Writer’s note: I had this idea to write about three former teachers who continue to impact the way I live. Other than my mom, no one has had a greater influence on my life than my teachers. They give so much and even though I think teachers have the most rewarding job, I don’t think we can ever thank them enough. So I began to write and I had too many stories I wanted to tell and too much I wanted to say about each one. It went on too long. It would have been a thisordinaryday word-count record, and then some. I found that the three teachers I wanted to write about meant so much to me that they all deserved their own entry. So I decided to break this into three entries, all called heroes, because that’s who these women are to me. They are my heroes. This is entry No. 1.

Christy Bradford

I had just e-mailed her and she had e-mailed me back. Just yesterday. I was going to come back to visit. In just two weeks, I would be back to visit.

I had tried to come see her before. Twice I had been back on campus since graduation and both times I had gone by her office. I knew both times when I entered the hallway, she wasn’t there.

Christy Bradford always had a line outside her door — and her door was always open. You waited to talk to Christy because it was worth it. She loved to talk about the story you were working on. She was always willing to look it over, even though everyone wanted Christy to look over their stories. She had a way of telling you what was wrong with a story without making you feel bad. Even her former students would frequently visit Christy to look at a story or get advice or just talk.

Christy was the only teacher I’ve ever known who was liked by everyone. Even the best teachers always have some punk who doesn’t like them. Not Christy. No one had a bad word to say about Christy. And so many loved her.

I wanted to see her again for so many reasons. I loved talking to her. I wanted to tell her about everything I had done since I graduated. I wanted to tell her about covering Major League baseball and a World Series. I felt like I owed part of the experience to her. When I interviewed for the internship with MLB.com, the recruiter called Christy, who he used to work with at the Detroit News. He asked her what she thought of me and Christy told him she would hire me in a New York minute. And he did.

I also wanted Christy to tell me everything was going to be OK. I was looking for a job and needed guidance and needed to hear I was going to make it.

Christy had been the first one at KU who made me feel like I was going to make it. It’s easy to get lost on a college campus. There are thousands of students on the sidewalks, scattering to class like an army of ants. You live in dorms that are the tallest buildings in town in small rooms that all look the same. Sometimes you feel like just a number.

My number was 1329586. Sometimes that’s all you would write on a test: 1329586. That’s who you were. That’s all some professors see you as: 1329586.

But Christy saw something different. She saw potential and a love for sports and a desire to tell stories. She taught me how to find the stories, even when those stories might make people mad. Christy loved a story that got people talking.

She also taught me about nut grafs and how to write a good lead and how to conduct a good interview. All those lessons kind of run together. They’re little nuggets stored in my head that begin to become second nature over time, like flicking your wrist on a jump shot.

But what I remember about Christy more than anything is how much she cared and how she made me feel special — much more than just a number.

It started when Christy would pull me aside and give me story ideas.

“I’ve had this idea for a long time and I think you’re the one who can find out more, who can tell the story,” she would say.

Christy was there to get you started, and always there if you needed help in the process. I would send her stories I finished late at night and she would return an edited version before I woke up the next morning. If you brought her a story as she was packing up her things to go home, she would set everything down, read your story and talk to you about it for 30 minutes. I don’t see how she was ever able to sneak out of the building.

Christy made me feel like I was her most important student, but I think she made everyone feel that way.

One day as I strolled into class, Christy had a big smile on her face. And then she looked to the front of the class and my eyes wandered to the board. She had written a congratulatory message to me for the class to see after I had won an award.* Christy wanted all of her students to be recognized, to know that she recognized them.

*It’s funny, Christy always wanted everyone to know when her students excelled or won an award, but she didn’t share any of her accomplishments. Before she was a teacher, Christy was a journalist and a damn good one. She won a Pulitzer, the ultimate prize for a journalist. But nobody knew about her Pulitzer. No one. If I won a Pulitzer, I think I would print it on a business card:

C.J. Moore

Pulitzer award-winning journalist

So almost a year after graduation, I wanted to go back. I wanted to recognize her. I wanted to thank her for everything. For believing in me. For giving me the confidence to know I could make it in this business.

