Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Chapter Eighteen: The D Words

“If you look down you’ll see a surprise… Once you see it you’ll always want it.” 

—from the film Napoleon

*

Life is not what we see on tv, but our reality is most definitely influenced by it. Exhibit A: this office of Principal Sam’s I find myself sitting in now. 

Things look different than it did over the summer. My principal’s desk; which was in the middle of the room before, is now turned facing the windows. This change was school gossip back in October.

“It’s suspicious students walking the hallways can’t see teachers’ computers.” 

An administrator from downtown supposedly made this comment to Principal Sam when In-Person Learning had started back up. As a result, Principal Sam—always worried about funding— told teachers to reorganize their rooms so computers were visible to students. Teachers were annoyed by this but rallied around our principal, to “stick it” to this administrator. 

None of this affected me because I don’t have a classroom of my own, but the whole thing bothered me as I saw similar behavior in the corporate world: No one trusting one another and everyone thinking someone was out to get them, so they’d get the other person first. 

Teaching this class has me upset with what these kids are taking from the entertainment they are consuming—but we adults are no better.

This week in class I’ve been talking to my students about entertainment once again. Discussing the vast amounts of historical dramas being fed to us today, I introduced another acronym I created: M.E.A.N.: Misremembered, Embellished, Agitating, and Not-Exactly-True.

We humans are creative creatures—I wrote on the form requiring them to pick a historical drama to review— proof can be found in our ability to turn practically anything into entertainment. This is often all in good fun, and can be educational, but it has become more and more M.E.A.N. as of late. Creative minds do this for entertainment purposes mostly, but it has become counterproductive to the overall progress of a population that does not comprehend the effect entertainment is having on them.

I may have created that lesson out of frustration a bit as I continue to struggle privately. Fortunately, what I say to my students and what I think aren’t the same. 

“We are living in an Egotistical and Idiocentric world today.” 

Those are a few words I wrote in my journal. What I think I meant by that was, selfish idiots rule the world. I honestly don’t believe that, but it felt good to write at the time.

Sirena was proud of me when I got the funding for this class. She knows how hard I worked to get here and is still the only person I can talk to honestly about how I’m feeling sometimes. Talking to her about how much entertainment was bothering me lately, she suggested this show she’d been watching called Suits. 

“It’s got a really good story,” she said, “with not all that other stuff.” 

There’s a lot about entertainment that’s bothering me. The constant backstabbing in pursuit of vengeance is some of the “stuff” I was talking about. Negative Behaviors it would be identified as in The Sprinkle Scale lesson I did with my students. That drama about lawyers Sirena suggested had a ton of it. Only later did I realize what “stuff” she was talking about. 

Sirena used to watch the show Gilmore Girls over and over. I watched every episode with her during the honeymoon period of our relationship. Given our past, Sirena might have thought of herself a Lorelai and me as her Luke once. I think I know Sirena better than she knows herself most of the time… but watching that show Suits had me wondering if maybe I’m wrong about that too. 

In an episode of that show, one of the self-righteous lawyers said “caring makes you weak” when debating right and wrong. Knowing Sirena had seen this, I couldn’t help but wonder—What has caring done to me?

I finally quit on her show when one of those lawyers started smoking weed to cope with losing his grandmother. Watching that episode had me thinking that team of writers knew very little about actually smoking weed themselves. That’s the job I should have pursued, I thought, a writer on one of these shows. 

The clock on Principal Sam’s computer changes to 7:13. 

It’s cold in this office and I feel goosebumps on me. Classes are still remote, but many teachers do their virtual lessons from school now, and so the building isn’t completely empty. I’m warming my hands by rubbing them together when Principal Sam walks in. 

“I owe you an apology,” my principal says placing a piece of paper on the desk and then sitting down. Grabbing a strap from behind one ear, Principal Sam removes her mask so that I can now see her face. 

Principal Sam—aka Samantha—continues speaking sounding more relaxed. “I’m a frosty-haired, tiny old lesbian Jose. I think that makes me a little rough around the edges sometimes. Regardless, I know I haven’t been too nice to you since you’ve been here.”

I watch my principal say this and open a drawer to her desk. Grabbing her electronic cigarette, she takes a drag then places it back in that drawer like it’s no big deal. Seeing this, I am once again reminded that this school is just a bit different. 

“The students love you Jose,” Principal Sam continues. “I don’t pretend to understand everything you’re doing with them, but I read your curriculum proposal the other day…you know that thing that got you this grant…whatever you call it. What you wrote about entertainment and education makes a lot of sense.”

“Thank you,” I say to the compliment. “I don’t remember everything I wrote in that though. Did Mr. Bernard give it to you?”

“He had emailed it to me way back, but I never actually read it.” The raspy voiced, frosty-haired, tiny old lesbian chuckles to herself, then covers her mouth to cough. Doing so has me noticing that tattoo on my principal’s wrist again. 

That tattoo hides a scar from stitches. As a teenager herself, Principal Sam felt so misplaced and uncomfortable in this world that she would make tiny cuts on the inside of her thighs. “I can’t tell you why exactly I used to did that,” she said to the students she told this story to. 

Taking this too far, she cut that wrist one day. Being the principal at this school—and preventing any of these students from feeling the way she did as kid—was her “calling” she said. 

“I know I sound like a broken record Jose,” Principal Sam continues, “but I believe in a rigorous standards-based education…it’s how I was trained. Maybe that’s not the most important thing for these students— If you tell anyone I said though that I’ll deny it completely.”

“I get it,” I laugh at my principal’s smiling face. Feeling comfortable I decide to ask the question I’m in here for. “So, have you heard about funding yet?” 

Spinning around in her chair, Principal Sam grabs that paper off her desk then hands it to me. I read an email correspondence between her and someone I don’t know. I don’t need to know who it is to understand what I’m reading. 

“Your last day is January 22^nd,” Principal Sam says after she sees I’m done reading, “The last day of term two.”

Below my heart and just above my stomach is where that emptiness inside me lives. That thing—whatever it is—takes a gentle gasp of air at Principal Sam’s words. 

I knew the chances were slim my program would see additional funding. Between the Candace tragedy and bouncing back and forth between Remote and In-Person-Learning, this year has just been too chaotic for my program to gain any traction. And I haven’t heard from Mr. Bernard either. 

What Principal Sam has just told me is not surprising. Still, it hurts…You’d think I’d be used to failure by now.

Leaving Principal Sam’s office I go straight to Lily’s. “How’d the meeting go?” she says seeing me walk in.  

“Good and bad,” I answer sitting down. “She was really nice actually, but the funding isn’t happening…My last day is January 22^nd.”

“Listen,” Lily says, “I have an idea I started working on already. Don’t give up on me J. I got you.” Lily smiles at me confidently. “Did you talk to MOY yet?” she adds quickly changing the subject.

I told Lily my mother refers to Sirena as MOY from time to time. MOY stands for Mother of the Year. 

Sirena successfully sold the house we built after the fire and closed on the deal over a month ago now. Despite this pandemic, real estate is still sky high. After commissions, Sirena walked away with a profit of well over three-hundred thousand dollars. 

In selling the house, Sirena secretly planned to move in with a boyfriend I didn’t even know she had. News that might have been easier to cope with had she told me. But Sirena seems uninterested in what will make things easier on me at the moment. 

Over the past few weeks, Lily is who I’ve been venting my frustrations to. I can’t talk to my mother as she’s not a big fan of Sirena’s already obviously and I don’t want to make a bad situation worse.

“Yes, we talked,” I answer Lily’s question. “She gave me a check for three thousand to reimburse me for that tax credit.” 

Lily sits up and slaps both her hands hard on the desk in front of her. “Are you kidding me!” she says loudly. 

Lily and I have been debating how much Sirena would give me from the sale of the house. I said I’d ask for ten thousand, but she—like everyone else in my circle of support—was pushing me to demand more. 

Sirena had been avoiding this money conversation. Two weeks ago, when I finally asked her what I should expect she snapped on me. “This isn’t what I wanted!” she yelled, “Give me a minute to breathe. It’s all about money to you!” 

I wasn’t even two months into my stay at that halfway house when Sirena filed for a divorce. I told her I wouldn’t contest anything so that her and our son could stay in the house. I’d put them through enough I figured and might have thought I’d get her back at that point anyway. 

Sirena promised to give me something if she did sell though. “Enough to help you get back on your feet,” she said caringly when we discussed it over the phone in Councilor John’s office the week before Thanksgiving that year.  

“Hey,” I reply calmy to Lily’s outburst, “she gave me my artwork from before the fire. That might be worth something someday.” 

“She realizes you lost everything in that fire too right,” Lily says firmly. “And that you and your dad built the house? — And that you’re the one taking care of her son now?” 

I see Lily’s eyes studying me. Not responding, she lets out a sigh of annoyance. “Did you ask if she’s put money in an account for him at least?” 

“I can’t ask her anything,” I say dispiritedly. “She’s literally incapable of being honest with me right now.” 

“I just can’t believe she didn’t give you anything Jose. I’m sorry—she gave you tax money you let her have last year to help…What did she say to you exactly?” 

I picture Sirena saying the words and tell Lily. 

“That she doesn’t owe me anything for all I put her through…And that I’ve forgotten all she’s done for me…. And that giving someone like me a lot of money isn’t a smart thing to do.”

“What a cunt.” Lily makes another noise of annoyance; I’ve gotten used to her use of this word at this point. “Did you at least stand up for yourself?” she adds. 

“Why do you think she said that stuff,” I answer.  

This conversation between Sirena and me occurred in my parents’ driveway. Sirena was picking our son up and pulled up in her brand-new black jeep. Lily knows all about this Jeep; and her boyfriend’s truck that was purchased at the same time: “With his own money obviously!” according to Sirena. 

Like me, Sirena was married before too—to a good friend of mine actually. Somehow he and I remained friends afterwards. Now that Sirena has sort of ran us both over, a part of me hopes we can become closer friends once again. Sirena had a daughter with this saint of man and that daughter was in Sirena’s jeep that day. 

She’s only a month younger than my twins and is like a best friend to them still. She comes over and hangs out with us. And even went trick or treating with us just a few months ago. She will forever be a part of my story whether she realizes it or not. 

Arguing with Sirena is most always dangerous and can become scary; with her daughter in the car, I didn’t want to make a scene that day. After Sirena said those things to me about money, I told her to just give me what she thought was fair. 

So that she could give me a check and I could stop wondering how much her opinion of a “fair amount” would be, I then followed her in my car to this new boyfriend’s house. She handed me that check folded in half. “You’re not gonna look at it?” she said handing it to me. 

I didn’t open it until she walked away. In that moment I felt like Will Ferrell in his movie Stranger Than Fiction: There’s no way this can be real, I thought looking at this check for only three thousand dollars. 

“Jose,” Lily says, “I still don’t understand why you put up with this. You really should stand up for yourself. You’re a great dad.”

Lily knows exactly why I put up with all this—I’ve told her a number of times already. 

