The 51 was rusty and ragged. I loved it. Eventually I painted the car, overhauled the motor, and drove it every day to college, law school, and to teaching positions. The 51 was a slow but steady ride. It also intimidated other drivers when I entered the Houston freeway. No one wanted to chance a wreck with the 51 as I chugged into traffic. As an older car, it sat higher off the ground much like a pickup truck.
In 1973, Houston’s downtown area was divided into two zones. One zone west of San Jacinto Street was the white zone. The banks, big corporate businesses, nice hotels, and fancy stores were there. The Houston police patrolled this area constantly to keep drunks, winos, prostitutes, and general riff raff away from the ‘good people’. San Jacinto Street was the dividing line. West was the white zone, east was the red zone containing low rent hotels, many bars, all kinds of vice, and drunken winos. Oh, yes.
Law school was on the dividing line just inside the white zone. Where we had to park on the city streets was in the red zone. I had class until 10 p.m. each night followed by two hours of study in the law school library. When I exited the law school at midnight, the red zone was alive with activity. Loud music blasted out of the bars. Dopers, women of the night, and drunken winos were everywhere.
One night I came out to a cold rainy downpour. The red zone activity level was nil. As I neared my 51 Chevy there was a pair of legs sticking out from under my car. A wino had crawled underneath to get out of the rain. He was passed out.
I thought that as I started the car, he would wake up to crawl on out. That did not happen. After getting out to pull him from underneath the car, I carried the man over the curb, and over the sidewalk to a grassy area with a tree. As I leaned him up against the tree, you could see he looked like an 80-year-old man due to his alcohol abuse. I think he might have been in his 30s.
On the way home I realized that somewhere in America this man’s younger self had a progression of pictures in school yearbooks spanning many years. In those pictures he would be smiling. In those photos you would see him looking directly into the camera full of excitement for life. This young boy would be ready, looking forward to life’s next adventures.
As I pondered over what choices this man had made to end up drunk with six empty bottles of Ripple wine under my car, an epiphany moment came to me. My calling was not to the law. No. I was called to be a teacher. Not a teacher who taught for a love of subject. No, I would teach with a love for service.
My calling was to teach the life of making good choices. I believed then and now that making good choices leads to having a fulfilled life. This is taught not only by instruction, but by example. I have used this story hundreds of times over the years with my students. I always started with, “What would you had done if you had a pair of legs sticking out from under your car on a cold rainy night at midnight in downtown Houston. Ask yourself and be truthful, what would you do?
By the way, I taught for 46 years. It was a great career helping so many students realize this life, their life, depends on making their own good choices. To choose wisely lets you have the life God created you to experience. Remember, each day is made up of what you choose. Think about it!
