My Father's Legacy

It was always there. I was always somehow aware of it. I knew what it meant, i knew what it took but to a far lesser degree than I had imagined.

Describing my father was an easy task, one I could easily summarize at any given time in but a few words; caring, nurturing, intelligent, renowned. I knew he was a teacher. I knew he worked in Madison, New Jersey. And I knew he came home every day about 4:30pm.

I had always taken it for granted. The armful of books hindering his ability to slam shut the door of an old diesel 4-door, the crash of a rickety, old wooden door nearly useless, a soon-to-follow request to set the dinner table and the games that came along with preparing a spaghetti dinner, all things I wish I would have paid more attention to.

I remember tabletops and bureaus, cluttered with papers, letterheads with the addresses of places I'd never visited. Books stacked upon books, higher than my short legs would care to let me see. Papers crawling to the furthest corners of the living room all with an intent I cared little to realize back then.

Not too long ago, December 20, 2001, actually, my father invited a friend and me to observe a performance he had directed, a culmination of his Film, English and Drama class. We arrived about 11am, my arms barely able to hold the multitude of books and early-Christmas presents I had brought with me, just in case I wasn't able to travel out to Jersey to see him on the 25th. The performance ran continuous throughout the day, broken into 45 minute sets of music, short plays and faux commercials. We had arrived just in time to see a pantomime of the song "Pierre," a song I had heard on long car rides since before I could remember.

My dad was excited to see me, I could tell, though not so much as to calm his nerves, muddling words to himself after each late sound cue or video playback. I knew what my father had done as I stated earlier, but again, I never knew to what extent. What I saw in the students' interaction with him; the way they would simply call him "Joe," the way he was able to joke and relate to them on such a casual level while still retaining some sort of commanding demeanor. It was incredible.

As I sat and watched the remaining runs of the show play out I couldn't help but think what an amazing man my father was. The same attributes I had come to love growing up were a part of him, not just as a parent, but as an adult, an educator, a leader and most importantly, a friend. Someone the students had come to trust, someone to sympathize with, someone to confide in, someone to talk to.

I left that day with a million thoughts wrestling in the back of my head. It was bewildering to me how much it took day after day for him to be there, how much of his heart and soul he truly poured into his work and how much he loved it. I remember thinking to myself, with all honesty, if I grew up and touched half the people he had, on half the level he did, I would be happy with myself.

As if he couldn't have given anymore to me, I sit now in an Education course, Wednesdays from 2 to 5pm. My sole reason, the person responsible for providing me with the tools to have shaped myself as a person, as an individual, is my father. I could never thank him enough, I fear he may never know just how great an impact he has had on me, but I will do my best. And who knows, maybe I'll be good at teaching too...

-- Peter Russo