When I do stand up for myself Sirena threatens to take my son and have him live with her. She has the divorce agreement and my history on her side and so she is sort of doing me a favor by letting him live with me. 

There’s also that stuff she threatens to tell people whenever I stand up for myself. I’m ashamed to admit that the stories Sirena tells her circle of support does have some truth sprinkled into it. 

Drinking and doing those pills together was fun for a while, but when money became an issue and she could stop when I couldn’t, things got really ugly at times. Telling Lily this, I told her that Sirena and I loved hard…but we fought hard too. 

Using hand-me-down furniture and sharing a bed that sits on the floor at my parents with our son, while Sirena and this new boyfriend have all our new stuff at his house, and a bank account full of money super stinks. Sirena’s sister and brother-in-law acted as realtors in the sale of the house. Which means the two of them walked away with way more than I did. So, there’s that little cherry on the screw J over Sunday too. 

Yes, it all most certainly does super-duper-duper stink for me. But I’ve told Lily I need be quiet about this for now and need to start listening to myself.  

“Can we just drop it?” I ask her. “It’s just money… I’ll get over it.”

Lily is many things. Her ability to be understanding is what I appreciate most. 

I watch her take a deep breath after I speak—sucking in the words she wants to say. She slowly interlocks her hands before placing them on the desk in front of her. I see the anger fade from her eyes.

“Okay,” she says straightening up and turning her frown into a pretty smile. “I won’t talk about cunty-face anymore Jose. But karmas not a bitch—it’s a mirror… remember that.” 

*

Article Title: The ‘D’ Words 

Dated: Friday, December 18^th, 2020

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to change.”

— a quote from the film The Lorax

This week we I told you again that I’m finding entertainment more and more disturbing for a number of different reasons. 

Entertainment today aims at making everyone feel represented so people can feel good. The few feel good maybe but the many are getting more confused, and confusion is often solved easiest with anger… Am I lying? 

Entertainment today is bursting with hidden agendas and ulterior motives. It is over-reaching and pushes too hard to promote and advocate for change—or equality—or justice—or inclusion—or acceptance. ENTERTAINMENT IS ATTEMPTING TO BRAINWASH US WITH ITS SELF-RIGHTEOUS PROPAGANDA! … Am I lying?

Entertainment has taught us that we humans can disagree about anything and everything and that this world is full of Doubt, Disagreement, and Dickheads. … Am I lying?

In the book Feeling Good, a depressed self-image is characterized by the four D’s: defeated, defective, deserted, and deprived. Are those The D Words this article refers to? I guess you’ll just have to read and find out…dickheads.

“Truth is like poetry and people f’n hate poetry.”

—From the 2015 comedy/drama titled The Big Short

Entertainment is an exaggeration of truth. It always has been but today I’m seeing it turned into a more and more ridiculous and destructive exaggeration. There is also truth in entertainment though. Take this movie The Big Short for example. 

That movie turns the 2008 financial crash I mentioned in last week’s article and turns it into entertainment. At the end of that movie, it says this to its viewer: 

Banks took the money the American people game them and they used it to pay themselves huge bonuses and lobbied congress to kill big reform…and then they blamed immigrants and poor people.

You are living in the period of history that movie warns us about just so you know.

Dr. Sues—the author of the book-turned-movie The Lorax I quoted to begin this article—used stories to not only entertain but educate at the same time. Consider this article my contribution to the cause. 

My argument today is this: Entertainment is the purest type of Magic on the planet.

As long as we humans have walked this Earth, the ability to tells stories that inspire people, that give people hope, that motivate people, that transcend the way we think, is Magic—pure and simple. 

That said, the ability to tell stories that scare people, that give people anxiety, that make people worry, that frighten people, that corrupt the way we think, is also Magic—pure and simple. 

Did you know that entertainment has been found to act like a drug on the brain? 

Is that true or did I just make it up? … Does it matter? 

Entertainment can be a wonderful thing. It can distract us from the mundane and transform us into the unknown. With the internet today, our entire lives revolve around entertainment. No matter who you are, or where you are, entertainment connects us all.  

Consider Carl Icahn, someone you probably don’t know who has control over your life in ways you probably can’t imagine. 

A quick Wikipedia search would tell you this billionaire supports multiple animal welfare campaigns—specifically pigs for some reason—and that he is often attacked for his cutthroat business practices. What could you have in common with someone like him?

In a documentary I watched recently, I saw Carl Icahn casually refer to himself as “being like Ray Donovan”. Ray Donovan is a show my parents watch but not me. From what I know, Ray Donovan is a good guy doing bad things. 

In that documentary Carl Icahn compared himself to a character he saw on screen. Have you ever compared yourself to a character on screen?

For those that might care to know, if I could be a vigilante character on screen, I’d be Denzel Washington’s character in The Equalizer: a man with laser-like focus who speaks soft but can kick butt strategically if necessary. 

Allow me to try and kick some butt here by offering you a quick history lesson.

The character Superman was created in the 1930’s by two teenage Jewish immigrants; Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. These men selling the rights to a creation that would give birth to a billion-dollar industry for $130 dollars is comic book legend today. They got screwed over financially, but I like to think them being remembered for their creation means more than money in many ways. These two men will forever inspire dreamers like me…and are proof that great artists can come from anywhere. 

Superman’s first issue was released on April 18th, 1938. The Great Depression began in 1929 and lasted until 1939—according to Wikipedia. Was it a coincidence this hero showed up right when that depression was ending?

That was a difficult time to be alive. Resources were tough to come by and much of the world was at war. Children had to practice wearing gas masks in school back then— Could you imagine?

I’ve read books talking about life back then. In them people found themselves confused about what was really going on. They were scared and tired and did not who or what to believe. 

Does any of this sound familiar to you? 

One thing that made Superman a hero back then was his ability to help anyone on the planet by flying at super speed through the clouds. Whether a high-tech missile was headed your way, or you were in an intense battle against some secret-agent Russian boogeyman, Superman could be there in an instant. There was not a threat this man could not handle and not a place he could not be. 

Back then the ability we have today to communicate with one another instantaneously from anywhere would have been considered science-fiction. The internet would have been a superpower beyond comprehension. It would have been like seeing a man dropping down to Earth from a cloud above. Kind of ironic we call the internet The Cloud don’t you think? 

So… what are you doing with your superpower today?

Sometimes the world around us is not what we want it to be. But we have the power to change it. If you are up to this challenge then I advise you to remember The Real D Words: Determination, Destination, and Deliberation. 

J.K. Rawling used those words in her Harry Potter books when describing the ability to Disapparate: to magically disappear from one place and reappear in another. In those fictional stories, Harry and his classmates had to learn from their teachers how to successfully do this. 

“One had to be completely Determined to reach one’s Destination, and move without haste, but with Deliberation,” according to Wilkie Twycross; Ministry of Magic official and Apparition Instructor.

People pay a lot of money in the real world to attend trainings where they’ll teach you just like Harry’s teachers did in those books. (Think Tony Robbins) Did that author hope her stories would someday inspire people in the real world? I think she did——that’s some real magic shit right there!

What makes a story compelling? … What do most all good stories, movies, and shows need? 

They need bag guys, that’s what. In literary circles these bad guys are called antagonists. Also referred to as enemies, adversaries, or competitors. They obviously don’t need to be “guys” either. For this article, let’s keep it gender neutral by calling them “bullies”. 

Stories need these bullies to make entertainment entertaining. But how has this affected us humans in the real world?

Our obsession with entertainment has fueled this belief that bullies are everywhere. If everyone is a bully, then we are all bullies, and it appears all of us have been humping like rabbits, resulting in a world full of bully rabbits. 

So… Are you a BULLY RABBIT? 

Let us consider another superhero for a moment: Batman. 

If you look at the story of this character shown on screen over the years you will see this character exist in a darker and darker world. I’d suggest focusing on how his parents are killed in the various origin stories; the homeless junkie accidently shooting them in one, is replaced by a more brutal killing in another. 

Is it a coincidence that this character’s world gets darker and darker right along with our own? 

The latest Batman movie—set to be released in 2022—has a new trailer for it I watched with my boys the other day. The end features this hero smashing in some guy’s face referring to himself as “vengeance”. People are very excited about it. 

Don’t get me wrong, it can be fun seeing our heroes on screen get revenge, but that pursuit in the real world can leave a person feeling empty. On the rare occasion it is achieved, the reward (if we assume is rewarding) is not everlasting. That’s why I encourage a less exciting thing called forgiveness. 

“People are kinder than they appear on screen.” 

Could you imagine if this warning was displayed before a movie played in theatres? Sadly, most people think of the warning they see on mirrors when they are watching their movies: “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” 

I’m starting to believe history will have us looking back on this period as The Dark Ages of Entertainment. I might just be a dorky-overly-sensitive dad, but I’m starting to believe we need to become more aware of what we are taking from the entertainment we consume. In fact, I’m starting to believe the future of the entire human race depends on it. 

In the real world there are millions of people standing on a ledge currently. They are about to fall but no one is physically pushing them. If you want to be critical of my opinions, do your research: Find out how many people a year die by suicide and compare it to the number of deaths caused by crime. 

This world pushes people in different ways. What if I’m right? … What if entertainment is bleeding into our reality? With our entertainment becoming darker and darker, could it be pushing more and more people closer and closer to that ledge I just mentioned? 

“Feeding anger is a profitable endeavor.”

In shows and movies characters run into difficult people at every turn. Unreasonable people who seem to want to make life challenging for whoever they encounter. Does that perhaps have something to do with people becoming more and more difficult and less helpful in the real world today? 

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

“Feeding anger is a profitable endeavor.” In your journals explain what you think this comment means and say whether you agree or not.

The Teacher’s Playlist:

Rocket Man by Elton John

“She packed my bags last night pre-flight.”

*

(End of Chapter 18)

To continue to next chapter click here…

Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Chapter Seventeen: Regret

 “I don’t want your suffering… I don’t want your future.” 

—from the film X-Men: Days of Future Past

*

I was thinking about the different types of regret we experience when I was writing my article this week. And that kind you feel when you wish something was just a dream. When you wish you could go back in time and change things. But you can’t no matter how badly you wish for it—painful regret. 

All regret is painful, I decided, some is just super painful maybe. 

It’s Friday afternoon, December 11^th, 2020, and I find myself at the memorial our school is having for Candace. 

“You can’t save everyone Jose.” 

Something Councilor John said to me once replays in my mind as I stand in front of this picture. I look at Candace’s face with no hood or mask covering its features. I see her thin blonde hair and can look into her brown eyes without making her feel uncomfortable. The young lady looking back at me from this flat lifeless surface attacks my emotions without restraint. 

Candace is gone. Some of us barely knew her, yet we all stand here now realizing we loved her in some way— Why does it take something like this for people to realize that? 

When Lily talked in the cafeteria that day there was hope Candace would pull through. Sadly, that didn’t happen. Lily was there when she was pronounced dead that night in the hospital. Lily told me it was the saddest moment of her life. 

“She hated her teeth.” 

