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.

Charlotte Charles

Prom?




-Dick Tidrow (Griffin)

Nursing Home Carl Pt. 2

 (I always thought I would be above writing about love in high school, but what can I say, she's really hot)

When I'm with you, God makes sense.

Something about your imagination that makes worlds seems creatable. And something about your eyes that makes sins seem forgivable.

I didn't really believe that the same God could create math and poetry. Then I saw you smile. The curve of your lips. The perfect right angles of your teeth. And the beauty of it all. And I think,

'Ahh, God. Got me again. Good one.'

I guess what I'm saying is, if you wanted, I could be your Carl.

And you could be my religion.

failing, losing, & dancing

I wanna be a champion.

I wanna know what amazing feels like. And I want to experience jumper cable lips. I wanna have a reason to raise my fist in the air. And I want to stand at half court and scream, anythings possible. I wanna have glory days.

And I'm not sure if it's fear or common sense that's holding me back. And I'm still trying to figure out why I put a happy ending at all of my poems. And when my happy ending is going to come.

But winning has taught me much. It's the losses. The laughter at each loss that has taught me most of the lessons worth remembering. A desire to win and a respect for losing, because I wanna be a champion.

Screwing up is necessary. Getting up again is beauty. And failure.

Failure is a part of perfection.

And dreams wouldn't really be dreams if I achieved them. And maybe I can't outrun these expectations or this loneliness, but I wanna be a champion.

Even if that means losing sometimes.

Failure asked Depression to Prom. And Loss is taking Knowledge. But I think I'm going to take Victory. And don't tell her I said this, but I think I'm going to try to kiss her.

Because maybe I was meant to make mistakes. And maybe these are my glory days.


I wanna be a champion.

-Griffin

here lies a ball player.

This isn't a love story.

But a romantic comedy nonetheless.

They warned about the violence in video games. The sex in movies. And the language on tv. But never about the romance in music.

That's when I met Paris.

The type of girl who made you feel bad for growing up. And for having written more essays in your life than 'I love yous'.

She tried to show me her Eiffel Tower. But I told her that's not what I'm here for. Then I let her see my sno-shack, even though I wasn't ready yet.

The type of girl they based main characters of off. And the type of girl they wrote songs about.

She didn't care that I liked country music. Or that I wrote about her in .99 cent composition notebooks.

The type of girl that made drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes look attractive.

Some days she'd wear pink. And other days she wouldn't even do her hair (those were the days she was most beautiful).

The type of girl that made you believe in the other side of 'sometimes'.

She'd wake me up in the middle of the night just to say hello.

The type of girl that could bring tears to your eyes with a black marker and a newspaper.


Now I see her in everything.


She ended up leaving me for New York. I don't blame her, he has a six-pack.
And he's a way better kisser than me, even though I meant it more.

But I promise you this, Paris will never forget her stint with Alpine Utah.

And I'm still trying to believe that there's life after Paris.
And I guess I'm still waiting for my happy ending.

But in the meantime, the wine is excellent. And I don't even drink.


"Umm... Aren't you a little young to be having a midlife crisis?"

"Whoever said I'd make it past thirty?"

i've never been good at goodbyes

My apartment was 5A.
I don't really know why I went. But that doesn't matter.
But I did go. And that's what matters.

The man above me, 6A, William Lee Barefield III, he was a ladies man. The French girls loved him. I would hear him up there every night with a different woman, screaming and laughing, and you know. He made me believe in sincerity.

The woman below me, 4A, Charlotte Charles, she was beautiful. I never actually saw her face, I only ever heard her voice. She would sing of Life, Love, and bowls of sugars in the kitchen in spring. She made me believe in beauty.

Then there was the girl who worked at the coffee shop down the street. Esther Greenwood. She would get me my coffee and pastry every morning. She was the type of girl that understood when you said, 'the usual'. Outside of my Mother, she deserved true love more than any other girl I had ever met.  She made me believe in 'reality'. And fairy tales.

Across the hall, 5B, was Cosmo Kramer. One time, I was on a late night stroll and I saw him run over a dog. He made me believe in potential. And his crazy friend, George Costanza. He made me believe in redheads.

Phyllis Dae Sloan, 7C.  We had the best elevator conversations. She was a lot more than small talk. Sometimes I wonder if she invented Paris. She made me believe in being myself even if it didn't make others 'happy'.

Ren Stevens, I don't even know what apartment number she was. But I saw her jump. What a way to die. She made me believe in effort.

The janitor, Greg Ostertag. I watched him grow the best moustache I have ever seen. He made me believe in not shaving.

In 3B, there was Eva Harper. We only talked once. She taught how to properly eat a cupcake. She probably won't remember that she did, but I always will. She made me believe in hellos.

The doorman was Harold Miner. No matter the weather or the time of night, he would always be there holding open the door. He told me about the dunk contest of '94. And everything he's learned since. I hope he knows I was listening. He made me believe in Paris.

Then there was Dick Tidrow. My roommate.  I was sick of cleaning up his messes, so I just started making messes with him. And somewhere in between my first cigarette and our late night talks, it happened. I think it was when I was listening to a Cat Stevens song. But I can't be sure. He taught me how to ask a girl on a date. He said I had to learn how to do the kissing part on my own, so I'm still working on that. Other things he taught me about: Paris, jealousy, dialogue, chairs, instructions, stealing, remembering, words, direct orders, duct tape, bricks, Life, Death, thoughts, fears, Love, and introductions. He made me believe in myself.

There were many others: Lois, Sally, Mimi, Gene, Susan, Rene, Pete, Mr.Fox. Just to name a few.


Everyone said something, at least once, that meant something to me.


Thank you.

Nursing home Carl

He never told me his actual name.
I called him Carl.
Gray-haired, war-veteran, nursing-home Carl. Cane and cardigan included.

"We met in Paris, 1st semester. We had know each other long before that, but that was the first time we met. It was in the library, we reached for the same book, Call of the Wild, Jack London. Me for a school report, her for entertainment." He leaned in toward me, resting upon his cane, his eyes widened through his thick black-framed glasses, "We made out, until we got kicked out." He sat back with a chuckle.

"I'll never forget that summer dress. Cream, with yellow flowers."

I looked up at him as he spoke, his lips were dry, as usual. His speech was slow, as if he was allowing the words to get to heaven before he spoke again.

"And, oh how'd she dance," he closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, re-imagining it in his mind, "and i'm not talking about dancing like moving your hands and your arms and your feet," he waved his hands around and continued, "I'm talking about dancing like letting go."

"She would tell me things like, 'Many men hold a key to my heart, but you, you are the only man who was born with one,' And it wasn't the words she used or the way she said it, but the way that she meant it."

He looked off into the distance, "She always loved rooftops."

He broke eye contact with the distance, looked down, and began to chuckle, "I remember, one time," he was forced to stop as his chuckling grew to giggling, "one time, she was so mad at me," tears began to form in the corner of his eyes because of his laughter, his face wrinkled because of his smile, "she stomped her foot on the ground, pointed to the door, and yelled, in the dead of winter, 'Go get me a snow cone and don't come back 'til you do!'"

We both laughed. It grew quite, again he looked down, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. Straightening the corners with his hands he looked up at me. The tears were still in his eyes, but they had changed, they were sadder. "She never did get that snow cone."

I too began to cry.

"And every time I get blood on my fingers," he now held back sobbing, "I want to blame her so badly," he paused, "but most of the time, it's merely just a paper cut."




I had only asked his religious beliefs.