But the day after I had received her e-mail, two weeks before I was going to visit her, I got word that Christy had died of a heart attack the night before.

I’m sure Christy had an idea of how much she meant to me. My mom mailed her a thank you note when I graduated. Obviously, if my mom is mailing you a thank you note, you’ve had an impact on my life. But I wanted to go back. I wanted to thank her myself. But more than anything, I just wanted to be around Christy again and talk about journalism and life.

I have a mentor who knew Christy and is constantly asking me, “What would Christy think?” I want to tell him I don’t need a reminder. I’m always thinking about Christy. And even when I don’t realize it, her lessons are influencing my work.

On Tuesday I was sitting at lunch with the math department. We were tasked with “building culture”…whatever that means. I generally do not think highly of manufactured team-building exercises. In fact, I tend to think they all suck. Since this particular exercise did not include free food but still stole my lunch-time, I expected it to be especially worthless.

Of course we had a list of questions to answer. The first questions were pretty basic – Who are you? What do you teach? No trouble there. We whipped through that in no time. Boring.

The next question was not nearly so nice — What do you do when no one is watching? This was one of those trick questions, those fake I-am-going-to-make-you-have-team-culture-whether-you-like-it-or-not questions. This was the type of question you might answer with friends. But these were not friends. These were not even acquaintances. These were co-workers I had just met, and thus they were not even in the acquaintance ballpark yet.

So naturally I decided to tell them nothing. Nothing real would leave my mouth, much less something potentially embarrassing. Come on. I wanted to make a good impression.

“Well, I usually do it when no one is around, but if I am comfortable with you, I’ll just do it in front of you…I pick my nose.”

So said the first volunteer. I was slightly taken-aback. Actually, I was shocked. This girl, this new girl, just said something real about herself. Real and embarrassing. I didn’t know what to do with this information. Should I laugh? Should I react at all? Or pretend it didn’t happen?

I made no reaction. It was better to gauge the group that way. Some other people asked questions, but really, there was surprisingly little commotion.

When it was my turn, the words “I pick my nose too,” popped out of my mouth. Before the error of mouth’s action could set in, a table-wide conversation broke out about how everybody picks their noses, and about how satisfying it was - especially when it was a big one (I am kind of getting embarrassed just writing this in my bedroom right now).

What is interesting to me though, beyond the fact that nose-picking is such a great topic of conversation, is that girl. That new girl.

Where I planned a reserved answer, she was bold. Where I planned on some kind of mask, she was herself. Where my answer would have undoubtedly done nothing for anybody, her answer freed our group to actually accomplish the goal of the questions; indeed we created culture.

I don’t know what exactly it is about just being yourself that is so powerful, but her truth telling, her truth living, had an immediate impact on our group. By no means are we all best friends, but this shared experience, in this case nose-picking, was so un-normal that it brought us together in a way the team building could not have hoped for.

And what’s better, her actions have inspired me. They have challenged me to be more…well, me. Though I still don’t pick in public. That’s just gross.

When I chose Year of the Dog for my first New York City movie premiere last year, I thought I’d get a quintessential experience at best, maybe a long line for the bathroom at worst. I picked it after reading the New York Times review. The reviews were so well written that sometimes I just liked reading about movies without actually watching them, much as I enjoyed hearing actors on Inside the Actors Studio discuss their characters and craft. What I didn’t anticipate from my first premiere was being inspired — through homesickness for my family dog, Dawson — to become a New York City volunteer.

As soon as I got home from the film, I started researching animal organizations that I could volunteer with. The urge to have my own dog was overwhelming after the seeing the main character’s relationship and love for dogs. If I couldn’t have my own, at least I could be around other pups in need of some TLC. I e-mailed a few groups, hearing back from a woman who attached the volunteer application. Once I read the weekly time commitment, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it. I wanted to play with dogs whenever I could and they were looking for consistency.