Next to me Lauryn and Nel stand together. Whether Lauryn says this to me or Nel I’m not sure. I can barely hear what she says through that mask covering her mouth; another irritating element of this current reality of ours. 

Nel drove Pras and Lauryn to this memorial. Arriving we all parked together. Neither of them had seen Lauryn cry about this yet. Today that changed. 

“It was her f***ing birthday,” Lauryn cried into my shoulder while hugging me earlier. 

Sunday, November 8^th, was Candace’s birthday; the day after Lauryn and Candace had gotten together and smoked that weed. I knew that, but having Lauryn cry it into my shoulder provided a fresh circumcision of pain on my heart. Thankfully Lily was next to me and took Lauryn to collect herself. 

Standing with everyone now, I take another quick look at Nel and see him looking strong beside Lauryn. He was made to come to this recovery high school after stealing some money from a teacher’s purse at his previous school. His parents blamed it on excessive drinking and had him sent here. He could have gone back to his school this year but stayed because of Lauryn. 

How Nel’s parents feel about this is constantly discussed in emails and between teachers. Whether or not Nel truly struggles with addiction, only time will tell. I’m critical of him and I know it. Maybe it’s because he’s white, like me, and I’m allowed to be. In this moment however, I am connected to him because of how we both feel about Lauryn. 

Candace’s death was a result of a tragic mistake. Zero blame is being placed on anyone today. This includes Lauryn’s mother; who is currently in treatment and has a legal battle ahead of her. Any honest adult will tell you they did plenty of stupid things in their youth. And that surviving mistakes is what lucky people live long enough to do. Whether Lauryn or her mother—who is only thirty-three years old herself—will ever accept this is unknown.

Visiting my grandparents at their nursing home before all this happened, I found myself wishing they would give out marijuana gummies like tic-tacs there. My generation will look at marijuana differently by the time I’m in a place like that— Why not make their life as enjoyable as possible? I thought visiting them. At this moment however, I find myself wishing all drugs just didn’t exist. 

Being at this memorial has me thinking about how long I might have left with grandparents. Death doesn’t normally bother me much—I feel worse for the people we leave behind usually—but watching people grow old is extremely hard for me. With Covid I wasn’t allowed to visit my grandparents for a while, but even before I hadn’t visited much. Ever since that day I was forced to ask them for money…

“You ask them,” Sirena said, giving me an ultimatum, “or we are done!” 

When I was working on the house after the fire I was super depressed and finding it impossible to stay focused on anything. I think that was after I did that electronic shock treatment…or maybe it was all at the same time. I thought Adderall; a medication prescribed for ADHD, might help at some point. Being denied by my doctor because of my history with addiction and my diagnoses, I asked my weed dealer if he could get his hands on some. 

“Just use cocaine,” my dealer said after telling me he couldn’t, “it does the same thing…and it isn’t addicting.” 

I liked all my dealers. They were like friends to me really. Not one of them was some master kingpin out there getting rich off me. All of them were just trying to survive… like me. Thinking about this now makes me hate myself though—No wonder Sirena left you King Stupid.

In the heat of my Percocet addiction, she sold all her jewelry so we could pay our bills once. Instead of just being grateful I begged her to use some of that money for just “one more pill” I said— God, was I pathetic.

When my weed dealer said that thing to me about cocaine not being addicting, I had never done what I considered a “real drug” like cocaine before. To me weed didn’t count and Percocet was medicine; and I spent every scent of Sirena and my money not switching to the cheaper alternative of heroin because that was a “real drug”. Not only was I stupid and pathetic, but super naive as well.

“Is this really a smart investment?” 

Thousands of dollars later, and with nostrils that hurt because of this “non addictive drug”, I sat with my grandparents in early September of 2017… awkwardly asking them for money. 

It was beyond humiliating telling them what I’d done that day. That was before they moved into that nursing home they’re at now. And so, Sirena and I sat at the same table we had those Sunday dinners at uncomfortably asking if they might cover the thirty-thousand-dollars for that recovery program Sirena had found for me. 

My grandfather is a wonderfully caring and kind and smart man, who saved his entire life to live comfortably in retirement. He didn’t say no to us asking for money that day but voiced concerned about the cost of a program that offered no guarantees of my success. That’s why my mind remembers him asking if this was a “smart investment” when we were talking that day. 

Rambling nervously, I remember saying something about wanting to get better so that I might finish my story. “Nobody wants to hear about your damn writing!” my grandfather said in an uncharacteristically harsh tone to that statement of mine. “What you need to do is get back to work,” he added. 

I recently asked Sirena if she remembers my grandfather using that word “damn” in that moment. She couldn’t remember. My mind tends to embellish painful memories, so maybe my grandfather didn’t use that word. “The past is what changes the most,” that show my boys was watching said a while back—maybe this is what it meant by that. 

At the time I wasn’t working and was collecting disability. Many people were like my grandfather and thought me getting back to work would make me better. Referring to my recovery as not being a “smart investment” and that comment about my “damn writing” hurt, but my grandfather was not wrong on either accounts. I never held that conversation against him. I simply hated myself for putting him in that position that day. 

Ironically, sitting with my grandparents that day is when Shawn from G.A.A.M.H.A. first called me. I remember talking to him in their driveway. Shawn’s the one who told me how I could get into that halfway house—which was ultimately where I was meant to be I think—and so I hadn’t even needed to ask my grandparents for that money. 

My mind swells with all I reflect on. Looking at the small collection of students, staff, and family around me, I find myself thinking about Sirena again. She wasn’t happy my grandfather was unwilling to dish out that cash then—Why am I still so obsessed with her?

“Grief moves at its own pace brother.” 

More words from my past echo around in my mind. Ron said that to me when we were having breakfast one morning at a diner a short walk from that halfway house. He was repeating words Councilor John had used on both of us at some point. 

Sirena has me questioning how I feel about the entire female race at the moment. Watching an episode of Game of Thrones just last night, I think maybe I’m supposed to be frightened. 

“Five f-ing stars for the f-ery that show has done to our collective self-conscious.” 

I wrote that in my journal finding the f-word necessary and memorable. Rewatching that show, I find myself extremely annoyed by it right now. “This fifth season has girl power written all over it,” I wrote. “Girls are strong. I get it. But girls can sometimes just be b-words.”

The b-word I thought necessary and memorable too. And justified as well as that’s what the girl had called her sister in the episode I had watched. 

“You’re a greedy bitch, you know that.” That’s actually what the sexy and strong sister said after her sexy and strong other sister stuck a spear through the back of a young prince’s head whom she had wanted to kill herself. 

Watching that episode, I wondered why they were laying this strong women stuff on so thick. I thought maybe it was just filler episodes to extend the series, but when I thought about it more I started to wonder if maybe something else was going on.

“That season was released in 2015,” I wrote. “Right before that Game of Thrones election happened in the real world. An election where deceit, belittling, and name calling was rewarded with votes. Is that ironic or sad? It’s f’n stupid is what it is.” 

I would then go on to vent in my journal about how good men are living in a woman’s world today: “My guy friends who all fit that description rarely get together, but on Facebook I see their wives get together all the time. Woman attached to truly selfish men would be mad at me for writing about this, but those men are not the norm. We care. Most of us that is. Too much most of the time actually.”

Standing at this memorial now it’s all so insanely frustrating to me. The pain of this reality is much worse than the manufactured pain these shows are feeding us—I’d take a spear to the back of the head over this any day.

I eventually watch Nel, Pras, and Lauryn drive away together. Getting into my own car feeling mentally drained, I start it and look around to make sure I’m alone before taking out my phone. Finding my playlist, I begin looking for that one song from my past. 

“Human intelligence will merge with artificial intelligence someday.”

I heard that somewhere. Depending on the mood I’m in, and what I might want to feel at this moment, my A.I. Assistant Device will find the song I’m in search of and play it for me. Until then, I have to scroll through this long list of songs that are separated by emotions and genre on the playlist I labeled The Teacher’s Playlistwhen I started using songs for these articles of mine. 

At a bible study I was attending a year or so ago, the men there were talking about people getting computer chips inserted into their arms. I didn’t say anything, I just listened to them fear the possibility of having all their activities tracked. Listening to them I couldn’t help thinking if getting a chip inserted into my arm would save me from some of the many frustrations of everyday life today, I’d do it. 

People fear A.I. for different reasons, but to me the biggest threat of A.I. is to our mental sanity. It’s basically breaking the internet now as its used to flood us with advertising and scams. Facebook listens to me I’m pretty sure. I must have clicked something that says it’s okay because I see adds whenever I say things. I think there’s something going on with scan codes on things now too because whenever I’m near one I see that on Facebook as well. 

Remembering passwords — getting health reports — dealing with airport lines. If having a chip inserted into my arm would save me from those life frustrations; and maybe track people trying to steal my bank account information; and maybe kept me from being bombarded with emails so that I could communicate with people more easily…I think I’d be fine if people wanted to track my activities to try and sell me stuff. 

Go ahead Mark Z or Elon or Bezos or Tony Stark, I’d maybe say, make me your ginny pig…Chip me!

“I just need space right now.” —A lyric from that song Space by Ivan B plays in my head as I scroll past it on my list— “Your face can hide a secret, but your heart will show it.” 

Next week in class me and these few students I have will discuss Music, Mood, and Movies as part of a lesson discussing entertainment again. “We humans know music affects our mood,” —the warm-question I’ll start Monday’s lesson with reads— “Are we letting it turn us into monsters?”

After that I plan to show them a video of my youngest son doing the Macarena Dance while watching the movie Hotel Transylvania Three—the part at the end when they play different music to make the big scary monster angry or happy. Wearing only his underwear, my son’s bony body doing that long-exaggerated hip sway is hilarious. I’m hoping showing it will lighten the mood when I see everyone next week. 

Scrolling past the song Sound of Silence by Disturbed, I finally find the song on this list I was looking for. Hitting play, the soft drum percussion and gentle strings of a guitar begin their work on me. Turning up the volume, I put my phone down and lean my head back before closing my eyes to listen to this song Down In a Hole by Alice In Chains.

At the halfway house this song played on a television in the basement while I sat around men who were strangers to me at the time. The lead singer of this band wore pink hair and sang this song as part of an old MTV Unplugged performance. Watching it almost had me in tears that day. 

Councilor John told me it took him five years to feel comfortable and stable in sobriety. I hated hearing that then. Today I am three and a half years sober; and things have gotten better year after year like Councilor John said they would, but I wouldn’t say I’m comfortable or stable yet. On days like today, I consider John’s words and breathe a sigh of relief: I still have time—I try convincing myself. 

I wear a lot of masks to hide certain things about myself. The one I try to wear most is a smile. Today however there is no one smiling and what I feel is the real me is hard to hide right now. It’s like this other person lives inside me. That person is a constant mixture of sad and scared and mad. That person worries that hoping for hope is hopeless. 

“You must create hope!” That’s what the cheerful more confident me would say. But that person hides more and more as the harshness of this reality has become more and more real to me. 

