Max's Beard

Yesterday, 22 April 2013, a bearded Max came into my room.  His beard was nicely trimmed and confident like his walk and smiling eyes.  The beard didn't have the holes and splotches like my own scrag that I feel ashamed to grow and hide behind.  Max, one of my freshmen students from four years ago, was nothing but trouble in my Euclidean Geometry class.  The day I caught him on the phone with his mother knots up my stomach.  I looked like the desperate first-year teachers we make fun of on films that are terrified that they'll be fired if they can't exercise more control over their student's lives.  I made the mistake of taking his phone and trying to talk to Max's mom.
"This is bull sh..!  You can't take my son't phone away when school is out in just a couple of minutes."
"I'm sorry mam, you'll have to pick up Max's phone in the office after school."
"I'm in a hurry, I don't have the time for this sh..!"
Max was using his mom to take a sucker punch at me and I felt like I'd lost some teeth.

Did the Beard, the well kept beard, the manly beard meant another facade max was hiding behind?  Men grow beards to hide behind.  I grew one four years ago before I interviewed with St. John's College.  I thought It'd give me a raw liberal artist look instead of my typical turtle waxed Mormon chin.  I tried to tell myself that I looked older with the beard, but that wasn't true.  It made me look younger, like the long peach fuzz grown by a seventeen-year-old Hasidic Jew.  It turned out that I wasn't accepted or rejected at St. John's because of my facial hair.  Fortunately they could see right past it.

Max didn't hide from me as I sat cloistered behind my desk admiring his beard out of the corner of my eye while I wrapped up another compelling conversation with a student I'll call Jan.  She was retelling some workplace horror stories that were making public school seem like paradise.  Max shakes my hand and I'm thinking that he is also taller than when he was in my class as a fifteen year old.  The formerly beardless youth who used his mom to punch me in the gut looks, stands, and shakes hands like a man.

"Oh, I've read that." He has noticed a copy of Emerson's Self-Reliance on my desk.
"Really?"  Is he just saying that to try and impress me?  What does he care about books?
"I read a lot these days.  My favorite author is a journalist, Christopher Hitchens.  He is brilliant.  My favorite work of his is called Letters to a Young Contrarian; he calls himself a liberal democrat.  He takes on Bill Clinton, Mother Teresa  religion, tradition, and anyone who doesn't agree with him.  One time he gave his arm to a Neo-Nazi who yelled hateful words in his face.  He appreciates free speech so much."

We talk about more of his heroes: Joseph Cambell, Bertrand Russel, C.S. Lewis, William Lane Craig, and his growing library.  He confesses, "I buy more books than I can read. I get them from Savers and other second-hand stores."  He is gushing.  "I have to write and read every day or I don't feel happy anymore."

Then he expresses his intention to bring all of his excitement for thinking to a halt, "I'm going to college now that my surgery is over."
"Why are you going to college if you're getting such a great education right now?"  I'm joking and serious.  "If you go to school then don't let it get in the way of your education."

Going to a community college would waste Max's time and energy.  If he goes to St. John's he'll be doing what he wants: read, write, and discuss on day one rather than waiting until all of his generals are done.  Hopefully, his geometry grade doesn't prevent him from going to the college of his choice.

On his way out the door I ask him to come back and discuss one of his favorite readings with one of my classes.  The label of "Max the boy" seems like ancient history.  He is all covered in the light and enthusiasm of learning and growing.  His beard like a beacon lighting the way.