Missing my training instructor...

I never thought I'd find myself saying this... but I actually find myself missing my Air Force training instructor, Staff Sgt. Astudillo.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still terrified of the man. My buddies in basic training and I were all convinced he were immortal, not due to something silly like vampirism — I can just imagine him scoffing at the idea of sparkling vampires — or demonic possession, but simply because the powers above and below both feared he would take over.

No, I suppose what I miss about him is the same thing I miss about that particular time in my life, something that seems to be missing from the world as we know it today, especially from our younger, patchouli-oil selling, new-age 20-somethings entering the workforce and the newspaper industry these days.

However, to understand what I mean, you first have to understand a little about basic training and how our nation's department of defense teaches its most basic skills to the fighting men and women of the military.

First of all, basic training — at least when I attended training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio in early 1993 — wasn't all that different from the movies. You hear some of the most profane and, eventually, hilarious things you'll ever encounter in your life, you get to jump over stuff and swing across stuff, and you get yelled at a lot, by a lot of different men and women.

Except for Staff Sgt. Astudillo. He never yelled. In fact, I clearly remember that was one of the first things he told us. Bear in mind, he simultaneously split our ear drums while he was telling us.

“You see, this is my natural speaking voice,” he said in a timber I can only imagine melds those of Fred Ward with the voice of God, literally causing the windows in our barracks to shake with the pressure. “I never yell. I don't see the point in yelling.”

Obviously.

And with that, each of us set out with just one goal in mind: Not to make that man angry. Unfortunately, that goal, as most of you veterans out there already know, is pretty much impossible in basic training. However, that didn't stop us from trying, and try we did, over and over ... and over ... and over. I imagine you're catching on at this point.

Astudillo would show us how to do something, and we would try to do it. Unfortunately, as you can well imagine, we fell short of the level of mastery he was looking for. Looking back, however, I understand he expected us to fail because that was part of the process. Sometimes, you have to fall down to know how to get back up.

His method of teaching was simple. He explained the process in detail, then he showed you how it was done. He applied that same process to pretty much everything, whether it was shining your boots or jumping over an obstacle. If you were running, he was right there, running beside you. If you were making up your bunk, he was right there, tweezers and ruler in hand, folding right alongside you.

He was curt. He didn't hold your hand or pat you on the back. He didn't feel the need to “cry with you” when you got it wrong like some of these patchouli-oil, new-age, nut-bar, 20-somethings who seem to be crawling out of the woodworks these days. He didn't have a special needs class or classes in different languages.

He was, at least in my opinion, a good teacher. He was preparing us to go out in the world and face God-only-knows-what, and he knew that. When he criticized our work, he didn't hold our hand and ask us “how that made us feel?” And, we, as soldiers, appreciated that.

As professionals, we often find ourselves in positions where we must choose between opening ourselves up to constructive criticism so we can grow, or closing ourselves off and becoming petty and stagnant. For example, an experienced photographer — with more than 15 years in the industry — working with someone more than a decade their junior offers some tips on taking photographs.

The younger photographer has two choices before them. The first choice is to scoff and let their ego get the better of them. I mean, what could an old fogey like that possibly have to teach them? Right?

The second — and much more mature — decision, however, would be to set their ego aside and listen, because those years of experience are, and always will be invaluable when it comes to learning any industry. Unfortunately, it seems like this decision is being chosen less often these days, and wisdom is being tossed to the wayside all too often.

One of my favorite photographers of all-time is Bruce Schooler. I think just about everyone in Big Spring knows Bruce and what a great guy he is, not to mention a fantastic photographer. No matter how busy he is, he's always willing to take a few minutes out to talk photography, and his tips truly are invaluable.

Being that I have more than 15 years in photography, do you think I just sit around with Bruce and talk about how knowledgeable I am with cameras when we see each other? Do you think that's what Bruce does? Not a chance. We both jump at the chance to learn from one another, because both Bruce and I have figured out one indelible truth to life: You never, ever stop learning. Ever.

So, the next time someone tries to offer you a tip, trick or suggestion, perk up your ears just a bit more and listen. And, when they are done and you've really considered what they have to say without your ego jumping up to punch you in the nose, ask yourself if you're not just a little bit smarter for the experience.

I'm willing to bet you will be.