I now wonder if that hopeful person is dead and it’s just this other me. Pretending and putting on a show for these students, and for my kids, and for my family. And for me sometimes. 

I fear I might never be the person I thought sobriety would help me become. This song playing now reminds me of those darker days though; the days I thought I’d be better off at the bottom of a six-foot dirt hole. Sitting here—thinking about Candace and hurting for Lauryn and feeling bad for myself—I feel guilty for ever thinking that. 

I might have others believing me to be a strong adult these days, but I know who I really am. 

Dropping my head, I take both palms and press them hard into the sockets of my eyes. With my fingernails digging into my hairline, the swelling in my head becomes too much…and I just let it happen.

*

Article Title: P.A.I.N. through Regret 

Dated: Friday, December 11^th, 2020

 “There will be an answer.” 

—from the song Let It Be by The Beatles

“Greed is acting like a vacuum on our world, sucking not only money from the many but also its dreams, compassion, and empathy in order serve the luxury of the few.”

That’s something I wrote in my journal and a strange way to start an article about regret, but it will make sense soon…trust me. 

Regret is another emotion that connects all people. Two things that are often associated with regret is love and money. With two ex-wives, I certainly have regrets as it pertains to love. Rather than open those wounds, I’ll talk to you about my regrets with money here instead. 

First though I want to talk to you about this song I quoted to start this article. 

According to Paul McCartney, the song Let It Be was inspired by his mother Mary, who died when he was fourteen years old but visited him in a dream ten years later. Mary came to him in his time of trouble, he claims, speaking words of wisdom that brought him peace when he needed it most. 

Was Paul McCartney visited by a ghost or an angel or a spirit when his mother said, “There will be an answer, let it be”? … Or did his mind create a story to comfort him in his time of trouble? Either way, it’s a beautiful song you should listen to later.

It’s a different world than it was when that song was written in 1970, but in many ways it’s still very much the same. Today we still fight over what’s dividing us, we still dream of the past, and we still regret the state of things. People felt the same way back then. 

We are also still waiting for that answer I think. That said, let me now talk to you about regret as it pertains to money for me.

History books will tell you the “Global Financial Crisis” began on September 18^th, 2008; the day Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy, but for me that crisis started six months earlier on Monday, March 11^th of that year. 

The Friday before that Monday, I had purchased ten thousand dollars of Bear Sterns stock just before the market closed. At twenty-six years old, that was a lot of money. Money I had earned from years of back-breaking physical labor; roofing mostly. 

Over that weekend that investment looked like a smart one as Jim Cramer on Mad Money was calling it a “Great Buy!” I remember feeling really good about myself over that weekend. 

Three days later, on Monday, I turned on CNBC first thing in the morning. That’s when I learned that the company whose stock I had purchased had gone bankrupt. That ten-thousand-dollars was gone. Poof. 

In that moment, I remember screaming Lauryn’s favorite word into my pillow: “F***!!!” 

Calling the work I did to earn that money “backbreaking” doesn’t do it justice. When you roof your fingers swell and become sensitive to the touch. At night, when you try and sleep so that you can do it all over again the next day, your fingertips pulse under the pillow and you toss and turn because your back is tight. 

Today my knees and back still hurt because of all that work I did to earn money that was gone in an instant. Poof. Poof. 

I was working at a phone center in Merrimack, New Hampshire for Fidelity Investments at the time. Going to work that day (after screaming into my pillow) we had an emergency meeting to discuss how to talk to clients about what had happened with Bear Sterns. 

On screen they showed us the account of a man who had his entire retirement portfolio “invested” in Bear Sterns stocks prior to the weekend— over four hundred thousand dollars.

On the recorded call they played us, we listened to that long-term employee of Bear Sterns cry. “Banks don’t go bankrupt,” he said. I sat in that meeting feeling bad for that man and at the same time despising myself for losing my own money on such a stupid “investment”. 

During the difficult year that followed was when I discovered my favorite alcoholic beverage: Captain-and-Coke; half Captain Morgans, half Caffeine-Free Coke. Drinking two of those a night helped keep me sane that year. I only drank at night of course. Hence the Caffeine-Free Coke. It’s not like I was an alcoholic or anything…

That was when I had my first cigarette as well. I had it on break with someone I worked with. His name was Ralph. That was also the year I started down the road that would lead to my Percocet addiction. 

I don’t tell you any of this to make excuses. It’s just a few facts pertaining to my story. Losing that money didn’t destroy me in the end, but the alcohol and those Percocet and those cigarettes…well…you all kind of know what happened because of them.

Winning when it comes to all things, but especially when it comes to money, is never as rewarding as losing is painful. That’s a mouthful but it’s worth remembering. 

Winning money feels good, yes, but that enjoyment does not last long. Losing however, will linger, and that can alter you in ways winning doesn’t. Just a warning from this old man. Take it or leave it.

I will stop talking about my regrets with you now though… Would you like to know why?

Because no one cares. 

That’s right, no one cares about YOUR REGRETS. Usually. The same can be said about YOUR dreams and YOUR vendettas. You care about these things obviously, but most other people will not. You are merely a puzzle piece in THEIR story.

To achieve your ultimate potential, it’s best you accept this. 

Someone might tell you to “Make Them Care!” But making people care can take a lifetime. That’s why so many biographies are written only after a person has died; because people might not care until you’re gone. “It’s twisted,” Miss Lily would tell you, “But it is what it is.”

Money is powerful. I would never try to convince you otherwise. But all the money in the world would not solve the world’s problems.

Abigale Disney has been known to compare wealth to addiction. A claim validated by Paris Hilton. Who said she would not be able to “settle down” until she had one billion dollars. People’s definition of rich varies. Like everything it’s a matter of perspective I guess. 

When did more become the answer?

Watching the movie Gladiator with my boys this week, one of them said, “What’s the point of fighting for land you just destroyed?” 

Their questions always make me think. 

Having an abundance of money can buy peace of mind. Money can also help an individual avoid drama and relax. And it most definitely can add extra excitement to a person’s life. In time however, if given an abundance of wealth, an individual will find it harder and harder to “buy happiness”. 

Plenty of people will tell you this, it’s not just me. Go look up some of the things Jim Carrey says about it: “I think everybody should get rich and famous,” he said, “and do everything they ever dreamed of so they can see that it’s not the answer.” 

It’s easy to get annoyed with billionaires flying off into space in their rocket ships today, while the rest of us share tips on Facebook on how to make ends meet in an ever-increasing inequitable existence. As your teacher however, I ask you to consider things from their perspective. 

How would you give that money away? … How would you do it in a way that wouldn’t make someone angry with you? I’d argue it’s impossible— Maybe we’d want to fly off into space too?

If there is to ever be the answer Paul McCartney’s mother promised, we will need everyone to come together to change this sad reality of ours. Those billionaires more than all others perhaps. 

Those—like you and me maybe—that will want history to remember them for how they helped propel humanity forward. And those—like you and me maybe—that want to leave their future generations not only money but a sense of respect that is not connected to one’s wealth. 

I had planned to write something different for this article. Hearing a Beatles song inspired me to write this instead. The song I heard is the one you’ll see me reference in just a moment. Honestly it annoyed me when I heard it, but it also provided me the ending to this article. 

Was mother Mary working her magic on me? … Who knows.

With this article I’m hoping to convince you—and myself maybe—that money is not the answer to our problems. If things are to get better we will need a miracle, not just money. 

Now, if you don’t believe in miracles, I get it. I don’t know if I believe in love like other people do right now. Infatuation, I get. Lust, I understand. Co-dependency, I know very well. But LOVE? … I just don’t know anymore. 

“Where there’s love miraculous things can happen.” 

That’s a quote from the movie Angels in the Outfield. A movie that was made before entertainment became straight poison I think. You should watch that too. 

I’m not sure I believe in love at the moment but let me tell you what life has taught me about it. When we feel love another feeling comes with it. HOPE. In my life, I’ve had money. I’ve lost it. I’ve had it again. And I’ve lost it again. Not once did having money give me the same feeling love did. Love made me feel hopeful in a way no amount of money ever did. 

Hope energized me. 

When we feel hope, money matters little. We feel strong. We feel happy. We feel like there is a purpose to living. This Beatles song on my Teacher’s Playlist annoyed me when I heard it, but they might have been right: All you need is love…. love is the answer.  

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

“Hope is more powerful than all the money in the world.” In your journals answer honestly how this statement makes you feel. Fill a page.

The Teacher’s Playlist: 

All You Need is Love by The Beatles

“You can learn to be you in time.”

*

(End of Chapter 17)

To continue to next chapter click here…

Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Chapter Sixteen: a Hole

 “You are not prepared for what is to come.”

— from the film Dune: Part Two

*

I stopped at my son’s school the other day to grab a packet of work his teacher had put together for him and the other students in his class. Doing so had me seeing something extremely disturbing. 

Outside a fifth-grade classroom pieces of paper showed a student’s face and a section below where that student wrote a dream for their future. Of the fifteen or so I stopped to read, three of dreamt of…becoming a billionaire: “I love money,” the one I took a picture of wrote, “money is my only love!”

When I was in college I maybe dreamt of being a millionaire someday. I could maybe make a joke about inflation or something. But the fact young kids are dreaming of being billionaires now—at such a young age even—is evidence of a society normalizing something that shouldn’t be, and not at all funny to me. 

It’s extremely disturbing. 

As a young over thinker and over planner I punched numbers into a future value calculator never thinking about a billion dollars twenty years ago. I’ve always understood wealth to be skewed; with outliers who have much more than everyone else, but things have gotten completely out of hand. 

“Money behaves like gravity now,” I wrote in my journal reflecting on this, “flowing naturally to those that have enough and leaving the rest of us fighting over not only money but everything.”

After Nel and Pras came over last week I had to buy my son another new controller for his Xbox. His controllers keep getting “stick drift” it’s called. My son blamed it on my students but it’s no one’s fault really: “I think this stuff is built not to last” —I wrote in that vent-filled journal entry‚ “to vacuum as much money as possible from my bank account.” 

There was a time that I was a responsible adult; saving for retirement and college for my kids, but that seems impossible to me now. A lot of my frustrations have to do with Sirena at the moment—but does that make what I wrote in my journal wrong? 

Growing up a fan of my business owning father, Capitalism appeared to me as a three-step process to success: Work hard—EARN your spot—get AHEAD of others not as dedicated as you. I have since seen it appear as a three-step process to conflict: Work hard—KEEP your spot—get ANGRY at others trying to take it from you. Maybe Capitalism, like these stupid emotions of mine, is cyclical. All I know for sure, is being sold something literally everywhere I turn today has become exhausting and FAF…

The negative thoughts in my head have been getting louder lately. Before writing that in my journal me and my boys were watching The Hunger Games movie. I’d seen the movie many times, but not being in the best mental state had me realizing how gross the whole concept of that movie was. 

Required by their government, kids kill kids for entertainment in that movie. It’s only rated PG-13 though because they don’t show the actually killing. 

