Decades ago, my classmates and I would share beers before last call. Another pitcher, or two, in Zeno’s basement and we’d be back to our desks, working the night through. Thesis reviews were close.

We were living the closing weeks of five years together studying Architecture. We’d all seen one another at their best and their worst. Stalling one night, a mock award ceremony commenced. My award: most likely to become my thesis.

This thesis included the design of a hypothetical monastery, anchored on an open parcel in Brooklyn, just north of the bridge’s massive pier. The site stretched between the majestic river and a long, abandoned warehouse once used as a hospital during the Civil War. Surveying the buildings, I’d wonder what primitive medicine occurred within the thick brick walls punctuated by rhythmic arched openings. Those events were far back enough in time that the creepiness had worn off. It was just spooky.

That year, I came to know my site’s prospect well. Ever since, I recognize the location popping up in countless movies and television shows. Not because movies and television feature the site or the former hospital; they use the place for the view. Lower Manhatten becomes the scenic backdrop for dramatic characters pacing unseen ground, my ground. Or it offers an iconic shot, an opening establishing place: New York City.

I didn’t understand any of this at the time. I just thought it was the right place for the idea. My monks were Franciscans, an order dedicated to serving the city. In this case: Manhatten, just across the water. It was a good story. All thesis’ are stories. This was probably the best part of mine.

Today, I realize I actually have become my thesis: I teach High School.

Daily, I take an early train into the City of Philadelphia. From my modest home in a near-burb, I cross the waters of the Schuylkill River, a horizontal sun peeking between Center City’s skyscrapers. If it’s not mid-winter, then it’s still below.

It’s a quiet journey. Interior. Monk-like. You prepare for the day.

At day’s end, during the ride out, the sun’s on the other side. Low, if it’s still up. It’s a short ride but I have to set the alarm on my phone so I don’t miss my stop. Exhaustion too often prevails over will.

In between, my daily performance: Mr. Phillips. 7.30am to 4.30 or 5pm, no intermission. This is the role I play.

The performance is not an act. It’s a calling: it’s where my gifts, meager as they are, attempt to meet the world’s needs, massive as they are. It’s a vocation in the city. Daily, I work with the utterances of pleading youth rising out of the streets. It’s the most compelling work I’ve ever done.

I left my position at an Ivy League school for this. I’d worked there fifteen years with Graduate and Undergraduate students studying architecture. It was a great job. I learned how to be an instructor from masters at the trade. And I remained a student, learning how to understand the world.

To my surprise, as much as I enjoyed that life, I have yet to miss its comforts. At Penn, technically, my title was ‘Lecturer’, or some version of that. Students would call me ‘Professor’ until I corrected them with the more familiar ‘Andrew’ and the semester would politely unfurl.

I now respond to ‘Yo, Mr. Phil, Philly Phil, P-Money’, whatever. That’s fine. I used to profess. Now I teach.