Mariella Gattini

He was my first English professor here in the States. Unfortunately, he passed away a year and a half after we met. The same year and month I lost my father. So I mourned them both for a long time.

Mr. Power was my paternal figure the four years I went to Sam Houston State University full time, even after his death. He had been a reporter, and later a failed small entrepreneur, before he decided to devote the rest of his life to teaching.

At the beginning, he intimidated me with his strong mid-western accent, his 6’5” height, his cowboy boots, and his shoestring necktie. But soon, after reading my essays, he won me over with his intelligence and empathy. I have to say that I was the one with the prejudice, not him. I saw him as a man older than me, incapable of understanding a younger woman from a different origin. I was completely wrong.

He used to bring postcards to class, to open up our minds, he said. The postcards had nothing written on them, they simply were part of his collection. He gave us one each, and we had to write about what the image suggested to us. After a few minutes observing them we had to write the first 100 words, the following class, a couple of days later, we needed to reach 500 words, and we had a week for a final draft of 1,000 words, among the innumerable amount of activities and themes we covered in his class.

My essays were very similar to the ones I share with you today. If you’ve noticed, they all have an average of a thousand words. It’s in his honor that I write them. And I edit them over and over in the same way I did for him.

He was strict and never gave away A’s, but put an A in every one of my essays the two courses I took with him. It was during the third course when he was diagnosed with cancer to the spine. The same day I had to give a presentation about Vincent van Gogh to Mr. Power, the Chair of the English Department announced that he wouldn’t be coming back to teach the class. It was so sudden, and he was so sick, that he hadn’t been able to tell us about it in person. The Chair of the English Department, whose name I forget, took over his class that very same day and told us that we could write a few words to him if we wanted. When I arrived home, the first thing I did was to go to my desk, looked for some stationary, and wrote just a few words that I don’t remember. They were along the lines of “I hope you’ll feel better soon. We miss you in class. My van Gogh presentation went well, I was not even a bit nervous. Love, Mariella.”

I wanted to write more, but I couldn’t, I was too sad and too petrified. Who was going to get me as well as he did?

I wrote those words in a beautiful house my husband, my daughter, and I shared, located north of Houston. I loved that house. From my desk on the second floor, I had a wonderful view of an infinite number of pines. That was before the development that chopped them all down to build more homes. That day at least, they were there for me as a testament of how powerful nature is to remind us how small we are, and how infinite life is despite the natural cycles and the destructive nature of human beings.

Mr. Power was originally from New Mexico and had lived in Louisiana for a long time, or vice versa. I found out when I told him that I was going to New Orleans for Spring Break with my family that year. He gave me some pointers and a list of good restaurants to visit. When I had to write an essay for another class, I asked him if I could go to his office during his visiting hours to read it to him to make sure that I was on point. He graciously agreed. The essay was about one of my brothers, the one who passed away in Italy. Mr. Power not only found the essay compelling, but had so many questions about my family and our life in Italy, and found my brother’s life so interesting. I answered all of his questions to the best of my knowledge and memory, and then I stared at him and waited, because I saw in his eyes a certain sadness. He finally told me that his mother suffered from Alzheimer’s, and that when he visited her she couldn’t recognize him. I didn’t know what to say. He continued saying that he didn’t understand why some people had to endure so much suffering, while he knew of others who had never suffered at all. I looked at him and asked if those who had never suffered were still alive, and he nodded. “There’s still time,” I said. “It’s impossible to go through this life without being touched by it.” I remember saying to him. I regretted having said that the day I was writing my last words to him looking at the sunset hiding behind the pines. I wanted to tell him so much more, but I knew that people around wouldn’t understand the relationship of mutual respect we had. So I limited my words to a few of standard courtesy.

So there you have it. Now you know my secret. Mr. Power is the reason behind my essays. I keep writing them because I couldn’t tell him everything I wanted that fateful, terrible day.

All my professors asked us to put “Dr.,” as in Ph.D., before their names when writing anything directed to them. Not Mr. Power. “Mr.” was more than enough for him.

I think I’m going to keep writing these essays until I have nothing to say to him anymore. As long as I write them, Mr. Power will continue to be in every word, every sentence, and every story. His life was crucial to me in my integration to this country.

It’s with trepidation, uncertainty, and a vehement disposition that I continue this perilous journey, because it’s my obligation to pursue this path in the name of all those who devoted their lives to the mutual understanding and respect that we owe to each other. Just as Mr. Power did. He is one of the decent ones behind every one of my words. He used to say to us that life on campus was pretty reasonable, but that that wasn’t the case out of the perimeters. He also used to say that opportunities always came, but we needed to be prepared to take them. Nobody but Mr. Power could have said it better.