Watching it with my boys I started thinking about that Sprinkle Scale I used with my students a few weeks ago—Maybe I should call it The Poison Scale instead, I thought. Hearing me complain, the twins told me a PG-13 movie could use one f-word and still be rated PG-13. Where they heard that I’m not sure… But its f’d up, I thought. 

It is now December in the year 2020 and on this Wednesday I’m about to visit Lauryn after school. I have a poster in my hand rolled up and protected in tight plastic. I debated bringing Lauryn this gift, but ultimately decided it was necessary. 

“Where do I take this pain of mine? I run, but it stays right by my side.” 

A line from a Metallica song interrupts my thoughts as I walk toward Lauryn’s apartment building. 

Metallica’s song One was used in the background of an episode of 20/20 my mom was watching the other night: How much tragedy do you need to feed yourself mom? I thought critically seeing her watch that show investigating some real tragic event. 

With my emotions on tilt lately, no one is safe from my criticism.

“Hold me till it sleeps.” 

In the shower this morning, I was listening to the three Metallica songs I added to my playlist after hearing them on that show my mom was watching. 

I pay for AppleMusic on my phone. The Family Plan for me and my boys only costs another twelve bucks a month or something. I think I remember Metallica complaining about their music being on AppleMusic a while back. 

With royalties dwindling, even successful musicians are fighting for more of that disappearing money pie to survive this outrageously expensive world. We all have resentments. We all want more… Where do I take this pain of mine?

The three Metallica songs I added to my playlist were from the band’s Load album; the one I bought more than once probably: Until It Sleeps, King Nothing, and Hero of the Day. 

There’s something about listening to three songs that helps change my moods I’ve noticed. One of those songs asked me a question that had me in another world for a few minutes this morning. “Are you satisfied?” That song asked me during my little impromptu head bang session in the shower. 

No Mr. Metallica, I thought with water dripping off me, I am most definitely not satisfied.

Another song had me thinking of Ethan from that halfway house and what he said that first day he and I showed up there. “Careful what you wish,” that song sang; sounding like Ethan to me, “careful what you say, careful what you wish, you may regret it. Careful what you wish you just might get it.” 

“Mama they try and break me,” the third song sang to me on my way to Lauryn’s just now…I hadn’t noticed the Mama reference until then. 

The words are out there I thought hearing that; the words I’ll need when speaking to her. Lauryn I’m sure never listened to Metallica before—Would it be weird to just listen to music together? 

Climbing the stairs to her third-floor apartment I see Lauryn waiting for me. She is always prettied up whenever I see her, but right now I can see the toll the last few weeks has taken on her. Coming together at the top of the stairs I want to give her a hug. That’s not permitted because of social distancing rules now though, nor would it be deemed socially appropriate anyways probably.

“This is for you,” I say handing her the hollow tube in my hand. Thanking me, Lauryn invites me into her home. 

The apartment I walk into is empty of stuff. The essentials I see, but this is not a place full of things like most homes I am accustomed to walking into. A single Yankee Candle is lit on a coffee table in front of a loveseat in the living room; giving reason to this place smelling like a fresh Christmas tree. 

Lauryn offers me a seat on the couch. Sitting down, I notice a piece of double-sided tape hanging from the ceiling above my head. 

Tape like this is used to catch flies. This one has nothing on it currently but seeing it makes me think of my drug days. And reminds me that there are so many people out there still struggling. 

“What is this?” Lauryn says, referring to hollow tube in her hand. 

“Open it,” I tell her. 

Struggling with that tight plastic, Lauryn eventually unrolls the poster within. Laying it on the table in front of us she uses the candle as a weight to keep it from rolling up. 

The poster we look at is from the movie Mr. Church. On it is a picture of Eddie Murphy wearing a bowler hat appearing as his character, Henry Church. Across the bottom a quote from the movie reads: A book is read from beginning to end but is best understood from end to beginning. 

“You don’t need to hang this up,” I say as Lauryn looks at the poster I had created and ordered on some website. “Just don’t throw it away.” —I tap the poster lying in front of us— “Someday this poster will make sense to you Lauryn.”

Lauryn talks softly at first but soon begins to ramble. She wants to know what I’ve heard and what I know. I give her simple answers as what I heard doesn’t matter…what matters is what she wants to tell me right now. 

I can tell a lot of what Lauryn says to me is a running script that has been playing in her mind. It’s not my place to validate or contradict worries and fears that torment her. I thought she’d sound sad, but instead she sounds angry. 

“It happened right f**ing there,” she says pointing at a spot on the floor across the room. “How am I supposed to live here now…What f***ing choice do I have though?” 

At these words the room gets quiet. I look at the burning candle sitting on the poster in front of us and try to think of something to say. “Are you planning to go back to work?” I ask. 

“Working to barely survive the rest of my life isn’t something I’m in a rush to get back to,” she says sounding suddenly depressed. “I’ll have to eventually,” she adds.

I see Lauryn’s angry eyes replaced by a pair of dead ones. She looks depleted of caring. And it dawns on me what a stupid question I just asked the girl who was released from a psych hospital for taking a bunch of Advil pills only a few days ago.  

“How’s Nel?” I ask, “He was telling me he doesn’t know what to do for you.”  

“He’s stupid Mr. J,” she answers. “He just doesn’t get it.” 

I pause for a moment. “All people are slightly stupid Lauryn,” I say to this attack on her boyfriend. “Nel’s just trying to fit in like the rest of us.” 

For a second this comment gives birth to a small smile on Lauryn’s face…it lacks the light I am accustomed to seeing and I feel myself want to hug her again. 

Lauryn has run out of things to share with me and so I decide it’s time for me to share a few things with her. What I am about to tell her goes against my better judgement, but she’s hurting, and I feel guilty keeping this from her. 

“Lauryn,” I start, “have you been keeping up with the weekly articles I’ve been writing for class?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“So, you read the one about depression last week?”

“Yeah,” she says, “I did.” 

I think to hear a tone of sympathy in her voice. “I would never put what I’m about to tell you in writing Lauryn, so I hope what I say here can stay between us?” 

She nods her head, “Of course,” she says.  

“I wrote about depression last week because a lot of people in recovery can relate. What I didn’t tell you guys is I was diagnosed with bi-polar schizophrenia then—My second ex-wife would want me to add the word severe to that diagnoses.” 

Why I tell Lauryn this thing about Sirena I’m not sure; it might be nervous rambling or pent-up frustration. Sirena described my diagnoses to someone this way once and it’s bothered me ever since. My mind quickly feeds me a memory of something else a person said to me not long ago—

“You had a demon that lived inside of you Jose, but you’ve overcome it.” 

Congratulating me for doing so well lately, a family friend said this to me. It would be one thing if this person was referring to addiction…but they weren’t. This person knew my storied past and was inferring that my mental struggles were a result of “the devil” inside me. That one stung. Labels and statements like those are what keep a person like me in hiding I think. 

“Do you know what that diagnoses means Lauryn?” I ask her. 

“I know what bi-polar is,” she says. “Does that other part mean you like see shit that isn’t really there? You know…like in the movies and shit?”

Lauryn’s use of inappropriate language mixed with brutal honesty is painfully heartwarming. I’ve questioned my diagnoses for a long time now and often feel like I’m insulting a true sufferer of schizophrenia. I’ve definitely experienced manic depression from what I can tell. It’s that manic euphoria I get hung up on. 

I tried acting confidently deluded back before I was given that diagnoses, but I think that was just my attempt at explaining unexplainable ideas I had. With how secretly unhinged I’ve been feeling lately though, I’m starting to worry they might have been right. 

“For some people that means they see things that aren’t there,” I tell Lauryn. “That’s not me I don’t think. My imagination just gets the best of me sometimes. The real question is why I don’t tell people…Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t want to guess,” she says. “Why?” 

I feel myself uncomfortable talking about this but seeing Lauryn not think about her own problems at the moment pushes me forward. 

“I’m embarrassed, I was given that diagnosis during a dark time in my life and spent a long time fighting it. I have issues for sure but as long as I’m taking care of myself I don’t want to tell people things that will have them losing trust in me.” 

“Does Principal Sam know?” she asks.

“No,” I answer. “That’s the point. No one knows—my boys don’t even know.”

“Why not?” she asks. 

“I don’t know…” I answer slowly. “Just not important right now, I guess.”

“Will you ever tell them?”

This is a question I don’t know how to answer. I debate telling Lauryn I’ve been off all medication for a year now, but I told a friend that recently and immediately saw the concern wake up in their eyes. People say a diagnoses doesn’t define you, but I’m not really sure that’s true.  

I’m an addict. I’ve accepted it. I’m susceptible to mental illness, especially depression. My mind ruminates on negative feedback from others, and I expect too much of myself. My mind hates me sometimes. 

Accepting these things was hard for me. Convincing myself I can be successful despite them is harder. Does all this make me destine to have a hard life? Or does all this make me destine to have the life I’m meant to have? 

Thinking this, I picture the quote on the banner hung on my bedroom wall: We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

“I hope I don’t have to tell my boys Lauryn,” I say deciding to keep some secrets. “I only told you because of what you’re going through. Because I know it will scar you.. you can’t pretend it won’t.” 

Lauryn’s eyes harden as I turn the focus back on her and a sense of calmness hits me unexpectantly. “There are things about my past I don’t tell people Lauryn. And I’ve literally run away to stay hidden at times. I don’t want that for you—What happened was an accident.” 

Time seems to stop at these words. The young girl sitting beside me no longer looks angry and she doesn’t look afraid of me and isn’t eyeing me like I might be crazy; which often happens when people hear of my diagnoses. Lauryn instead looks at me now like I might understand what she’s going through. 

I see tears gathering in her eyes and begin filling the silence with words….

Leaving Lauryn’s apartment, I find myself feeling strangely hopeful. I didn’t tell Lauryn what I’m dealing with now, but that visit reminded me that what I’m dealing with now isn’t really that bad. Or even important really. 

Telling Lauryn about my difficult past and everything that happened before that fire had her opening up to me. I even got to tell her something Councilor John said to me. 

“Life is forcing humility on you,” I repeated John’s words to her, “but there’s a thin line between being humble and being ashamed. That’s why so many people don’t get it…you have nothing to be ashamed of Lauryn.” 

*

Article Title: a Hole 

Dated: Friday, December 4^th, 2020

“Education is the path from cocky ignorance to miserable uncertainty.”

— a quote credited to Mark Twain

Did you know Mark Twain’s real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens? 

Why would a respected historical figure and author use a fake name? … Was he self-conscious of how people in his time would react to his thoughts and opinions? … How would a person like that behave in our social media crazed and internet connected world today?

I can be a lot sometimes and will show you why someone might want to keep their thoughts and opinions anonymous by sharing another story with you in just a moment. First though let me quickly share with you something I wrote in my journal the other day: 

The reason most people we consider successful today are not the nicest people, is because being an a-hole is either a pre-requisite to achieving greatness in this world today, or an inevitable biproduct of getting there. If you ever do make, someone is going to call you an a-hole. You might as well accept, a-hole.

