Children talk about what they want to be when they 'grow up'; dreams of yonder, and sighs of tomorrow. Unfortunately, they don't realize that it implies one little thing: growing up. A dream is affected by situations and external factors that change it, corrupt it. A dream is an innocent thing when being child, even noble sometimes (a firemen, a doctor, an astronaut), just like a child. Then, through the process of growing up, that dream grows up too. It changes: "Well, maybe not a firemen, too dangerous, why not a chemical engineer? I can still deal with fire and maybe save some lives." Then it comes to the point that it's possible that the dream, when grown up, is a completely different dream with a completely different objective then what it had when it was born... just like us.
I don't have or done many things to be proud of. Being an only child was a crutch that until very recently have I been taking away, and I'm not known as being ambitious. But I do have one thing: my dream.
As I stood there, 12 years old, in front of 30 or so parents and teachers, I recited my speech. It was for a grade for the Oral Communication class, about a week or two before I graduated from junior high. I felt a sudden stroke of steadiness in me while I was shaking like a mad man. I had my notes on my hand and the group in front of me. I started. The topic was about my top ten most influential persons; I don't remember them all, although I do believe I included the persons who helped cleaned the school as one of the top ones (I liked talking to them). Everybody was looking at me, not with the comfortless stare that I was accustomed at the beginnings of puberty, but with interest and surprising wonder. I loved it, and I craved it from then on.
I found myself directing small study groups where it was mostly me over at the blackboard explaining a problem, or everybody gathered around me and my laptop seeing how to debug lines of code. My geekiness strived around the fact that it didn't really matter if I masterfully knew the subject that I was talking about, it was about how well I transmitted what I knew about it that made the difference. Einstein, although a great mind, was a terrible teacher because he didn't know how to conduct himself in front of a group of persons.
It was during my high school years that I confirmed my dream, my 'What am I Going to Be When I Grow Up?' story: I want to be a teacher. It hasn't changed after high school; no matter what has happened around me, it just keeps getting harder and harder to steer me away from it. It also really doesn't matter if I'm in a school or not (although, I rather be in one), while for an hour or so I'm in front of a group of people and they grant me that beautiful "Oh! So, that's how it's done." And some decades later, I receive the news that one of my students made it big and became a teacher, and loves it as much as me.
Such is my everlasting dream, and tis' I: the dreamer.