I Never Wanted To Be A Doctor. I Became One Anyway. It Sucked.

What happens when your purpose is conquered by your path?

I was a deeply mediocre grade-school student. Except in penmanship. I almost failed that. Drunk crickets trace neater paths through sand than I do with pen on paper.

Sister Viola P, of the Incarnate Word and Blessed Sacrament—a nun who believed in punishing grade-school evildoers by stuffing their butts in wastebaskets—sent my parents desperate entreaties to fix their son’s handwriting.

Thankfully, cursive skill doesn’t play the role in my life they said it would.

To my parents and their friends, though, my penmanship was proof of one very important thing: their son was destined for medicine.

“No!” I’d respond. “I don’t want to be a doctor. I want to be a rock star!” (Because what little boy doesn’t want to be a rock star?) To be honest, I was never going to be a rock star. The first time my dad heard my high-school band’s demo album, all hope he had for his legacy drained from his face.

“What…was that?” he asked.

Other days, I wanted to be a philosopher. (Because what little boy doesn’t want to be a philosopher?) If I wasn’t going to be a rock star, getting paid just to think — and to tell other people how to think — sounded perfect.

Most often, though, I wanted to be a linguist, because what I really wanted to be was a missionary.