The following article is rated PG-13: Reader discretion is advised.

Lauryn, this one’s for you….

Mini wars are happening everywhere today. The one happening on our roads; where we take these vehicles we were sold as a way to buy happiness, can leave most anyone frustrated with everyone and everything. 

Those in a rush to get somewhere, and those in a rush to get nowhere, are lucky to survive their journey without giving themselves a sore throat by yelling or pulling a finger by flipping someone off. 

While driving, one will encounter wrinkles of stupidity everywhere. And endless attempts at controlling it. 

A stupid sign here — A stupid line there — One stupid way — No stupid way — A stupid rotary — An extra stupid light that doesn’t work properly —Etc. 

Unfortunately, you can’t control stupid… only entice it maybe. 

Who designs these road projects anyway? 

In construction my dad used to say “too many cooks in the kitchen” when too many people were trying to be the boss on a jobsite. When this happens, chaos ensues, and nothing gets done. Or gets done properly, I should say. 

I think that’s what’s happening with a lot of these road projects today. The same might be said about what’s happening—or not happening—in classrooms as well. Can I say anomalously? 

Like usual, I can say smart sounding things but will now share a story with you that might illustrate how I, your teacher, might be King Stupid. Buckle up kiddos because this one might be rough… 

I was on my way home from work traveling the same two-lane highway I always travel and listening to some audio book about inner peace. The day before I had gotten annoyed with my sister-in-law and called her the b-word. That’s a word you can’t take back easily. 

On this drive, I was debating on how to make things right with her and thinking about that person who told me I say “I’m sorry” too much. The day I called my sister-in-law the b-word, I was spraying weed killer near her kids. Rather than saying something directly to me, she muttered something under her breath about what I was doing. 

NEWS FLASH: I kinda suck and do things not thinking sometimes. 

My mind is often all over the place and I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing that day. My sister-in-law’s annoyance with me was warranted. With how her and my brother have me tiptoeing around their children all the time, so was some of mine though, I think. 

Her and my brother would be labeled “helicopter parents” and are honestly much better at parenting than I am. I’ve decided I’m not a bad parent necessarily… I’m just different. If it takes a village, I’d be the odd villager maybe. 

As a family, we all very much like each other. But make no mistakes about it—we all very much dislike each other as well. 

ANOTHER NEWS FLASH: Everyone gossips to a degree, and family can sometimes be the best at it…that doesn’t mean we don’t love each other—to a degree.  

I called my sister-in-law the b-word because I was dealing with things she didn’t know about that day and often feel judged by her. On my drive home, I was thinking about this as the traffic moved extremely slow because of a merge ahead. Annoyed, but not necessarily in a rush, I stayed in the left lane and listened to instructions on how to “breathe through stress”.

In my mirror, I noticed a car weaving around the slowed traffic behind me. There’s always someone trying to get ahead by doing this. Normally I’m the sucker that lets that person merge at the last second, but this day I was about to let my frustration get the best of me. 

What this driver was doing was wrong; everyone knew it, but no one stopped him. I decided I’d be the one to teach this guy a lesson: “This will be fun,” I told myself. 

As that car approached from behind, I matched speed with the car beside me. By doing this, I blocked this p-o-s from weaving around us. I used to watch my dad do this when I was just a kid. In no time this driver was right on my butt. I just played dumb and carefully maintained speed with the car alongside me. 

Realizing I was purposely blocking him, eventually this man laid on his horn. In my mirror I watched him jerk around in his car before throwing two middle fingers at me. That’s when I turned my head ninety degrees to the right and blew this man a kiss. I then waived at him like a queen would in a parade…slowly dropping fingers until only one remained in the middle. 

Doing this, I continued to look at this man in my mirror; admiring the anger I was waking up inside of him. “Bingo-Bango!” I congratulated myself out loud. “Got you a-Hole…that will teach you!” 

Admiring my victory, I did not see the traffic stop in front of me—BAM! I hit the car in front of me and as a result was hit by this man from behind. Traffic stopped and I was about to encounter this man I had just been purposely frustrating. 

This would not be good, I thought. 

Something amazing happened that day. A miracle, maybe. Getting out of our vehicles, me and this man did not get out looking to fight like you might imagine. Other drivers who had seen the two of us acting like idiots walked towards us. We were both caught and the fingers we wanted to point at each other were about to be silenced by all the fingers pointing at us. 

With other drivers walking towards us that day, I looked at this man and said two words before they swarmed: “I’m sorry.” 

On that day this man and I could have reacted differently. Instead of anger and revenge, we were both wired to feel sorrow and forgiveness in that intense moment. This is not often the case. That’s why I said it might have been a miracle. 

After that accident this man and I had to deal with insurance stuff. Surprisingly he and I became friendly in the process; his name is Nick and he has a family like me and owns an ambulance company in the area. “Kinda ironic a guy that owns an ambulance company drives like such a-hole,” I joked with him. 

The lesson I learned that day I try not to forget: We had a lot more in common than we knew when we were just two a-Holes trying to get to our destination.  

Saying sorry is never a bad thing. I don’t care what people tell me. If someone wants to say it’s a sign of weakness, fine, but offering someone our forgiveness is never wrong as refusing to will often lead to the dark side of The Force. 

In Star Wars, Yoda says: “Anger, fear, and aggression are the dark side of the Force.” He is then asked if the dark side is stronger. “No, no,” he responds, “Quicker, easier, more seductive.” 

Again, Yoda is wiser and much less inappropriate than me…. but I still think King Stupid here is funnier. :0)

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

“We had a lot more in common than we knew when we were just two a-Holes trying to get to our destination.” Please think of someone in your life you are upset with currently. In your journals write about how they, not you, might feel at the moment.

The Teacher’s Playlist: 

A**hole by Denis Leary

“Maybe I shouldn’t be singing this song….”

*

(End of Chapter 16)

Click here to continue to next chapter…

Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could...

Chapter 15: Emptiness

 “The Force, it’s calling to you…just let it in.” 

—from the film Star Wars: The Force Awakens

*

“Look at this noob sweating.” Watching the game of Fortnite being played on the television in front of him, Nel says this leaning forward on the couch while one of my boys yells the word “Push!” repeatedly. 

Pras has the controller in his hand as all eyes in the room focus on the chaotic battle on screen. I struggle to follow the action and listen to a language that is foreign to me. 

The words “33^rd Place” materializes on screen. 

Announcing, “He’s a hack,” I watch Pras throw the remote on the couch beside Nel.

Week twelve of the school year brings us to Thanksgiving in the year 2020. It is late in the afternoon and already getting dark outside as I watch the boys playing this video game from my desk across the room. Nel and Pras accepted my invitation to join us today and so we are all hanging out at my place above my parent’s garage. 

Seeing Pras throw his remote just now reminds me that most kids have absolutely no clue on how to cope with losing. People will say that’s a parent’s job, but with this pandemic I think we’re all being reminded of how important interaction in school is for things like this. Never mind the fact a very small percentage of these kids have capable parents as it is—I’m not supposed to say that though. 

Listening to a group of kids say “kill this kid” to each other might have me looking like a not-so-great father or teacher at the moment. But that person wouldn’t know our children’s world currently revolves around this game. My youngest isn’t with this group at the moment as I sent him into our bedroom after he had a full-blown hissy fit after getting killed in this game. I call it a “hissy fit”, but in the world of Fortnite it’s called “raging”.

Fortnite was a way for me and my youngest to stay connected with the twins when we were all in quarantine, but now I fear I’ve created a bit of a monster as he’s constantly getting upset over this game. The things he says when I take it away are embarrassing to say out loud. 

“I hate you.” — “You’re stupid.” — “You’re the worst father ever.” — “No one likes you.” 

My son doesn’t know I often feel like no one likes me or how much I’m trying to do for him today. He doesn’t get this stuff yet, nor should he. One day he might, I just hope he doesn’t have to feel like me for it to happen.

“You can’t say mean things to people,” I told him with almost tears in my eyes after taking that game away recently, “you don’t know what they’re going through.” 

My son didn’t know what I was going through that day, and I didn’t tell him. I gave him his game back shortly after as an experiment to see what he would do. He went and played his game and left me feeling alone and sad. 

He is sensitive and sweet, but this game brings out another side of him. Talking to Sirena about him and this game, I told her his behavior concerns me. Telling her why, she got annoyed: “He’s just a kid,” she said, “don’t let him play the game then!” 

It’s not that simple in my opinion. I want him to be able to play this game as there are times I like hearing him and his friends talk to one another. How they sometimes talk to one another is another issue entirely. 

I don’t hate the game necessarily. I even try playing it with the boys. I’m the “med guy”—the Med Bazooka is kinda my thing. I do have a bunch of complaints about the game, however. A person sitting next to me when the words “2^nd Place” pops up on that screen might understand some of them. 

Like usual though I have to keep my thoughts to myself and swallow them because everyone knows: “If you aren’t first you’re last in this world!” I just dream of living in a world where we use a game like this to bring kids together in a more positive way is all—shut up Jose!

None of my boys are masterful losers like their dad, but my youngest is awful at it. After losing a game of cards last night he went to our room to mope. I might have pushed his buttons by laughing at him but like to think I do it out of love. 

People say he looks me, but he is wired so much like Sirena that I feel like I’m being punished lately. He’s even gotten into this habit of making me give him backs rubs every night. When I told Sirena that I joked and said her and my new song was gonna be Eminem’s 25 To Life.

I’ve come to accept I still love Sirena for some crazy reason, but she’s not making that easy lately. Most kids are focused on themselves and winning when they are young, some more than others, and this wonderful boy of ours is one of the others I tell her. She once respected my opinions on things like this, but doesn’t appear to care for them much right now. 

When I went to check on him last night, after losing in that card game, he was still upset. “I don’t want to do anything in life,” he said still crying about a game that meant absolutely nothing. Unlike his mom, I don’t care about him winning or being super smart, hearing him say things like that bothers me more than she cares to understand at the moment. 

People can debate nature verse nurture all they want, but our environment is doing an awful job nurturing good behavior in kids today. A difficult life won’t force humility on him like it did me if I can help it, so he will need to find that elsewhere. Sirena hates hearing me say stuff like this, and I hate saying it sometimes, but I say it because I’m rather certain its true. 

“My ten minutes are up.”

As if on cue, my son walks past me and goes to join the boys around the television. If he knew what I was thinking right now he’d be so mad at me. Like his mom, he does not like me questioning his behavior. I warn him that people will remember him more for how he behaves than his winning someday—he’s just a kid though…he has time. 

Pras and Nel showed up today wearing collared dress-shirts. Earlier my boys went in my closet and put shirts and ties on themselves thinking they were funny. Watching this group of boys dressed up playing a video game is deserving of a picture. I quickly take one without them knowing thinking maybe I’ll send it to Lily later. 

Leaving the group, I watch Nel walk towards me sitting at my desk. At each step his knee bends and then each foot follows sort of a little slower; it’s a feature of his walk I noticed the first day I saw him. Nel is a cocky kid. This walk and those expensive sneakers he’s always wearing adds to this little persona of his. 