My interest in volunteering continued to have themes. After I saw a YouTube video about third-world hunger, I Googled the sponsoring organization, filled out an online form and received a personal e-mail to call someone to discuss my interest. I appreciated the quick response, but knew that wouldn’t pan out because I hate talking on the phone, especially to strangers.

Despite wanting to volunteer, I never got around to actually doing anything. I researched a lot, but the extent of my goodwill was playing an online game called Free Rice, which donates grains of rice for every vocabulary word you correctly define (or in my case, guess).

Then one day I noticed an update on my Facebook feed about a volunteer organization in New York. After looking it up, I knew it was exactly what I was looking for — not just one cause but a large umbrella of activities (including walking dogs that are up for adoption and art projects with kids and Bingo with the elderly). Because the system was so clear and extensive, I felt confident about finally following through.

I signed up for my first project and after waiting three weeks, the day finally arrived. The kids didn’t start showing up until 15 minutes after we expected them. I was hoping for one of the younger girls, like the 2-year-old already at the computer singing along with Barney. But two sisters walked in, hugged the project coordinator and then stood right in front of me. The decision was made for me.

Daysi was 7, going into third grade and didn’t take much time to decide that she wanted to research Chris Brown. I panicked immediately. I know Chris Brown. His hip-hop music is the kind of stuff we danced to in college bars. It has a good beat but isn’t exactly something I’d suggest for the under-10 crowd. I started worrying about whether we were supposed to aid with moral literacy as well. That was one thing that hadn’t been covered during the organization’s orientation.

But before I knew it, Daysi was telling me about her favorite Chris Brown video with zombies - and pulling it up on YouTube. My heart raced. What if I let her watch something she’s not allowed to at home? What if a curse word comes up? How much grinding is a 7-year-old allowed to see? I was definitely not prepared to make these decisions. I told Daysi we could watch once we finished everything, secretly hoping we’d run out of time. She didn’t look happy. Especially once she looked around and saw that all the other children were playing games on Disney or PBS websites and I was the only volunteer enforcing the assignment.

We spent some time on Wikipedia and managed to make a two-page PowerPoint, even changing the fonts and colors (I’m a designer. I couldn’t resist). I even managed to incorporate GoogleMaps into the lesson, suggesting that we include where Mr. Brown was born. Daysi didn’t know where Virginia was, so I introduced her to my map obsession. She was not impressed.

And then we hit the wall.

Daysi put her head down and wouldn’t talk to me. The coordinator was nearby and asked if she was OK and went to get her sister, who just yanked her head up. Daysi, sounding beyond her years, asked if she could go out on the steps for some fresh air. I stayed at the desk wondering what I’d said to make her shut down. She returned much happier and this time I didn’t fight watching Chris Brown on YouTube. She almost had an outburst because she couldn’t hear the music, but after the project coordinator asked the rowdy boys to quiet down, the problem was solved.

We ended the afternoon playing some maze game against each other, Daysi shrieking that I was doing it all wrong and killing my player each time. In my defense, I had a sharp learning curve and was becoming a competitor. But then it was snack time and Daysi was out of my hands. Sigh of relief.

The six volunteers congregated to discuss how things went with the coordinator. Everyone talked about how they couldn’t get their partners to do anything in PowerPoint and they headed straight for online games. I admitted that my girl hated me, but they were impressed we actually made a PowerPoint and that I showed her GoogleMaps. This made me feel a little less of a failure.

