Photo by Tim Abdulla. Shirt design by Michael Groat

I’m not good at a lot of things. When I was around 14 years old I was on the basketball team and I actually went almost the entire season without scoring a single point. I would put my athletic performance at least partially down to a lack of actual game time, as well as a genuine lack of ability. Rest assured, I was truly bad, but I didn’t get a lot of minutes to haphazardly apply that lack of skill regardless. Still, when the coach found out about my inauspicious scoring record (zero points per game) on the way to our final game, he promised me we would rectify it that very day. Kindness comes in many forms; it was a very decent thing to do for a confused, anxious, and athletically impaired teenager. No one would have questioned his judgement for restraining me to the bench — just because a kid has feet doesn’t mean he should tap-dance. He very well may have saved me from further embarrassment, but today was not a day for soft falsehoods. Today truth would reign.

During our final game of the season, with the minutes wearing down, the coach concocted a play designed with the exclusive aim of giving me an open look at the basket. We’d lost the game at this point but there was still a battle to be won. With mere seconds remaining my teammates split, drew the defences to the sidelines, and got me the ball. I was wide-open in the middle of the court. The ball in my hands was made of more than mere rubber: it contained fragments of my dignity, the respect of my teammates, and pride — pride in who I was and what I was going through. I was 14 and I didn’t want to be embarrassed. I knew this was my chance.

It really is something, but I made the shot. Unbelievable — just when you think you’ve got life figured out, it yields something incredible (incredible for me at least). Our bench erupted like I’d hit a game-winning shot from half court. I suppose there was more than the game on the line for all of us. The opposing team must have been confused by the unrestrained celebration over two meaningless points in a game already lost, but I guess they weren’t in on the joke. Where every other team had succeeded, they had failed: Jack Altman was on the scoresheet.

For a moment I think I felt what athletes live for: no scripts, no editors, and no backspace. You’re only as good as your last game, your last shift, or your last two points. Maybe that’s why I retired immediately . I’d broken my personal best, and head high I walked into the sunset. Needless to say, I never was very good at basketball.

That being said, there are things I am good at. I loved theatre in high school, and I think it actually saved me in a lot of senses. I was a difficult, uninterested student, regardless of the subject. I gave a lot of shit and received a lot in return. I had too much intelligence to be completely cast aside and too many friends to be an outright misfit, but I tested every boundary around me constantly. I genuinely didn’t care — an F on a test simply felt meaningless. So to find acting to be something I actually enjoyed doing, excelled at, and received positive feedback on was substantial.

I understood theatre on an instinctive level, improved on it as the years rolled by, and was proud of my accomplishments within it. I got lead roles with cute girls who I can assure you I would not have met otherwise. I got a lot of laughs during rehearsals, people enjoyed being around me, and I started establishing my identity in a significant way. I started chipping away at who I was actually trying to be when everything else was put aside. Acting was a natural fit and I was good at it.

I wanted to be a professional actor, which people always took to mean I wanted to be Leonardo DiCaprio holding onto a door telling Nicole Kidman to live her life , or whatever — I’ve never seen Titanic. In actual fact, I just wanted to live off something I enjoyed doing, even if it was a struggle. Maybe the struggle was part of the plan — people seemed confused by the concept.

I look back on my life now and I realize how much I miss acting. I was an impressionable and somewhat fragile teenager and the negative or apathetic responses I received when I spoke of my ambitions aloud ultimately robbed me of them. I cannot shelter myself entirely from blame when examining the undoing of my lost aspirations. Still, I think with a few more nods in the right direction, I wouldn’t find myself at this moment staring at my computer screen realizing I haven’t acted on stage in close to a decade. I would like to return to acting one day; in my world of compromises, it was unusually fair to me. I still miss being backstage with friends to this day — but I digress.

When I was most focused on my dream of acting I wanted to do more to put myself in an advantageous position and legitimize my future. So in grade 12, I picked choir as one of my electives. It was taught in tandem by Ty Lowe and David Buchan. They are two lovely, bright, and vibrant characters — in addition to being talented musicians and engaging teachers.

So, designated a bass and standing next to my good friend Vlad, I gradually discovered the joys of singing. Far too self-conscious to loosen up and sing out with the gusto I now know I can, the teamwork and relative anonymity of a choir was the perfect vessel to slowly come to the internal realization that I actually might be good at this. Since then I’ve done a lot of singing on stage and off, for friends, family, and strangers. I’ve received warm receptions from people I’ve never met and written songs for people I can no longer forget. It’s important to me, and it largely started in one room with two excellent teachers.

