed. We developed a great relationship, and he inspired me to continue Spanish through high school. I later completed the Duolingo course and recently finished reading my fifth book in Spanish. I am functionally fluent, all stemming back to dear Mr. S.
The second teacher, Mr. G, once stunned my high school bandmates and me speechless with his would-be rap name, B. G. He was my conductor for four years, first beginning before my freshman year preparing for the coming football season – that’s right, marching band. In those four years, I transformed from a horribly awkward young teen to a cocky bastard. But, I got pretty good at sax, only thanks to Mr. G and the community vibe he cultivated in the band room. I remember him on stage, during our very last performance, doing a double take at me as the recognizition struck him that I was crying.
The AM Intrigue 
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