The Riddler of Hidden Hills
I can say hello in over eight languages. I can hold a basic conversation in five. And I could probably live comfortably in three. But I only dream in two.
As an only child, I was forced to communicate—with strangers, other kids, adults, even my toys. And one of those adults, my dad’s great friend, Mr. Bertrand (or “Coach” as he was known), became uncle to me. I don’t remember a time in my life without him.
Whenever my parents wanted some together time away from their wonderful son (in wonderful places, might I add), it was Coach Bertrand’s house where I stayed. Coach was a character—missing three fingers, preferring riddles to regular conversation, and with a rose garden that he tended with devotion. He was also a ...Nupe. Sometimes he’d even take me along on dates, to show me how a man should treat a woman. The man had a full teaching curriculum, and it covered more ground than any textbook.
I often credit my love of visualization to Coach Bertrand. You see, on one of those trips my parents took—leaving me not in Hawaii but back home with Coach—I was in sixth grade at Marbut Elementary, struggling with a poetry assignment. We had to memorize and recite Robert Frost’s Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening. I couldn’t get it to stick, no matter what I tried. Every 15 minutes, Coach would call me up to recite, and every time, I’d flounder...miserably. Sorry Robert.
After about two hours of me butchering Frost’s lines, Coach finally stopped me. “What’s your process, Gex?” he asked.
I stared at him, blank. Process? I was nine years old! My “process” was literally to stare at the words until they somehow stayed in my head. He just laughed, shook his head, and said, “Boy, you sure are hard-headed.”
Coach didn’t skip a beat. “Listen, Gex,” he said, “you’ve got to visualize the words as you read them. Feel the ground beneath your feet. Taste the the air. Is it cold? How are you staying warm? Become the subject.” I rolled my eyes. Visualization? Who had time for that? I had to get this poem down by morning for Mrs. Davis!
"Just give it a try, Glenn Joseph,” he said, using my middle name—a sure sign he was earnest. I sighed but gave it a go, grudgingly imagining the trees, the snow, the chill in the air. Suddenly, the lines started to stick. I wasn’t just reading the poem; I was IN it. I became.
That was a paradigm shift. From that moment on, I started visualizing everything. Now, even when someone’s telling me a story, my brain immediately starts imagining. Maybe that’s why I love movies so much? Coach Bertrand had broken through my stubbornness and handed me a new way of thinking.
Coach was a near-daily fixture in my life. He and my dad were running partners, casually knocking out five to eight miles in the mornings or evenings around our neighborhood, Hidden Hills, or Stone Mountain, often passing Ms. Frieda as they pushed each other to be better. To go faster. As they got older, they ran less but still found time for a beer as id often see Coach's red truck in the driveway. Now that I was hitting puberty, Coach’s teachings were becoming a bit....different—yet he still kept his riddles. It was his trademark. In fact, I'm not sure he knows how to talk like a normal person.
One Saturday, he asked me what language I was studying in school. “Spanish,” I answered, perturbed he was asking me about school on my day off. “Come on, Coach, today’s about baseball!”
“OoooOo excellent choice,” he nodded, as he grinned. “....Are you fluent yet?”
I laughed...Fluent? In the Georgia school system? “Hell nah,” I answered, earning a chuckle from my dad, who decided to jump in.
Ah, shit, here comes the lecture.
I almost immediately started to roll my eyes. “So, you’re choosing to be average, Gex?”
Coach, a Nupe's Nupe, took a different angle as he gave my dad a look like: I'll take this one.
“Gex, Think of how many people in the world speak Spanish,” he said, letting that simmer for a moment or two. This dude LOVED to pause.
“Now...pause....pause...think about how many of those are women.” He never ever said "girl" or "lady." Always "women." Ah...these Nupes always have an angle, I thought, but now, admittedly, he had my attention. He got me to pull out the globe that sat in my parent's office and count the Spanish-speaking countries. He startled to whistle.
“Mr. Gex,” he said, “you learn how to dance and say a few words, it will go a long way.”
He was right...as always. I have lived in Mexico, Texas, and California. My Spanish improved year by year, and I began connecting with people on a different level—partly because my uncle/coach used my hormones as bait. Game recognizes game, coach. But, I'm glad he did. I kept adding languages to my repertoire, each one broadening my world. Earlier, I wrote about understanding the spirit of a conversation. The first question we must ask, though, is: What language does the spirit speak?
These small teachings left monumental impacts. Coach wasn’t just preparing me to recite poems or learn languages; he was building a rock solid foundation. After all, he was a geologist. I still hear his voice when I face challenges, reminding me to “become the subject,” to see things clearly, and to keep expanding my world, one conversation at a time. Now, I see that these skills—visualizing, communicating, and understanding others—were roses he wanted me to carry.
Coach Bertrand left me with riddles, poetry, and perspectives that shaped me. He might have been unconventional, but he always had his reasons. And when I look back, I realize those lessons still guide me today.