I’ve always considered myself someone who is good with children. I grew up with lots of younger cousins who wound up on my hip getting swayed to sleep (I was deemed a “baby hog” but I didn’t care). I frequently encourage my co-workers to get pregnant so that I can hold a newborn (I even offer to baby-sit). The lack of connection I felt with Daysi, despite how hard I tried, was obvious. And frustrating. I wasn’t expecting an instant bond, but I also wasn’t expecting a 7-year-old to talk to me about Chris Brown and be so upset with me that she needed to go outside. But maybe me feeling a bond wasn’t what it was supposed to be about. Maybe me just being there and spending time with her, even though it was doing PowerPoint, was enough.

The lesson that volunteering reminded me: It’s not about me.

Graphic treatment by Becka

The other day, on a Sunday morning, an old man deliberately walked into my bike on the sidewalk. His sole purpose was to let my son and me know that this was not a cycle path. He didn’t talk to me, he just blocked the way with his body so that I had to dismount. I felt hurt, wronged, angry, also a little guilty and ashamed, but essentially, I was convinced that I had the morally higher ground. It just wasn’t right to be like this on a Sunday morning, and my son certainly didn’t deserve to be treated this way (in moments like this I tend to forget that my son usually couldn’t care less. He’s one year old).

I blamed this man for making that particular moment so full of anger, hostility and shame. How can he do that? Why didn’t he talk to me first? How anti-social can you be? He is not allowed to do that. What a narrow-minded asshole. Those were the words in my head; I actually let out a very mature “Thank you,” to which he replied with (a no less mature) “You are so welcome.”

Then, I called him an asshole.

I had been on my way to church when this happened. Because I was so aggravated after this incident (which happened right outside my house), I considered not going at all, but then remembered something my yoga teacher had told me a while ago: The heart wants to be dared.

My first thought when he had told me this was that this sounds negative. I don’t know about English, but in German, the word herausfordern (literally “demand out”) connotes attack, danger and being hurt. Why would I want that for my heart? I have enough on my plate as it is, I don’t need to invite any more trouble.

But he elaborated: The heart wants to be dared. It wants to be challenged so that it can grow. Your body can help in that endeavour. You can open your heart physically, draw back your shoulders, lift your chin, lose that hunch you got accustomed to sitting in front of a screen all day long.

So I was riding my bike to church, trying to calm down and get a grip on the strong emotions flooding my brain and my soul, remembering these words. And all of a sudden, I knew, I KNEW what he had meant. I realised my heart had been anxious about going to church even before the incident, because it is still a new and very emotional experience for me, which is frightening for a control-freak of my calibre. I couldn’t know what would happen the first time I had my son with me, and that scared me.

In addition, I had been in one of the darker places of my life in recent weeks, grappling with numerous old and new issues that had been re-born, so to speak, with my son. These issues have nothing whatsoever to do with him, he’s an absolute delight, but they have everything to do with me and with things very close to my heart that I have ignored for far too long.

Opening my heart to all of this, I managed to calm down and take a more forgiving stance, both toward the old man and toward myself. I am not proud of how I reacted, of my self-righteousness and my insulting manner. However, I don’t think he has anything to be proud of, either. But when I opened my heart to him and also to myself at that particular moment, the question of “whose fault is this?” became so utterly irrelevant that the day brightened a little.

I sincerely hope for more of such moments, when I manage to conjure up that inner poise, that outlook on life that says “Here I am. I welcome you, what and whoever you are.” Somewhere deep down I know that even things that would usually trigger anger and its close companion, fear, will then appear in a different, softer light.

At the risk of stating the obvious, I don’t like going to the dentist. I’m sure there are varying degrees of disdain for making that semi-annual trip to have a stranger put metal objects in your mouth, poke, prod and generally assault your personal space. For some people, it’s part of a routine, more of an inconvenience than a real hassle. For others, the D-word is downright offensive, bordering on a nightmare.

Pencil me in under the “nightmare” category.

When I say I don’t like the dentist, I really mean that I hate the dentist. I despise the dentist. I wholly object to the dentist. Worst of all, I fear the dentist.

