It’s no doubt that some of the great moments in your life come from proving people wrong. With that in mind, I think back to fifth grade, in that apprehensive week before Christmas break. I was in Mrs. Panek’s class, the only intermediate school teacher that I really didn’t like, and along with the rest of my class, had just received a writing assignment: we had to think of a New Year’s resolution. Within two minutes of getting the assignment, the whole class was lined up at Mrs. Panek’s desk, waiting to get approved. We all had smiles plastered onto our faces, ready to take on our challenges, but as each student got their idea assessed by the teacher, they left with disappointed faces, plopped down back in their seat, and started erasing their paper furiously, some with tears in their eyes. I glanced down at my paper:
My New Year’s resolution is to build a transport.
My handwriting was pretty classy back then. Anyway, I arrived at Mrs. Panek’s desk, and she gave me her usual pissed-off look. I showed her my paper, and after skimming over it, she callously said, “There’s no way you can do this. Go back to your desk and think of something else.”
Feeling dejected, I erased my idea and wrote down a different one: to stop biting my nails. Ha, yeah right. I still haven’t done that one. The teacher found my new idea acceptable, the day ended, and before I knew it, Christmas break was there.
But a part of me still remained attached to my original idea. When I got home, I walked into the living room, where my little brother Tim was sitting on the couch. “Come on,” I said. My eyes narrowed to determined yet angry slits. “We’re building a transport.”
Tim and I spent the whole rest of that evening and up to noon the next day in the basement and the garage, gathering supplies. One hour and two rolls of duct tape later, we had built a transport.
It’s kind of hard to explain, but I’ll try. The base was made out of a tipped over dolly (you know, those two wheeled carts that people put boxes on), with roller blades taped to the handle to serve as front wheels. The cockpit was constructed of a tipped over stool lined with pillows. The driver would sit inside the legs of the stool, with the actual seat part facing forward. There was a blanket draped over the top, to cover the holes in the cockpit. On the side of the stool, in green paint, was written “The Spacer”.
I emerged from the basement with a triumphant grin. I had done it. After Christmas break, I sauntered up to Mrs. Panek’s desk and slapped a photograph of The Spacer on top of the test she was grading. She took a few comprehend what it was, and then her eyes widened. I smiled wolfishly. “Wow, Ben, that’s really im--”
“Save it, B!#&^,” I said. She offered the picture back.
“Keep it,” I called as I turned and strutted back to my desk.
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