The Man Who Changed My World
My Own Marvel Origin Story
Before I talk about my life in politics, I should probably explain how I got there. This is the story of how a quiet, unassuming schoolteacher sparked my idealism and belief in myself.
There are people in our lives who push us to be better than we are. And then, there are those rare few who show us a better version of ourselves. That second kind? They’re not just mentors — they’re visionaries. They see something in us we never imagined, and if we’re lucky, they help bring it out.
In my senior year of high school, I met one of those people. His name was Don Marvel. And he changed my life.
A Kid from Trappe
I grew up in a small town on Maryland’s Eastern Shore — the kind of place where your options were clear: get a job after school or join the military. My father chose the latter, and I figured I’d probably follow the same path.
We weren’t poor, exactly — but we lived close to the line. My parents worked hard, kept us fed, clothed, and sheltered. That kind of stability is a gift. But college? That wasn’t realistic. It was something that happened to other people’s kids.
Still, I tested well and landed in advanced classes early on. And then I coasted. Just enough to get by, always dangling close to the edge. My parents probably aged a decade watching me flirt with academic disaster, only to scrape by at the last minute.
By high school, I was clever but undisciplined. I knew how to cut corners and stay one step ahead of trouble. Smart enough to be dangerous, and just lucky enough not to get caught. A job in junior year helped me raise my grades a little — but it mostly funded the kind of behavior I won’t go into here.
College felt out of reach, and I didn’t have anyone to show me how to make it work. So I started pushing harder — not because I had a plan, but because I didn’t want to run out of road.
That’s when I met Mr. Marvel.
The Classroom Superhero
Mr. Don Marvel taught Contemporary Issues — our version of Civics or U.S. Government. It was his first time in years teaching a College Prep class, and he didn’t seem thrilled about it. But you’d never know it once class began.
He was calm, warm, and deeply committed to both his students and his subject. A hometown kid who served in the Army and graduated from Ranger School, he returned to teach at his old high school. He was an athlete, a distance runner, and somehow, endlessly patient — the kind of person who made you want to earn their respect.
Mr. Marvel never told us what to believe. I couldn’t tell you his politics to this day. What he taught us was how to care. About each other. About the country. About being a citizen who shows up.
He also ran the school’s Interact Club, a student service group sponsored by Rotary. He practically drafted me into joining. I barely participated, but somehow he made sure I was in the yearbook photo — like he knew I might want to remember I was there.
The Trial That Changed Everything
Then there was the mock trial.
One day in class, he pretended to search a student’s purse looking for drugs. She stormed out, and the next day we found out it was staged — an opening act for a classroom trial. He asked me to be his defense attorney. I had no public speaking skills and zero desire to argue a losing case in front of my peers. But I said yes. We got a hung jury, more a testament to his popularity than anything to do with my legal prowess.
Still, that trial lit a spark. It was the moment I knew I wanted to work in public policy.
The Note
In March 1988, a plain envelope showed up at my parents’ house. It had the school’s return address, which was usually a bad sign.
Inside was a handwritten note that read (in part):
“It is truly refreshing to be around a young man with such enthusiasm and such willingness to participate and to volunteer. Thanks for sending him to us!”
I assumed it was a mistake. Surely meant for someone else. But there was my name. I carried that note around for a week before working up the courage to say thank you.
I told Mr. Marvel I wasn’t sure I deserved it. He looked me square in the eye and said:
“Scott, the only failure you’ll know is what you are too afraid to do. You have everything you need to do good things. Don’t ever sell yourself short. I expect to see you do it.”
And that, right there, was the beginning of everything.
The Legacy of Faith
At the end of the school year, Mr. Marvel admitted that he usually hated teaching College Prep kids. But we were different, he said — and I believed he meant it.
Maybe he sent similar notes to other students. Maybe he told other kids they could do great things. I hope he did. But for me, it was the first time an adult, outside of my family, saw potential in me and made a point of saying so.
Nearly four decades later, I still carry that note.
Mr. Marvel passed away in 2015 after a long fight with kidney cancer. He’s gone, but a part of him is with me every day — in the choices I’ve made, the people I’ve served, and the hope I still have in the better angels of our nature.
That card is more than a keepsake. It’s a reminder of what can happen when someone has faith in you.
And here’s the thing — that kind of faith is running on fumes these days.
We’re more cynical. We doubt each other’s motives. We question institutions. And we lose sight of the fact that believing in people isn’t weakness — it’s how everything good starts.
Alexis de Tocqueville once wrote:
“The greatness of America lies not in being more enlightened than any other nation, but rather in her ability to repair her faults.”
Mr. Marvel saw past mine. And he helped me believe in a future I didn’t know was possible.
So, if I’ve done any good in this world, let the record show: it started with a teacher. With a note. And with one man’s faith.
“The only failure you’ll know is what you are too afraid to do.”
✍️ Share Your Story
Who was your Don Marvel? I’d love to hear the story of someone who changed your life. Comment below or reply directly — and let’s build a little corner of the internet where faith in each other still lives.