When I was young people thought I was overly cocky before getting to know me. So, I shouldn’t judge him. But I still do. “Judging, judging, judging,” my son would say to me right now. 

“What does ‘SAP’ mean?” 

Nel stops his strut at my desk and notices a yellow sticky note on it. “Nothing,” I lie not trying to invent something to tell him. 

I started writing notes like this when I see things that irritate me on Facebook. There’s no emoji to let someone know you think they’re a moron—probably for a reason—so whenever someone’s words or opinions disturb me I take a sticky, write SAP or CAP on it based on my diagnoses, then jot down the initials of the person I find irritating. 

Facebook has given a microphone to every idiot and meany on planet. It’s not a debate at this point. Doing this sticky note thing is silly but its helping slow my current descent into madness I think.

Deciding Nel doesn’t need to know what politician the initials “J.J.” stand for—or why I consider him a Stupid Ass Person rather than a Confused Ass Person—I wrestle this note off my desk and throw it in the trash. 

“What’s that?” Nel asks looking over my shoulder now. 

“It’s my vision board,” I answer. “I told you guys I had one…that’s it.” 

Nel focuses on one of my more personal goals on this white poster board hung on the wall: “Books to Write”, it reads. I watch him use one finger to move down my list: Social Recovery 101… Exit Ticket… Lean In … Make It Real … Enjoy the Ride … Dream On … An Addiction to Believing. 

“Why seven books?” Nel asks pulling his finger away. 

Feeling like this might be some sort of special moment, I answer his question. “Because that’s how many I’ll need to re-write history Nel,” I tell him. 

“You should write about this pandemic Mr. J,” he says. “That’s a million-dollar idea right there.” Not stopping to ponder my extraordinary pronouncement or let me comment on his million-dollar idea, Nel moves on. “Your place is really nice by the way,” he says. 

“Thanks, Nel… I’m glad you approve.”

When Nel teased me about living with my parents I brushed it off; knowing he was trying to sound cool in front of Pras and avoid the seriousness of what was going on with Lauryn. In that moment, I told him that laughing at myself is my super-power. “Nobody takes the ‘L’ better than me,” I said; throwing in a Fortnite reference after I had told him and Pras my boys would want to play this game with them today. 

“Can we talk alone for minute?” Nel asks looking serious. 

“Sure,” I reply, “let’s go to my room.”

Nel clearly has a lot on his mind. Standing up, we sneak past the group of boys playing their game and head towards my bedroom for some privacy. Pras looks at us but doesn’t say anything. 

Nel probably imagined me living in some small apartment when he heard about this place. That however is most definitely not the case. I remember being annoyed with my dad for building this addition so big ten years ago. But it’s worked out well for me and serves as a daily reminder that I don’t always know what’s best. 

My dad built this house when he was a young and ambitious builder in the early 80’s. He still is that person somewhat but having such a big house means there’s always something that needs to be done around here. We are always putting “Band-Aids” on things I mentally refer to it. 

“You’re living the life,” my dad said about me living here with my boys recently… and being single actually. 

My parents’ involvement in my boy’s life has been a blessing. And the little amount I pay to stay here has made my life survivable. Still, I spent most of my childhood looking forward to getting out of my parents’ house and look forward to maybe getting out again. When or how, I don’t know, but I do—Sorry dad. 

“Jesus,” Nel says following me into my bedroom, “Big enough tv or what?”

Nel is overwhelmed by the 72-inch television sitting on our bedroom bureau. “We got it this summer,” I tell him. “It’s our movie room.” 

Shutting the door behind me, I see Nel look around. 

He looks at the bed sitting directly on the floor. Then at the bunkbeds. Then at the posters, puzzles, and pictures that litter almost every inch of the walls. Before he can speak, two of my boys burst through the door I had just shut.

“Dad—” my youngest says, “Can we rent Jumanji?” 

“Pras said he loves that movie too,” adds one of the twins. 

My mother was concerned about having these students over today; worried we’d get in trouble because of the pandemic. With everything going on at school, she got over it and ended up making us a bunch of deserts. Which explains some of these boys’ hyper behavior. 

If I learned my enabling skills from anyone, it’s my parents. Here there is a plentiful supply of sugar and fun; which made this the fun house growing up. But it also makes my life crazier than it already is—hence my dreams of escaping someday. 

“Yes,” I say to their movie request, “But you gotta give Nel and me a minute first.”

“Can Vinny come over?” my youngest asks. 

My son is holding his iPad. I see Vinny’s face looking out from its screen with that stoic white-blonde hair that reminds me of the wrestler Ric Flair. 

“That’s just way too much today bud,” I reply. “Gram doesn’t need it any crazier here—I told you guys already. Be happy she let Nel and Pras over please…sorry Vinny.” 

Earlier my twins—my little entrepreneurs—asked if they could have their friend over when showing Nel and Pras the plastic fishing worms they’ve started to make and sell. My boys obviously want their friends to come hang with the big kids. How cool.

Accepting my decision, I use my body to gently coral my boys out the door so I can have this talk with Nel. 

“Hey dad—” my youngest says through the crack of the door, “The world’s a terrifying place…be scared of everything.”

This is a quote from that Jumanji movie they just asked me to rent; it’s an on-going joke we have. My son gives me his big rabbit toothed smile as I shut the door on him. 

Having my students over today doesn’t seem that strange to my boys. They often see me do weird things; like say hi to strangers. I recently told them the story of when I picked up a hitchhiker. Maybe doing that was a bit strange or crazy or weird of me… “But he was really nice actually,” I told them. 

Honestly, I think I’m more scared of people I know than strangers these days. I didn’t tell them that, but I thought it. 

“Mr. J,” Nel says as I turn around, “where’s the 50 First Dates poster?” 

Nel has a big smirk on his face. This question must have been growing inside of him as soon as he saw this room that looks a lot like the one I wrote about in that Ham Sandwich story. They did read it and found it funny thankfully. 

I turn around and point at the poster above the door. “It’s right there,” I tell him.  

“No way…” he says sounding amazed. 

Nel walks towards the poster above the door. I move a step and watch him read a quote written on another poster to the left of that 50 First Dates one: 

Be sure to do what you should—it reads— for then you will enjoy the personal satisfaction of having done your work well, and you won’t need to compare yourself to anyone else, for we are each responsible for our own conduct.

“What did you want to talk about Nel?” I say to the back of his head after a moment.

Nel turns and looks at me seriously. “Lauryn wants to know if you’ll visit her,” he says. “She’s back at her mom’s place now.”  

Lauryn spent a few days in the hospital after having a small breakdown with everything that happened. I know I’ll say yes to this request but feel a bit nauseous at the thought of the conversation Lauryn and I might have.

“Of course, I’ll visit,” I say trying to sound like a strong adult again. “Have her text me and we’ll figure something out.”  

After a short talk, Nel and I leave the bedroom and join the other boys in the living room. My youngest is back to being his cute self and gives me what I think is an apologetic look. 

My son might be worried I’m still upset about his behavior from earlier. What he doesn’t know is my mind is now concerned with other more adult things. I smile back at him…grateful to be here worrying about that behavior I find concerning.

*

Article Title: P.A.I.N. Through Emptiness 

Dated: Friday, November 27^th, 2020

 “Sometimes I feel like I really don’t belong here.” 

— from the 1997 Disney film Hercules

People tend to like me I think, I’m positive and cheerful most of the time—when I’m on my game that is—but I wouldn’t say I have many friends today. Even if I could have a lot of friends… would I want them? 

Friendships seem like a lot of work to me these days— Or am I the one that’s a lot of work these days? 

I find having adult friends difficult now. When I replied to a friend’s text that I was busy and couldn’t get together he responded with a thumbs up the other day. That was it. He’ll tell me later I’m paranoid for thinking he’s upset with me after receiving that text. But that’s how I feel. It’s just one of the many reasons I prefer being alone or hanging with my kids I think. 

If I could clone myself and be the person someone wants me to be all the time I would. “Have a copy of me for yourself,” I’d gladly say to those that might want to be my friend. “Do with it what you want.” 

That’s not possible though and even saying it makes me sound a bit crazy…but you all know I’m a bit crazy already.  

Life has forced me to keep certain things about myself private. Saying that might have you wondering what things I must keep private given all I’ve shared with you already. But today’s article hits on a very sensitive subject for me: Depression. 

You all know about that fire I accidentally started back in 2016. Things worked out rather well for me actually. Insurance came through and I had the opportunity to build my family a beautiful new home. That however did not make me happy. Having built many homes in the past, seeing that house torn down after the fire had me looking at everything I ever built as pointless and temporary. 

Have you ever felt like you were done trying? … Forever? … Well, that’s sort of how I felt then. 

My wife, me, and my youngest son lived in a small trailer behind that burnt down house during the rebuilding process. On Christmas, I remember my son bouncing up and down on my chest wanting me to wake up because Santa had come to our little trailer. I urged him to start opening presents without me, but he refused to begin without his dad. 

That was a role I wasn’t much interested in playing then. 

That Christmas morning, I remember my son patiently waiting to open his presents as I pulled myself from that bed, prepared myself a cup of coffee, and headed outside to have my morning cigarette. 

Yes, I was still smoking cigarettes after that fire. Yes, I was a loser…or so I told myself. 

I did not successfully stop smoking cigarettes until just last year when I began this job. I just couldn’t get it until then. Smoking cigarettes made me feel like I could breathe sometimes. Which is funny because smoking cigarettes makes its hard to breathe in the long run. We addicts are funny. We might as well accept it. 

Addict or not, we all do this to a degree. We fill ourselves up with stuff and things to cover up painful or annoying or unpleasant feelings. Sometimes we do it to simply deal with the boringness of life. 

Society has trained us this way I think. “Do whatever to feel okay in the present” —the commercials might as well just tell us the truth— “And deal with the consequences later…sucker.” 

After that fire it was suggested I participate in Electroconvulsive Therapy. Electric shock therapy with a fancy name; ECT Treatment it’s sometimes called. Studies show this treatment can help with depression. Unfortunately, there was no amount of electricity that would jumpstart my passion for living at the time. 

The fact I participated in that treatment should tell you how seriously depressed and lost I appeared then. My favorite part of that treatment was when they would insert a needle into my arm. That needle would put me to sleep before they did whatever it was they did. Counting down from ten, I was grateful to say goodbye to this world for a bit… sadly, I kept waking up. 

Please know I was not suicidal but learned to understand why someone might be. I was simply not excited about the rest of my life is all. “Life is short,” people say. To me life felt much too long then. 

I’m not anti-treatment. Or anti-medicine. Or anti-much. Normally, I just go with the flow. Back then I did whatever people told me to do. I had done enough fighting to make things happen my way. “Tell me what will make this pain go away,” I might have said, “and I’ll do it.” 

There are benefits to touching that level of sadness in one’s life. It can help us look at people with more compassion. It can however also have us looking at people with more bitterness. 

