Ah, so simple, but yet so proprietary that my own son couldn't admit me to the cabala of its meaning.13 Pressing my luck, I swallowed my dignity and quietly asked my mentee, "Do you think I have it?" Without taking his eyes from his work, he shrugged, "Yeah, you've got a lot of it."
Glowing, I communicated this intelligence to Anton at my first opportunity. 14"Ricky said I have swag," I announced as he hovered15 in front of the open fridge. "A lot of it."
Anton shook his head, as if he didn't know what he was going to do with16 me. "How old is Ricky?" he asked.
"Twelve."
Anton let out a deprecating17 breath. "Twelve?" he echoed. "What does he know!"
Hmm … swag was clearly in the eye of the beholder, and seemingly difficult to earn or get credit for.18 The next day, as I was chatting with my students in the college biology class I teach, I was moved to ask them about this word. They were, of course, familiar with it. Then one of them asked why I wanted to know. I didn't feel it appropriate to tell them how haunted I was by the realization that I might not possess swag, so I dodged the inquiry and commenced the lesson.19
Well, no matter20, I told myself. I had lived in blissful ignorance of my swaglessness until now, so I was sure I could continue on intact.21 But some perceptive, caring soul in my class must have detected my note of despondency in mentioning the elusive quality.22 The next day, when I came to school, there was a multicolored sticker affixed to my office door: I'VE GOT SWAG.
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