Post-Mortem

Man, this is weird. 

I am a high school English teacher.

 

I teach creative writing (two sections!). Nelson is my colleague. We collaborated in a PLC. I think we talked about getting students to turn things in on time (but actually, did my generation do their posts on time? because my students don’t). 

I think I’m supposed to call him Kyle. 

He recently wrote a post about his daughter growing up and him being a dad. And it was really good (I think he’s gotten better at writing in the last ten years because his stuff is good [or maybe I just pay more attention]). But he’s like a full-on Dad. Probably a great one. 

In class today we read some of my old blog posts. Freaking dick tidrow. 

Afterward I ended up on some old blogs. I saw on Phyllis Dae Sloan’s blog that I was the only one of her linked blogs that didn’t post after creative writing ended. 10 freaking years ago. 

There’s an irony of me being back. Like teaching creative writing back. 

(not just because I’m at American Fork--our rival!). #knightforlife #worldclasshighschool 

But because when class ended, that was it for me. I didn’t post. I didn’t really think about posting. I didn’t really read people’s blogs. I was so detached I don't think I even knew there was a summer blogs series. 

I was content. 

Which is actually the gift of that class to me--I don’t think I was content before creative writing. 

Nothing is stranger than reading an old blog post from someone and then seeing a comment that I made at the end. A comment I have no recollection of making. But there it is, some sort of digital footprint that I was here. That I sat at a computer or on my phone and wrote words to someone. It’s very different than finding a piece of journal writing in that regard. It’s more like when a friend tells you something you told them once and you don’t remember saying it at all. 

And you’re reminded that the majority of your existence, exists in the eyes of others. 

Kind of like how your own voice, the voice you hear in your head always and everytime you speak, the voice you are most familiar with in the world--no one else will ever hear. Then you hear a recording of your own voice and you think, that’s who I am?

I dated a girl who took creative writing with Nelson a couple years after me. She did a post about me while we were dating. And it was good writing. It really was. But it felt more like good writing than writing about me. I could never forgive her for that. 

I matched with a girl on Hinge and she claimed she was Nelson’s actual favorite student--something about how he followed her on twitter and not other students or something. Which made me think I was going to like her. But rather it felt like a form of a popularity contest to posit yourself as the favorite student of the favorite teacher (and to prove it with twitter?). It just made me think that she used a really annoying poetry voice during open mics. I could never forgive her for that. 

I went to prom with charlotte charles. I think she had a better time than me. I could never forgive myself for that. 

I play fantasy football with William Lee Barefield III but we don’t talk. I can’t forgive myself for that. 

I finally understand the references on Esther Greenwood’s blog. I can’t gain forgiveness for that. 

Who knows where Phyllis Dae Sloan is. I once wrote her a whole essay on forgiveness. I honestly can’t believe how much I hope that she is happy. If she's not, I’ll never forgive the people in her life. 

In a letter to a young poet, Rilke said that we should ask ourselves, “must I write?” and if the answer is an affirmative, “then you must construct your life according to this necessity, your life right into its most inconsequential and slightest hour must become a sign and witness of this urge.” I got my answer. But then I dedicated myself to something that I thought was bigger. But I didn’t let the bluebird in my heart die and he’s starting to sing again. 

Now I’m not saying I’m going to start posting on this blog again. But I’m telling people I love them again. God, it’s taken me years to get there. I’m so sorry to everyone who fell out of my life because I stopped saying it.

You make me feel like a park bench: like butts and sunsets are enough to live for.  

This valentines day I asked everyone to be my valentine. It’s my new favorite tradition. I told a lot of people I love them and I didn’t repeat myself once. A student wrote me back and told me that I’m going to have “cool kids.” She clarified, not like popular cool but just cool. Boy, was that a great compliment. I told her that I wish she was my sister so we could laugh at weird cousins at family reunions. I meant it too. 

I cried in a movie tonight. The first time in a while I think I know. 

I logged into my blogger account to post this and I found I have two drafts on my blogger homepage/profile/whatevertheheckitis. One was a post that I took down because it was real and it was about someone I loved. Here’s the last line: 

“I want you to tell someone, anyone, you love them. Because I haven't heard someone mean it in a long time.”

The person I wrote that about died last fall. When I was at his funeral I wrote a journal prompt for my creative writing students titled “our love outlives us”. 

I started this post a year ago and I wrote about how it’s weird to hear my old voice but I didn’t post it because it wasn’t complete. Then tonight I added the bit about how I’m starting to say I love you and mean it again. Then I stumble on my own voice telling me to tell someone I love them. 

Here’s what my one other draft said: 

“I'm just really trying to figure out what matters.

And I want to do a big, huge blogpost about but I'm afraid I might be wrong. Because I don't know what the truth is. I want to be honest with you but I honestly don't know.

Love matters. I know that. But I don't what love is.

I'm really distraught and I can't put it into words and it's making me more distraught”

I think 18 year old griffin nailed it. 

The only difference between him and I is that I’m not distraught. 

And I finally wrote my big, huge blogpost about it: 3,799 days later.

And as I do so, a group of new high school students are posting on their blogs about love just before (or after) the midnight deadline as an assignment for my class. God, it feels good to have gotten something right.  

Love is what matters. 

It’s good to be back.