Growing up, I thought my father was just being cheap—no air conditioning, a black-and-white TV, and hand-me-down clothes that set me apart. At the time it felt like nothing but frustration. With years and distance, I see every choice for what it was: a quiet act of sacrifice. The things that once confused me and embarrassed me became a clear lesson in love.
When Hurricane Harvey swept Houston’s Bay Area, I didn’t lose everything, but the storm unsettled me. Returning to class two weeks later, I faced students carrying grief far heavier than mine. Had I suffered a major loss like so many others, maybe the words would come easier. Monday couldn’t just be about economics—it had to be about steady ground and hope.
Tomorrow begins my 24th year of teaching, yet I still remember the first hour of my first day—hands shaking, voice thin, wondering what I was doing there. Since then, the classroom has been both a crucible and a gift: seasons of exhaustion, unexpected laughter, heartbreak, and joy. I’ve taught lessons in economics and literature, but life always had lessons waiting for me too. Students grow, but so do teachers—shaped by storms, successes, and the steady rhythm of showing up. This journey has never been perfect, but it has always been worth it.
As kids, we thought a ham in a can looked glamorous—until we tried it and found it slimy and disappointing. That quick lesson stuck: packaging can lie. Casinos push the same fantasy—flashy lights promising big wins, but mostly draining pockets and hope. And real stories? Like the lottery winner who cursed his fortune instead of celebrating it, remind us that “more” doesn’t always mean better. Proverbs matters: wealth gained quickly seldom lasts. True gain grows slowly—and quietly holds meaning long after the shine has faded.