What Will History Say About You?

I have been enjoying the historical exchange of letters between the magicians of yesteryear that are being published in MAGIC magazine. I am fascinated by the attitudes of those magicians, and the language they use to describe their acts and issues with magicians of their times. I also enjoy the stories written in The Linking Ring by one of our subscribers, Bev Bergeron. I love getting that slice of history and perspective. And these things make me wonder. What will people say about me when I am long gone?

Unlike many of you, I am not a professional magician. It's always been just a hobby for me, with some occasional performances for friends or small groups, usually free or for a low fee. I've always wanted it to be more, and I've been encouraged by many to make it something more, but until the day comes where I feel I am called to do it, I probably won't. So will anybody even remember me when I am gone? Will they say I was funny, a good manipulator, or the second best card man in New York?

No, my name will probably not be meaningful to anyone in years to come. At least not in magic.

The few books and effects I have had a hand in will be dust in the wind by the time I croak.

Seems like a wasted life: 40+ years in magic and no legacy to leave behind.

But what about the smiles I brought to people's faces? What about those memories I etched in the brains of some people who later became professional or amateur magicians? Nah. Probably nothing.

But I have made a difference to at least one person I know -- and not in magic -- but in teaching.

Many people do not know that I taught college English for three years at Queens College in New York. I was a damned fine teacher and my students loved my classes. I actually had students begging the Chairman of the department to get into my class -- crying even -- and the disappointment when they did not get in was not a pretty sight. I did not realize though that I had made that much of an impression until many years later when I had transitioned to the corporate world and left academia far behind.

I was standing in line at the Fresh Meadows movie theater with fellow magician, Scott Morris, one summer evening. I noticed a very attractive young lady towards the head of the line who kept looking over her shoulder at me. Since things like that never happened to me often, I was very intrigued and surprised. Then to my shock, she walked back to me and asked me if I was Mr. Schneiderman.

I was crushed. Nothing is worse than being called "Mr." by a beautiful young woman. It puts age and respect in the middle of all fantasy.

"Yes, I'm Mr. Schneiderman. Who are you?" I asked.

"You probably don't remember me," she said, "but I took you for college writing classes for two years in a row."

Suddenly her face and voice clicked. Her name was ... Lorraine. She was one of my favorite students. A good writer and a good person.

"You will never know what an impact you had on my life," she said somewhat sheepishly. She looked down and smiled and then lifted her face up. She had turned into a beautiful woman. Her smile was radiant.

"I knew after I took your classes that I wanted to teach writing, and now I do. And it's all because of you. Thank you so much for everything you did."

I was speechless. She asked me where I was teaching, and I told her I had left that career long ago to go into the corporate world to make money.

"That's a shame," she said. "So many people will never have the pleasure of learning how to write from you. I hope you return to teaching someday."

Then we exchanged some small talk, she thanked me again, and rejoined her husband on line.
I was dumbfounded.

I had made an impact on someone. All those years spent trying to make the lightbulb go off over someone's head, and finally, someone got it and validated my value to the world.

It only takes one person to make a difference -- to you -- to them -- to the world.

So what will the world say about you when you're gone?

Who did you touch or inspire?

Think about it. Then go make a difference.