|1966 - The year he left.
||[Nov. 17th, 2004|08:26 pm]
My French instructor, Monsieur Boag, is the only man I've ever found myself feeling beneath. He is the only man I've met who I could feel is my father. Though, I do not feel that I need to rise above and overcome his interpreted superiority. I feel it's something... I feel it's something I could live aside and glean much from, a love I'll never feel. He is french, and attractive for a graying fellow above 50. He has pouting lips, a perfect hairline; his hair is always parted at his left near the middle of his brow. He posseses a rounded french chin and a long jawline. He has calm blue eyes, and a smile that has qualities of childlike mischief or astonishment. He is clean shaven. I'm not sure if he tucks in his shirt, days he does, days he doesn't. He is of average standing, as tall as I, possibly less possibly more. When seated infront him, though, he is a statue - like that of neoclassical design. He has seen the world twice over and knows of its history, and many of its languages - knowing them backwards and forewards. His knowledge spills over and overwhelms all but me. I pray for his company.|
We had a heated french session on this day. It was full of sophomoric banter and smart-allic comments. I, for once in a thousand days was involved in this kind ritual. Monsieur Boag was full of humorous spirits, it was most likely a result of a woman. He is french.
He broke a piece of chalk in his writing of simplistic sentences aimed to exhaust our most limited vocabulary. Complete with several clauses inducing the use of 'que.'
He laughed as he surveyed the splintered fragment on the tile floor, "They don't make chalk like they used to."
I jested, "What do you mean... with lead?"
He endearingly called me a smart-allic, smiling.
After school I waited, resting on a bench with crossed legs and my hands on my knees. I waited, and waited. I ran my fingers through my hair randomly and caressingly. A group of adults passed infront of me, I recognized one man and jestured a greeting. As soon as I had done this I felt a hand on my shoulder, enveloping it to the clavicle. A strong hand, and I looked up to see him gazing down upon me like I was his only son. I was astonished and ejaculated a timid greeting and he smiled and continued with his company, not saying a word.
I may never forget that moment.
I felt like I wasn't a blonde headed, dirtied orphan child.
I felt as though I... knew of my father.