FULL CIRCLE: INSTALLMENT FOUR OF EIGHT
The 20-Year Echo: Finishing What My Teachers Started
How the voices of my past inspired me to return to academia and fulfill my destiny.
Important Disclaimer: With the exception of my father (Chân Pháp Mật, a.k.a., The Esoteric Nature of True Teachings), please ignore, dismiss, and brush aside any automated prompts to ‘follow’ or ‘join’ or ‘create an account’ since these algorithmic directives are the requirements for this platform, NOT my own. As such, my personal essays are hosted on MEDIUM for its website’s elegant design and book-like architecture, introducing my insightful prose as a literary addendum or the written codex to my theatrical discourses on “The Pedagogy of Moky Huynh,” a non-monetized, multidisciplinary project serving as a public anchor or community resource. With that preamble stated, let the inward dialogue commence…
Throughout my journey, cinematic gems about impassioned teachers who uplifted their students had invigorated me to dance with life.
These ageless and conscientious films included: Stand and Deliver (starring James Olmos as Jaime Escalante), To Sir With Love (starring Sidney Poitier as Mark Thackeray), The Miracle Worker (starring Anne Bancroft as Anne Sullivan), and my timeless favorite, Dead Poets Society (starring Robin Williams as the iconic John Keating). In each of these movies, these magnanimous teachers were invariably challenged with intractable odds (e.g., narrow-minded staff and faculty or extraordinary circumstance, such as Hellen Keller’s blind-deaf infirmity). Yet in spite of the grueling and uphill battle, these noble-minded teachers continued to utilize their unique abilities to awaken their students. Whether they were poor and at-risk or affluent and privileged, these students were able to flourish and elevate as a corollary of their teachers’ committed support. And I aspired to do the same. I wanted to emulate their devotion. I wanted to educate via my artistry, for education — was in my veins. It was embedded in my DNA, subconsciously expressed through my speeches and monologues. But instead of the classroom, I had developed my teaching in the space of the theatre. I was an artist at heart with a propensity to educate. I wanted to galvanize my students to passionately strive toward their highest capacity. But in order to do this, I needed legitimacy — in the form of a college degree. There was no way around it, given the infrastructure. Without that sheepskin, my credibility was dubious as it pertained to academia. Therefore, the solution to my quandary was crystal clear. It was time to go back and finish what I started almost 20 years ago… or 18 years to be exact.
Additionally, my decision to return to school was fueled by my empathy for hard- working parents and underprivileged kids. I didn’t feel guilty, but when I learned of a parent who sacrificed without fail (laboring more than one job) to put their children through school, it deeply affected me, striking a chord within my conscience — and even more so, when I would read about a student who studied rigorously for a shot at a scholarship in the daunting face of poverty. I truly venerated them, for they inspired me to ruminate the likelihood of graduating. Put simply, this salient opportunity was screaming boisterously into my ears, and I couldn’t ignore it any longer. It was rather uncanny as that same intense feeling to drop out of school when I was 23-years-old was now beseeching me to return to college and fulfill my destiny. Thus, at the ripe, old age of 41, I headed back to USC in the fall of 2016, spiritually determined to conclude my final semester.
Why USC? It was a quintessential match in terms of personality. I adored the University of Southern California. It was a part of me like a dear and cherished friend who expanded my horizons. I especially loved the company of squirrels that exuberantly pranced around the campus. But the nurturing evening breezes that accompanied my strolls — as I ambled about the school amid its slumber — was my beloved memory. This celebrated university was a sheer and fervent game-changer. USC had profoundly changed the trajectory of my life, not just once… but twice.
The first defining change occurred in 1996 when I transferred from the University of Washington. It was a qualitative school imbued with great potential — but I never felt connected. I did, however, appreciate the scenery where the university resided, quaintly nestled in the hub of Seattle. The verdant trees and Rocky Mountains were aesthetically pleasing, and I earnestly welcomed the endless rainfall that romanticized the city — but taken as a whole, the overall culture didn’t fit my personality. Yet conversely, the City of Angels, a.k.a., Los Angeles, felt so familiar, like a long-lost friend. And USC became my personal guide to this urban metropolis. It far exceeded my preconceived ideas, for the City of Angels was so much more than sunny weather. It was so much more than the glitz of Hollywood. In a nutshell, Los Angeles was a melting pot in progress. I was smitten by the Angelenos, captivated by their diversity and multiculturalism. It wasn’t a utopia by any means, but the cultural ingredients were there, which had the makings of a peaceful revolution, albeit the Rodney King riots in 1992. In the midst of it all, USC, from my perspective — epitomized a catalyst for change.
