Getting old

I was working on my computer today when I noticed something strange about the person I saw in the mirror on the wall. He didn't look familiar, even though he was me.

I don't know if it's the sleep deprivation or the stress of dealing with hundreds of whiny high school students, but for some reason today I simply cannot recognize my own reflection. I see a strange person in the mirror who moves as I move, but doesn't seem like me. Maybe I am too tired.

This week has been a bit of an eye-opener for me. I've been interacting with these secondary-schoolers the whole time and there have been some strange moments where I have found myself put in a position I've found unfamiliar. I can't really name it, but it's somewhere along the lines of a role model and teacher, but blurry.

This got really strong for me a couple days ago when I did an interview excercise with the class I'm assisting, Newspaper Writing & Design. I started out by interviewing the whole class, about 20 students, at once. I'd bounce from source to source, pulling facts and opinions out of the students and switching between different strategies of obtaining information. I was good, and the students were amazed at how calm I was as I went about with my interrogation. There were laughs and giggles at funny answers and consideration for thoughtful ones, but the students were much happier to hear I was turning the tables to let them interview me.

No holds barred.

One of the teachers suggested they try and get some dirt on me, which suited them well. They asked about all my misdeeds: had I ever done drugs? How many? How often do I get drunk now? What about when I was in High School? What was the worst thing I ever did to someone?

I answered each question in full. I never flinched, I needed to show I wasn't afraid of the truth. But by the end of the interview I thought about all these things they really wanted to know. I mean, the prospect of finding out the surly details of my past had them on the edge of their seats.

So I asked, what made it special to them to know about the time I got so drunk I had to cling to a fence to stand and spent more than an hour conversing with random people through yelling?

The unanimous answer: I'm an adult who's been through what they're going through, and they wanted to know how I dealt with it.

I was stunned. These kids sought my experience and maybe approval of the lifestyle many of them life or are pushed to live by their friends. I kept asking why they wanted that, because it seemed to me they were wanting to justify decisions they'd made or would make.

I set the straight on it all, in my own little way. I didn't tell them not to drink; rather, I told them to decide for themselves. I said that if they liked the taste of a cold beer or a sharp glass of rum, then go ahead. I knew there was nothing stopping them, but then I started naming other reasons. I said that if they were drinking to make themselves feel better or because they were told to by friends or because they think they're supposed to, then they need to reconsider. I stressed that it was their choice, and I wasn't going to make it that clean for them.

And I think it worked. They reacted respectfully to my comments and I think, I hope I got through to them all.

What's funny is, I haven't had more than a few beers in a single night since I turned 21. I guess just knowing I have the right is enough anymore.

It's strange being my age. I wasn't more than six years older than any of those students. Some not even four years. But I'd crossed the threshold to being 21, and it's one hell of a leap. Your mind changes when you start buying your own beer legally, although I'm not entirely certain that's absolute causality. There's other factors to this.

Like a few weeks ago when I saw a soldier on TV who'd just been killed in Iraq. He was 19, and it dawned on me that the ones out there fighting for my county and coming back in boxes are now younger than me. I was so much younger when this war started and I watched the older boys packing up and leaving. Since when did I get to be older than them?

Now I understand why older people get sad seeing "boys" dying in wars. As a teen, 18 and older was adulthood. Today, I see it was just a start.

I know I have my whole life ahead of me still (Well, 3/4 of it, when you consider statistics). It just seems from the point I'm at that maybe I moved a little too fast already. Maybe I missed something I should have payed some serious attention.

But it's too late now. Time is up for this moment. Now for whatever comes next.