It hit me then that this man, who had a wife and a three year-old daughter, who slept less than the number of feet he stood from the ground, and had a temper even shorter, actually cared. He cared about me, about who and what influenced me, how my grades were, what I did the past weekend, as if I were his son.
He snatched me out of the hallway. He was only looking out for me, as always, but I could tell there was more to it than that. He sat me down, looked me in the eyes, I looked back into his, the same pair that had followed me for the past three years of high school. His eyes were bloodshot for the first time since he was named Dr. Peter Acosta from the University of Texas-Austin just a few short weeks before, his body’s sign for stress. I poked through my memories, recalling every instance his eyes were stained with stress. When he told me to stay away from the party crazed upperclassmen my freshman year, when he promoted me to first trumpet my sophomore year, when he wished me good luck the day before district tryouts my junior year. We then had a conversation about how he didn’t want me to turn out like all the other seniors and give up on the band program. He wanted to maintain our friendship. He stressed over whether not we would be friends any longer. That was the moment I knew he cared.
       When I think about it, we do have a lot in common. Our passion for music almost matches our passion for friendship. If there is an opportunity to make a joke out of something, when appropriate, we often pounce at it in unison. That is something he, solely, has taught me. He trained me to read a situation. I know when to crack a joke or throw in a compliment or when to sit there quietly and attentively because of his teachings. Honesty and responsibility are also characteristics he has installed in me. He trusted me with the responsibility of playing practically every single solo in every single concert for three years straight, we are both trumpet players so, naturally, he has a fancy for trumpet solos. Most importantly, he inspired me to pursue music. I have always loved music, but mainly listening and enjoying it. He showed me that I had the talent needed to be a music major, starting with my first solo, my sophomore year. From that moment on I have had the confidence needed to be successful. My junior year I participated in the region tryouts for my first time and made district band. For the next month and a half Dr. Acosta told the story of how I came to the next round of tryouts, disoriented from waking up a mere 30 minutes before it started. I found out they needed me to tryout because someone hadn’t shown up and I was the next in line. I beat out a quarter of the people who had beaten me before and made district band. When he tells the story, it’s a good 10 minutes long and full of emotion. He is a babbler and the next two concerts he couldn’t reiterate enough how proud he was to be my mentor and peer. That was the most proud he had ever been of me, and I cherish that story more than anyone could imagine.
       Dr. Peter Acosta is more than a band director to me. He is my parent away from home. If my parents aren’t there to watch over me, he usually is. Between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and 4:15 p.m., I am his son. He pesters me about grades like the parent he is, he teases me as if I were his little brother, and mentors me as if I were his own. Even at a whopping 65 inches, he towers over me, shielding me under his wing, guaranteeing my success.