My Song of Myself

40 years ago, I was in an 11th-grade English class at Orem High. My teacher, Phyllis Bestor, was on her stool reading aloud the climactic scene from Chaim Potok’s The Chosen. (The following contains spoilers) The story follows the coming of age of Danny Saunders, a Hasidic Jew, who is in line to take the place of his father, Reb Isaac Saunders, as the tzadik, a prophet-like position for his congregation in Brooklyn. His father, concerned that his son’s brilliant mind lacked the necessary compassion to minister to his people, made the drastic decision, when Danny was 10 years old, to raise his son in silence in order for him to learn about suffering and compassion. Mrs. Bestor reached the scene where Danny’s father finally explained why he raised him in silence, and her voice faltered. She couldn’t continue reading. Soon she began silently sobbing. For what felt like an eternity, my concerned but confused 17-year-old classmates sat with our heads bowed until she regained her composure and continued with the book.

Literature was never the same for me after that experience. Up until that moment, it never completely dawned on me that fiction, although made up, was real. It explored the truths of the human condition, sometimes more deeply than nonfiction. Never had fiction felt more authentic. What does this moment have to do with a conversation about me becoming a teacher? Mrs. Bestor didn’t know it, but she had become a catalyst that led me to an entirely different future.

Like many children, my career dreams hinged on the latest book of interest in the library, the latest dynamic speaker at school assemblies, or the latest sports success on the playground. At various times, I wanted to be a geologist, paleontologist, fireman, police detective, forest ranger, trapeze artist, actor, professional singer, and professional athlete.

As the son of a collegiate golfer, I was pushed to be the next sensation on the PGA golf tour. My father was certain I had what it took to make a successful living on the golf links. I enjoyed playing junior golf, and I garnered a few trophies at local tournaments, which showed I had some talent. To further support my dad’s argument, my high school team won the state golf tournament my sophomore year. When school counselors would speak with me about a future career, they scoffed at the idea of me becoming a professional athlete. Deep inside, I knew this wasn’t a reality for me, but their quick dismissal of my dream (or my dad’s dream) felt inconsiderate. Because so much of my life until that point had revolved around golf, I couldn’t see myself as anything else but a golf professional.

However, by the time I was a junior, the golf competition became stiffer and stiffer, and I had become less and less enamored of the golf scene. Many of the kids I interacted with belonged to country clubs, had private golf instructors, and behaved like spoiled brats. Competing and practicing started to lose some of their fun and felt like more of a chore. I was just going through the motions. Enter Mrs. Bestor. Little did I know that when I signed up for English in my junior year with Phyllis Bestor, my career dreams would change forever.

I had always liked my English classes, mainly because I was a reader and enjoyed discussing books. I was a good English student, but nowhere near the top of the class. However, of all my high school classes, I felt most at home in Mrs. Bestor’s classroom. She treated every kid with dignity and respect, and we had marvelous conversations in her room and were introduced to the best books. I had never had a teacher treat me like I was an adult or a near-adult. She was very well-spoken, good-humored, and seemed to love her job. It was no surprise that she was a beloved teacher at the high school.

Then everything changed. It was at that moment, while listening to The Chosen, when fiction became oh so real to me, that I started to dream of being an English teacher. I thought, “Books can really change people’s lives. Mrs. Bestor changed mine. I love books. Why couldn’t I do the same thing?” I remember sitting in the back of her classroom at that moment, gazing out the window at the courtyard adjacent to the room, and daydreaming about being Mr. Fillmore, English teacher. 31 years later, here I am reading books aloud to my students, trying to teach my kids about the human condition. And I wouldn’t change a thing.

Thank you, Mrs. Bestor.

P.S. In that class, I was introduced to what would later become one of my all-time favorite novels, Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. On the first date with my future wife, Melanie, we talked about books and discovered that we had the same favorite book, Dandelion Wine. I think we both took it as a sign, and six months later, we were married.

P.P.S Phyllis Bestor’s response (with her permission): “It is wonderful to make this connection. As a former teacher, one never forgets those moments; I remember that moment precisely. Not only were you a wonderful student, but now you have chosen the most important career, in my opinion, that will leave a mark forever in the minds of those who come to know and share ideas with you. I do remember that I always respected the minds of my high school students and felt a strong connection regardless of our age difference. By the way, I am now 94 years old, in amazing mental and physical condition. I still read voraciously and am doing a lot of writing. I particularly love to write essays. By the way, I have always loved this quote: ‘Through the lives of fictional characters, I have come to see the world more clearly!’ ‘Phyllisophical Notions about Life’ Hey, my name works perfectly. Thanks, Brad. You made my day! Let’s stay in touch. Love you, Phyllis.”