20 years later, I experienced my second watershed. The fall of 2016 was one of the happiest and memorable periods of my life, thanks in large to USC. Yet ironically, I felt appallingly nervous on my first day back to the university. It felt as if a trillion butterflies were fluttering wildly amid my stomach. But then it happened. That dreadful sense of apprehension quickly dissipated into bliss and rapture. I actually felt excited, which was totally unexpected. On the surface, not much had really changed besides the technology in school, and of course, my pronounced age. But the monumental change that took me by surprise was my keen and vivid interest in communication classes, in particular, the school of journalism. This was somewhat of a revelation since communications was initially my back-up plan, my alternative major because the film department had rebuffed my application. Yet now, after all these years, this indispensable and paramount field of study had taken center stage as a direct result of my experiences in the real world. It was fundamentally pertinent to social change, which my four illustrious professors eloquently asserted during my final semester as a USC undergrad.
When I reminisce about the past, the first teacher that encouraged me to see the broader picture was Mr. Kelly. I was ten-years-old when he underscored the vital importance of doing what we loved in the looming future as adults, irrespective of the hurdles. In junior high, or middle school, it was Mrs. Fleming, my social studies teacher, who allowed me to stand up in front of her students and declaim my humorous anecdotes, which fortified my confidence as a raconteur. Then I encountered Ms. Stroud in my senior year in high school who inspirited me to be explosive and dynamic when I danced poetically to the music of my heart. Soon afterward, during my junior year at USC (before the impending drop-out), Rabbi Mordecai Finley enlightened me about the nature of the Holocaust, which came to fruition through a methodical and systematic approach. This particular piece of knowledge opened my eyes to the menace of blind conformity and utter cowardice.
And finally in 2016, four astute professors officially wrapped up my academic education at USC as an undergraduate student. Professor #1 (Mike Ananny) informed me about the networked press and how it tied into our freedom and democracy. Professor #2 (Evan Brody) exposed me to the salient questions surrounding new media in the digital age and its ramifications on our global society. Professor #3 (Lian Jian) challenged me with social science research (e.g., the Stanley Milgram and Solomon Asch experiments) and inadvertently foreshadowed the sampling bias that transpired in public opinion polls regarding the 2016 presidential election. And lastly, the guru, Professor #4 (Robert Scheer) dared me to examine our society from a multitude of angles: Is any war justifiable? Is art dead? Why is history important? Are whistleblowers considered heroes? Is the 4th Amendment still upheld in light of mass surveillance? Does the death penalty actually offer a sense of retribution? And the zillion dollar question: are we willing to struggle for a principle that we believe in, no matter the adversity? Clearly, these four professors along with the other teachers that I splendidly mentioned had all engaged me in “critical thinking.” Their teaching integrity and original style had made me want to come to class and pay close attention to their broad-minded, incisive lectures instead of decompressing on my smartphone. They truly understood the root of education. And because of them and teachers alike, the educational system in spite of its schisms and fissures could still provide our culture with much needed light and direction. It could potentially pull us from the muck and stupidity that mired humankind.
With that in mind, the ultimate and foremost education in the world is a comprehensive study. It amalgamates disparate elements to produce a richer, multifaceted wealth of information and wisdom. For example, Barack Obama’s biracial identity enabled him to personally relate to black and white individuals. This racial synthesis helped enhance his understanding of our convoluted world. The same conception also applies to education: real world and academic. I was incredibly blessed to experience both realms in a specific sequence: 4½ years of collegiate studies, wisely ensued by 18 years in the real world (the metropolitan wilderness), and finally — one unforgettable semester — at USC. This process of coming full circle had attributed enormously to my perceptive worldview. Yet oddly enough, I realized that my bachelor’s degree wasn’t actually the finish line. It was in fact — only the beginning, as my assigned vocation toward graduate school was coming into view. In other words, life won’t turn out like we expect, it will turn out even better… if we dance with life, especially when it rains.
SUPPLEMENT: Originally posted on June 30, 2025, on YouTube but not previously published on the Medium platform: “The Simple Joys of Life” by Moky Huynh [read below].
The challenges of life can be most distressing for each and every one of us. The daily grind, the pressures at work, the demands of our families, and the anxiety of failing. These mental burdens can quietly kill our humanity, and it doesn’t matter if we’re poor, bourgeois, or insanely wealthy, for the tensions of life will have an effect on everybody. Some will bury themselves at work to distract them from reality. Others will endlessly turn to escapism to cast away their problems momentarily. I, however, prefer to be inspired or uplifted… to battle my demons and vanquish them intelligently. Therefore, when stress and worry overwhelm my sanity, I reflect upon the good times, the seemingly ordinary moments, i.e., the simple joys that help me smile to live and fight another day.
I think about the mist, the calming fog that encircles the city in the early evenings of the winter, nearby where I live. I think about the chill, that crispy chill that fills the air when the long, hot summer transitions to the fall.
I think about the waves in the big, blue ocean that would crash on me when I was a child. It was so much fun to hurl myself into the waves, in spite of the cold temperature that made me shiver while I grinned delightfully.
I think about the crunch of a baked baguette, freshly smothered with creamy butter.