When the choir went out to perform it felt cohesive for me; my experiences in acting made the whole thing very digestible and enjoyable. I would smile brightly and sing with vigour. After one of our early performances, Mr Buchan (as I, of course, referred to him then) spoke to me enthusiastically about my performance, saying how great it was to have me onstage. David Buchan is a great guy — he has an infectious upbeat attitude and a general appreciation of what’s worth appreciating. I wish I could say I never let him down, but I can’t.

I was a problematic character in grade 12, and as that year progressed my involvement in essentially everything fell through. At some point in the latter half, I pretty much abandoned going to school at all. My truancy was resolute and as vague as my interest was prior, it had waned almost completely. Sadly, this attitude extended to the few things I actually had cared about, including choir. I’d gone from being David Buchan’s reliable go-to to being reliably unreliable. I knew enough to know I was finished with the institution of school and that was it. 17 and adrift, my eyes glazed over as I inhaled smoke.

At the end of the year, they gave out awards to the top grade in every class (e.g. Math 11, Geography 12, et cetera). Something I must note is that the teachers actually submit the winners midway through the year, early enough for my cynical, unregulated teenage apathy not to have had fully manifested in my soft, adolescent head. In other words, back when I was invested enough to show up, I suppose. The awards took place in the gym: the winners walked up the stairs on the right side of the stage, crossed, received their award, and headed down the opposite side.

I think I must have been vaguely aware of what was about to happen. The award for Drama 12 was immediately before the award for Choir 12, to accommodate for whatever nonsensical, non-alphabetical system they chose to adopt. I knew I was likely going to win the Drama 12 award, but I was also becoming aware, with a gut-wrenching realization, that I might actually win Choir 12 as well. If that happened, it would be painfully underserved, horribly embarrassing, as well as being the longest 50 meters I would ever have to walk. It appeared the reactions to my actions were waiting in the wings.

As predicted, I won Drama 12. I stood up, walked in front of the stage and up the stairs stage right. Then, having received my award, I started to return in a hushed panic back to my seat. With my head low and my mind aching, I awaited my fate, more than ready to collapse in on myself — silently praying to a god I don’t believe in.

Apparently, God does not believe in me either, because as I was exiting the stage my name echoed around the gymnasium for the second time. The Choir 12 award recipient was me. It had happened, I’d won. I was the recipient of an award I knew I was not entitled to; worse, one that also came from a meaningful place from a good person who wanted nothing more than for me to be successful. In a sea of teachers and staff who thought I was an uncooperative and frustrating nuisance, he’d trusted me — and I’d proven his trust was ill-founded. I wasn’t rebelling against a system or an unfair institution — I was hurting someone who cared about me, someone who was actually interested in who I was and what I wanted out of my life. I was ashamed.

I had to cross the stage again to accept the award. The worst part was knowing he was watching me the whole time.

I heard through the other choir teacher, Ms Lowe, that he’d wanted to take the award back. It was symbolic to both of us I suppose, but he never found me in the end of year scramble. Maybe it was beneficial for me, cradling whatever prize I’d been given. It was as if my own contrived logic, childish misunderstandings, and idiotic lack of perspective had been made manifest. The award burned into the flesh of my hands like dry ice.

When I was neglecting myself there were consequences to accept, but they were mine. They roamed my head freely, but I was too detached to worry about the intangibles anyway. Neglecting a person who had had such initial faith in me left me struggling for an answer; even years later coming to shore empty-handed. In these moments I was ugly.

This is all being written for a reason. To keep it simple, I accept my mistakes. I did things I don’t fondly remember in high school, but it was usually not to people I regarded highly — or, more importantly, to those who regarded me well at all. I want to make a few things clear.

To David Buchan: I’m sorry I let you down all those years ago. You helped me during a confusing and complicated time. You played a role in how I view myself that lasts into the present day, which is something all teachers should aspire to. I failed to act like the person I now know I should have. Even in those moments, my vision wasn’t so clouded as to obscure the truth entirely — I just chose to ignore it. I don’t know how well you remember me, but I remember your classes fondly. I hope you’re healthy, happy, and full of that same passion I always associate you with. Just remember you can affect people for the better, although I’m sure you’re already aware. Academics are such major focal points in so many schools that people forget that the arts aren’t just something to fill an elective block with. They aren’t secondary to what the mainstream deems worthy of pursuing. They aren’t childish aspirations that, while cute and pleasant, are ultimately irrelevant and inconsequential. They are and always will be a lifeline to certain kids who have more questions than answers, people who want to do something because they love it and nothing more — people like me.

There was a small group of people at my school who saw Jack Altman not as a problem to be solved, but as potential to be harnessed. There’s so much between now and then, but I think it still helps me when I look in the mirror and see the ever-shifting sea trapped inside me. Thank you to everyone who saw me for who I was and not for what I was doing. David, I want you to know that I never forgot the factor you played in my young life. I want you to know I know I let you down. I want you to know I’m sorry.

Edited by Adrienne Matei.