After the first few weeks of freshman year, I got in the car at the end of the day and told my mom, "Mr. V is a role model." Even though teaching isn't his original profession, it comes naturally to him. As the head of the science department, he knows that hands-on learning is the thing that keeps us interested, even after lunch on a sunny afternoon. Because of him, I liked physics--in fact, I liked science for maybe the first time. He had us building rollercoasters and even trying out a slip and slide on a hill beside the school. Mr. V's title of role model didn't come from teaching physics or chemistry, though. He has the power of connection. He manages to work in stories that help us understand life, and not just science. He told us about sitting with his father as he was dying, when it was hard for his dad to swallow. So they'd eat ice cream together, letting it melt in his mouth. Every year, he brings ice cream for all of his classes on his dad's birthday. Not only have I had him for science, he also teaches songwriting and even built his own guitar. He oversees our school's worship team, which I joined this year. Music has power to connect and communicate, maybe even more than just words alone. I've dedicated myself to guitar in these last few years, doing a little more songwriting because of Mr. V and his encouragement--he loved a funny song I wrote as a freshman about being short! He's a unique guy, who is just as likely to be barefoot out on the grass throwing a baseball with students at lunch as grading papers behind a desk. I've volunteered several times with Senior Olympics, just so I can cheer him on during the track and field events he participates in (and wins), barefoot. Seeing your science teacher pole vaulting is a pretty incredible experience. My dad was first diagnosed with colon cancer when I was 9. Just as high school started, the cancer came back for a third time, having spread to his liver. My parents have tried to keep life as normal as possible for me, but it's tough having chemo on our family schedule when my dad would like to be at my baseball games or theatre productions. Mr. V has been a steady influence through it all over these four years. I've been a mentor with our school's Servant Leadership Team for the past three years. Mr. V has shown me that being a role model doesn't mean you have to do something big--you can serve and lead in small ways. Connecting with the dozen middle school boys I've mentored over the past three years, cheering them on in soccer and theatre, teaching them to hold the door open for others--those are all things that Mr. V has instilled in me. As I leave high school for Purdue University in the fall, I know I'll take so much more than scientific formulas with me from my time with him.

I was nine years old when my dad was first diagnosed with colon cancer. I don’t remember much about it, since I was so young and my parents tried to keep the fact out of my life for my own sake. I only vaguely knew what cancer was at that age, simply that it was a deadly disease that other families were affected by. As soon as I understood he had cancer, it was gone like nothing ever happened (though he’d gone through radiation, chemo and two surgeries), and I went back to living the stress-free life of a child. Halfway through my eighth grade year, it came back in his liver, and with surgery and treatment was conquered again. But only a year and a half later, it returned, this time as inoperable stage four colon cancer with tumors in his liver. This has meant chemotherapy every two weeks for the last three years. So, unless it miraculously goes away, he will most likely keep having to do this routine or some version of it until the end. This treatment limits what he can do, and it hurts my soul to see. A man who used to teach math GED prep classes and volunteer for the Salvation Army has to seek refuge in a bathroom every other weekend. My rec league baseball coach, who used to be at every game, and was even inducted into the Franklin Baseball Club Hall of Fame in 2021, is tired all the time, has lost 50 pounds over the last few years, and has countless medications on the kitchen counter for everyone to see. On the outside, this seems devastating–it has been, and still is. But it is also now strangely normal. This disease has become part of my family’s life, and part of our calendar just like my part-time job or theatre rehearsal. At this point I understand that it is a terminal diagnosis, and so I just appreciate what he can do with this disease and the treatment that confines him. He can’t do the things he enjoys anymore, like golf or go on larger vacation trips, but he can organize his huge baseball card collection. We still talk about our favorite teams, celebrate our victories when we have them, and still try to go to as many Vanderbilt sports events as we can. My dad's fight with cancer has taught me that there are no small victories. Back in 2023, before the chemo side effects increased, we went to a Purdue football game, where I will start college in the fall. We bundled up in the Indiana cold at Ross-Ade stadium on the Saturday after Thanksgiving, all just to share a moment. The Boilermakers' win made the weekend all the more special, especially now that we realize he may not be able to make it back to my new campus. My dad was able to see where I will continue to learn and grow, built on the foundation he has given me. For about the last nine years, my dad has had cancer, and for the last nine years it’s been a part of our lives like a weird family member. At different points, I’ve ignored it, yelled at it, talked badly about it–but learned to live with it. We all have to bend to its needs like some kind of monarch, but he doesn’t let it rule over him. My dad lives his life as independent from his cancer as he can, while he can, and I love and respect him for it.