Saying you don’t like the dentist seems, like I said: obvious. But saying you’re afraid of the dentist feels like something entirely different. It sounds so… 8 years old. But I can’t help it. Right up there with trains, it’s a fear I’ve carried with me through my entire childhood, up the stairway of adolescence and right on into adulthood.

Chalk it up as one part bad experience as a kid, one part to my claustrophobic tendencies and about nine parts being a weenie about mouth pain. I cringe from mouth pain like nothing else in the world, and I’ve made that known. I’ve told friends before that it was my worst fear.

A disbelieving friend asked me one time, “So would you rather be hit in the mouth or in your (nether regions)?” I was able to pause for a few moments, think it over, and honestly tell him I wasn’t sure — I would probably take the shot down below.

I had to be convinced that today’s trip to the dentist was necessary. I nearly had to be dragged from the car, and my nerves only went downhill from there.

When I’m about to undergo some sort of traumatic event, I try to prepare myself by putting it in perspective. I attempt to psyche myself up to provide that jolt of adrenaline needed to make it through to the other side.

When I broke and dislocated the bone in my middle finger a few years ago (or shall I say, when my dear friend George broke and dislocated the bone in my middle finger a few years ago), the doctor told me he would be back in five minutes. He gave me that time alone, and said that when he returned, he was going to break the finger again and force it back into the socket.

See ya in five, doc.

Actually, my first thought went to NFL ironman quarterback Brett Favre. I’d heard a story once that Favre, notorious for being a tough guy, broke his thumb on one play, had it popped back into place and returned to the field the very next play to throw a touchdown. When the doctor came back and inserted a four-inch needle between my middle and ring finger, I was thinking of the quarterback and what he would tell me to do.

Something along the lines of, “Focus. Be tough. Play through it.”

I wasn’t playing through anything, but I felt braver imagining that Brett Favre might be proud of me. However, when the needle came out and the doctor cocked his head to one side to say, “Better make it two shots,” my bravery was tested.

A numb crack and a pop, a tug and another pop later, my finger was back in socket and I’d moved along. The quarterback might not exactly applaud the effort, but at least I didn’t cry. That was victory enough.

And so today, as I approached my darkest hour, the dentist’s assistant jammed one of her barbaric tools into my mouth, my mind danced from calm place to calm place, none of them helping to settle me down. I didn’t know of any tales involving professional athletes and molars, so they would be of no assistance to me. In a state of near panic, with tears forming at the edges of my eyes, my thoughts went to… Carrie Bradshaw.

I should explain.

I’m not a Sex and the City fan, per se, but I’m not entirely opposed to it, either. Until about a month ago, I’d never had an opinion one way or another. I hadn’t consciously avoided the show, but had never found a reason to tune in, either.

I’ve got a reason, now, and I can’t say I mind it. The plot moves quickly, the storylines are engaging, and there’s always at least one 30-second stretch that makes me want to cover my blushing face. I can look past the fact that the show makes men look like pigs who aren’t capable of much beyond satisfying themselves and sweating.

Well, except for one character: Mr. Big. And it’s because of him that I was thinking about Carrie Bradshaw during a dentist’s exam.

See, in much the same way that I couldn’t imagine Brett Favre cringing at having his shattered thumb forced back into place, I couldn’t fathom Mr. Big being afraid of the drill. Was I making a reach? Most definitely. But it helped at the moment.

For all the SATC knowledge I’ve developed through the first eight episodes, Mr. Big seems like the closest thing to a likeable male figure contained in the series. I know it’s likely to change (because that’s the way television works, after all), but to this point, he’s a man’s man. He doesn’t seem like the type to freak out because some sort of tool resembling a claw is being repeatedly shoved into the back of his mouth.

I thought of Mr. Big, and I thought of Brett Favre, and I tried not to think about the metal in my mouth.

And I calmed down. I made it through, and as much as it upset my psyche for the rest of the day, I survived.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that my girlfriend held my hand the whole time. What would Mr. Big have thought? I don’t really care.