Myth

Today was the final day of myth before our final exam next Monday. Our professor showed us the one essay question we would be answering (it was more like an opinion on our own myths we created and it applies to what we've studied) and then had us vote for MVPs and runner-ups on group work. Then he gave a speech. Yes, it was a bit long, but it was great. I can not believe how passionate and optimistic he is. He spoke about hope for our futures, even if we might be handed a heavy load (economically and otherwise). He asked us to come away from challenges as heroes, like the ones we studied through the semester. He thanked us profusely for being apart of the class and allowing him to learn along with us, and was nearly in tears when he said we were some of the most creative students he had the pleasure to be amongst. He was breaking up when we all burst into applause (not that 'oh thank lord you are done' applause, but genuine, 'you were amazing' applause) and had to leave.
Talk about misjudging a person. In the beginning of the year, I thought he was insane. Who was this guy with the electrified hair and funny mustache and the extensive vocabulary that far outstretched any other? I almost resented him for making me work so hard in a class I thought was going to be a breeze. Who cared about Gilgamesh and what the meaning was behind his quest? Where were the explosions?
It was around the end of the first section (Eastern mythology) that I began to catch on.
This was college.
So I took notes as quickly as possible and began to research what I was fuzzy on in my spare time. Then I realized this man, this guy with the heavy smoker's hack that bothered me for ages, was not crazy. He was passionate. Taking notes became easier (though I still had to research some terms I couldn't write down fast enough) and I began to understand his sense of humor. I looked around me and saw sleeping freshman, people drawing or scribbling all over their notebooks. Then I looked to the front of the room and saw him laughing, making dirty jokes, and telling stories in funny voices so we could try to grasp what it would be like to listen to some Irish man singing a song. Literally, he sang to us in an Irish accent. That jump-started people awake. Who is this crazy, passionate guy? And how can I be like him? Or embody that spirit of passion that I have had the fortune to study under other teachers?
He managed to make me have fun listening to lecture, and then geared everyone up to create their own societies, to be the masters of their own kingdoms. He balanced the serious lectures and creative opportunities so well; why is this so easy for him and yet there are teachers out there that still drone on to the point I'm advised to just try to get things done and get out?
It isn't just my myth teacher who emanates passion either. I think professors have a bit more freedom to be eccentric. Even my astronomy teacher, though not so enthusiastic, has his moments of fun (the first day he played the Monte Python song about the universe, and then the other day he sang a wizard the oz song about courage. . . not sure why). Then there is my American Lit professor, who glows when she talks about history of any kind. I mean, literally, her wrinkles disappear and she looks twenty years younger. I wonder if Maybelline knows how to bottle passion into an anti-aging cream?
Anyway, I guess the point to my rambling is that it overwhelms me to see such passion even after so many years of teaching. It gives me hope. I like thinking that my love for the subjects I pursue isn't going to fade away from time. I like feeling excited about myth, reading, writing, and traveling. I'm happy to see that 40 or so years from now I'll still be just as excited. And maybe even have a head of electrified hair to accompany my enthusiasm.