I think about defiant naps. Every now and then, during my college years, I’d be miserably subjected to an uneventful, humdrum lecture that would put me to sleep amid my peers in the sterile classroom. Although I felt somewhat guilty, those 5 to 7 minutes of defiant slumber just felt gratifying. That exquisite feeling of succumbing to sleep when you’re trying to stay awake is so heavenly, even better than a full night’s rest sometimes.
I think about my promenades in the airport while I patiently wait to board the plane. I truly enjoy walking, and the quintessential walking space, at least for me, is strolling down the terminal as I pass a myriad of restaurants and bookstores. It’s safe. It’s clean. It’s air-conditioned. And the view outside the windows of the host of airplanes always stirs a mood of excitement.
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I think about the various people along my journey who have unveiled their vulnerability to me. It’s such an honor when a person will open up to you and reveal a sacred aspect of themselves… because they trust in you wholeheartedly. They are willing to put their emotions on the line, knowing very well that you could hurt them; nevertheless, they continue anyway, for you have earned their trust and confidence. I never take those moments for granted.
I think about the times that I have cried… not because I’m sad, but because I’m happy, overwhelmed by the nostalgia of a song or a particular movie. When certain forms of art elicits tears in my eyes, I get this indomitable feeling that nothing can stop me from bettering society.
I think about the customers at the grocery store… who have kindly offered me to go ahead of them in line because my items of purchase were considerably few. It’s a rather small gesture, but it still speaks volumes every single time.
I think about sensations that instantly galvanize me, like drinking cold Gatorade when I’m awfully thirsty; or finally sneezing when I’ve been trying to sneeze; or stretching my body with my arms toward the air following a siesta; or yawning massively with a wide open mouth as I start to feel sleepy; or entering a room with air conditioning after walking around in the scathing sun. But my favorite sensation is speeding ferociously down an open freeway after countless hours in congested traffic. Once I’ve passed that source of congestion (car accident or road detour), I feel so rejuvenated, as though my freedom had been returned to me. It’s a mammoth release of stress and tension to step on the pedal and burn some asphalt, riding the open freeway.
I think about the pens that enable me to write with ease and comfort. I don’t have to press hard to see the ink. It just comes out smooth and effortlessly.
I think about penmanship, the beauty of writing, especially in cursive. My own penmanship is somewhat average, so I’m always in awe when I witness the magic of elegant handwriting. It’s like a piece of stylish art.
I think about kittens and miniature turtles that I see at the pet store. I don’t know why, but I could stand there for hours and simply observe them… just doing what they do. Additionally, I never get tired of seeing squirrels and humming birds. Their innocence invariably makes me smile no matter the mood I’m in.
I think about certain foods, like the Egg McMuffin or the Filet-O-Fish from McDonald’s, which to this day, no other fast food chains have duplicated. And I can’t forget the hotdogs from Costco. Cheap. Tasty. And thoroughly satisfying. Yum!
I think about the scent… the scent of a woman to be precise whose perfume always makes me grin. I adore their fragrance, their lovely perfume, which usually reminds me of a high-end department store, such as Nordstrom. Put simply, the aroma is intoxicating.
I think about the squeegee that cleans my windshield when it’s covered with dirt and bird excrement. Using the squeegee to remove that filth instantly yields a feeling of satisfaction.
I think about my sister, watching the Patriots football games with her… back when Tom Brady was still there. New England’s games always made me jovial, especially when they beat the Seahawks in the Super Bowl — an emotional victory that finally made up for the excruciatingly painful loss to the New York Giants that took away their almost perfect season in the 2007 campaign.
I think about my mother — speed walking through the mall on early Sunday mornings before the stores had opened for business, following the exact same route. It was her means of cardio exercise. She also loved going on her solo cruises, bringing personal gifts to the cabin stewards that she had naturally befriended, still vibrantly embracing life in her golden years.
I think about my father and the films we watched together through the years — beginning with Star Wars in 1977 and spanning through Raiders of the Los Ark, La Bamba, The Truman Show, There’s Something About Mary, Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation, and most recently, Disclosure Day. He always appreciated the magical experience of watching a movie on the silver screen, whether seated inside a modern cineplex auditorium or under the open air at a nostalgic drive-in theater (back in the 1970s).
I think about Chewie, my sister’s dog — how he would peacefully suck on his plush bed like a baby with its pacifier, and the melodramatic, pouty face he’d make whenever I kissed his forehead.
I think about the conversations that I’ve had with my beloved ones. These conversations just happened organically. They couldn’t be forced. When they did take place, you didn’t want them to stop. You just wanted to keep talking because you were absolutely rapt and engaged in the moment.
I think about iced matcha tea, specifically that first sip after a meaningful day at school with my students, or following one of my 45-minute cardio workouts on the treadmill.
And finally — the genuine smile, especially from a stranger, inspirits me with hope. These special happenings remind me that heartfelt kindness can come from anyone, not just our friends and family.
PREVIOUS ESSAY: Alienated by Originality
SUBSEQUENT ESSAY: The Sweet Ain’t Sweet Without the Sour
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