My councilor at the halfway house referred to those moments as “All hope is lost moments”.  To me that’s when a person feels out of place or alone in this world and fears never feeling like they’ll belong again. Listening to Adele sing Hold On or Easy On Me will bring even the strongest person to tears during these times—trust me…I know.  

I had titled this article P.A.I.N. Through Depression but changed it to Emptiness out of respect for this diagnosable disease of the mind. Also, because I believe the word emptiness is more relatable to a wider audience. 

When I burnt my house down, I DOUBTED my life would ever get better. I was ANGRY with myself and the world. The shame I felt had me WORRIED sick. My days were spent not knowing what to do next and I was full of ANXIETY. 

Do you recognize these words?

The days were long then and I was tired all the time, but I barely slept. The emptiness was consuming me from the inside out. Nothing in life much interested me anymore. Not even my boys. I was unable to see past my own misery and felt incapable of being anything to anyone. 

What would they want to do with me anyhow? I was pathetic… A lost cause…. Maybe they would be better off without me?  

In that trailer there was this uncomfortable black leather couch. On that couch I would lay flat on my belly with one hand at my heart and the other at my stomach in this “Dead Man’s Pose” I called it. I remember feeling the firmness of that hard leather on my cheek while listening to lawns being mowed, cars driving bye, and birds chirping outside. 

The world outside that trailer was on play, but my life was on pause. No—my life was over…or so I told myself.

Someone had left a card in my mailbox in front of that burnt down house one day. On that card was the Saint Francis Prayer and a note on the back that read, “Bring your sorrows and trade them for joy, from the ashes a new life is born.” 

I hated the way the optimistic words tasted on my tongue when I received that card. I vividly remember ripping it into pieces: “F happy people,” I might have said throwing that card in the trash. 

The edited version of the f-word doesn’t do it justice here…

“F—F—F… Super Double F Happy People!” There, that’s a little better I guess. Thank God I didn’t do Facebook back then. That might have pushed me over the edge. 

While doing that electronic shock therapy I attended CBT classes; Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is its fancy name. Nothing was able to penetrate my slumbered mind at the time though. 

Before that fire was when I first began imagining this class I’m teaching you now. Before that fire I was smoking half cigarettes, taking hits of weed, and drinking too much caffeine in an attempt to distract myself from reality——and the doubt that came with it as I tried putting all this together. 

My councilor at the halfway house would say: “I was busy trying to tell everyone how to fix their shit rather than fixing my own shit first.” 

In that trailer I started to think people were right about my ideas and my dreams. I started believing I might be crazy—like they said. I thought my life was unfixable and didn’t want to participate in it anymore, so I tried sleeping it away… but couldn’t much succeed at that either. 

At the halfway house a year and a half after that fire, I was given the Third Step Prayer as part of the AWOL program I did there; A Way of Life is its fancy name. 

That Third Step Prayer I did not throw away. Instead, I taped it to the wall beside my bed. On it now is a quote I scribbled from that show Westworld I told you I like. 

“Any man whose mistakes take ten years to correct is quite a man,” that quote reads. 

I invite you to look up that Saint Francis and Third Step Prayer. If you’re like me and that word God makes you cringe or uncomfortable sometimes, try and do what I do: Use the words from those prayers as a reminder to love others even when they don’t, or can’t, love themselves. 

I do love you all by the way. :0)

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION: 

“Sometimes things have to fall apart to come together.” In your journals reflect on this statement I heard someone say at an A.A. meeting once, and how it makes you feel at the moment. Write whatever but fill one page.

The Teacher’s Playlist:

In the Colors By Ben Harper and The innocent Criminals

“When you have awoken from all the dreams broken, come and dance with me.”

*

(End of Chapter 15)

Click here to continue to next chapter…

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The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Chapter 14: The Box

“Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.”

—from the film Shawshank Redemption

*

The organization that ran my halfway house was connected to many other special needs programs in our state. That’s the G.A.A.M.H.A. softball team I still play for now. When I was living in that house, I got a job doing construction for them rehabbing a women’s sober house across town. Through them was how I became a recovery coach and how I eventually got this grant to teach this Emotional Intelligence Program of mine. 

When I got this grant I bought a new poster to hang on me and my boys’ bedroom wall and hung it above my closet. It’s a poster to the movie Shawshank Redemption. On it, Andy Dufresne looks up through falling rain after crawling through that sewer pipe to escape prison. The words on the poster he looks up at read: “Fear can hold you prisoner hope can set you free.”

Why do I still feel I’m crawling through that pipe myself? 

The ending to that movie might be the most rewarding ever created in my opinion. It’s all about redemption, where everything today seems to be about vengeance. 

“I miss when movies could make me feel good,” I said that my students when I was telling them why that Joker movie bothered me so much. Adding, “I’m an anxious person already, most of the time, and these movies and shows pushing every tragedy possible at us and every extreme of awful aren’t helping.”

I go to the movies by myself a lot now. Being sober and single, it’s a way to kill a few hours when I don’t have my boys. I was seeing that Joker movie alone when a lady in the row behind me was laughing at a part that had me literally debating getting up and leaving the theatre. 

Movies play fun music when awful things are happening now; desensitizing us to violence at an entirely new level. I was preaching a bit the day I was telling my students all this. But I’d been listening to them enough I thought. 

School is being taught remotely again. Districts all over the country are doing this in preparation for the upcoming Thanksgiving Holiday: a potential “Super Spreader” they are calling it. Our district announced this “pivot in our educational model” in the middle of last week; making an already eventful week more eventful for us. 

“We should do something for her Mr. J. Shouldn’t we?”  

It is now Friday and Pras is the only student attending my virtual class currently. Nel has been with us all week but is doing something for Lauryn today. 

Though I am sympathetic, I feel myself get irritated with having to repeat myself once again. “There’s nothing we can do right now Pras,” I say to his face on my computer screen. “We just need to be here when she’s ready.”

Thirteen days ago, Lauryn and Candace smoked weed together. Lauryn had taken that weed from a drawer in her mother’s bedroom not knowing her mother was struggling with fentanyl use. 

Fentanyl is as an extremely strong opiate and the newest drug terrorizing our streets. Lauryn’s mother was knowingly lacing her weed with it. When Lauryn’s mother found the girls, they were both nearly unconscious from what Lily told me. Because of her own struggles, Lauryn’s mother had Narcan in the house. Lauryn snapped back to life quickly, but Candace was not as fortunate. 

This school promotes “Harm Reduction”; so what Lauryn and Candace were doing was not that out of the ordinary. While we do not celebrate marijuana use, it is considered the lesser of most evils. 

Even before this happened I had hard time discussing weed with my students as I’m not sure how I feel about this harm reduction thing. I’ve seen people in A.A. call smoking weed the “Marijuana Maintenance Program”. While I have my own personal reasons for not using it, it’s not because I think it might kill me. 

When asked why I don’t smoke weed, I told the students weed makes me scattered and forgetful and anxious more than it makes me happy— “But suffering from depression I do still consider it from time to time,” I told them honestly.

Our topic in class this week was Reverse Engineering Goals. What I had planned for today was designed for everyone to participate in. Pras cranked through the work I assigned in no time and now the two of us find ourselves staring at the clock waiting for this long week to end. 

A ring from my phone steals my attention. Looking down, I see its Ron calling me. Touching a button on the side of my phone I ignore the call. 

I lived with Ron at that halfway house. He calls me for rides a lot now—all the time actually. He is twenty years older than me, but we meshed well when we were at that house for some reason. Him calling me now increases that frustration I feel building up inside me. 

People that really get recovery can be some of the most wonderful people in the world—my article this week talks about that—but some people just don’t get recovery, and some people just aren’t that wonderful regardless…that’s just reality. 

The last time I gave Ron a ride he was again complaining about his family who he lives with now. Ron is not completely sober anymore. As a heroin addict; who spent most of his life in jail, he decided he could have a beer not long ago. Since then, I’ve seen his behavior slowly slipping.

“I’m way better than I used to be J, you didn’t know me then.” Hiding some secrets from me, he said this on one of our drives. Adding, “I’ll never go back to heroine.” 

Anyone that says never; or that they’re better than they used to be, just doesn’t get recovery I don’t think. Ron might never get it. “I didn’t know you then,” I later thought to say to him in that moment, “But I know you can be better than this.” 

Had I thought to say that to Ron in that moment, I wouldn’t have. Ron’s not ready to listen and I’m not necessarily ready to talk either. I want to say life can be better for him if he was clean, but I’m not sure I believe that. Ron is currently stuck in a loop of blaming others and playing the victim. Listening to him has become exhausting. 

The world is not built in a way to support someone like Ron; who bounces back and forth between his struggles with mental illness and addiction. Without purpose; and something like a community to be a part of, Ron becomes his own worst enemy—and a sponge on society and family and good people like me. 

I’ve thought a lot about what might help Ron but do my best to be quiet. I used that word “sponge” around him once when I got tired of his complaining; he picked up on it and got super offended. “I’m a sponge on my family too Ron,” I said. “I don’t want to be but that’s just how it is for us.” 

Me giving Ron my number and him calling me for rides all the time now might prove that old saying that “no good deed goes unpunished”, but I think the lessons my boys are learning—who know all about my friend Ron—will pay off someday. They like him and he likes my boys. Despite his struggles and not-so-great behavior, there is good in him…kids can sometimes see that better than us adults. 

“Mr. J,” Pras says smiling at me through the computer, “Why do you teach? I think you could do more.” 

“We do what we need to Pras,” I laugh a response to his words. “So someday people might leave us alone to do what we want.” 

“Huh?” Pras responds. 

“Nothing,” I reply not wanting to explain myself.

Pras let’s what I say go and looks down at his phone. Over his shoulder I look at the television perched on a bureau in his bedroom. This television has been on all class, but just now I feel myself get extra irritated by the plastic-infused face I see on screen for some reason. 

“Pras,” I say, “I still can’t believe you watch The Kardashians… I think you could do more.”

Lifting his eyes from his phone, Pras glances over his shoulder and then looks back at me. “Being fake is the only thing real in this world Mr. J,” he says unashamed. “At least they own it. What should I watch? The History Channel only has reality shows and conspiracy theory re-runs.”

“Darn—I like that Pras,” I reply to his smart comment. “I’m gonna use that line in my book someday.”

I’m semi-joking but tell Pras I may write a book someday. Telling him about my past experience of trying to actually write one seems unnecessary at the moment. 

Hearing me share my dream of maybe writing a book, Pras begins detailing plans he has for his future. He’s in the middle of telling me what he wants to do with the rest of his life when my youngest son sneaks up beside me. “Dad…” he whispers trying not to disrupt us. 

With classes being done remotely for him now too, interruptions like this have become normal again. “Yes?” I turn and ask.

“Can I play on my iPad during break please?” 

Like most kids my son can be cute when he wants something. I’ve been working on him using that word please as he’s forgotten how to use the word lately. I see in his eyes he knows what he’s doing. “That’s fine,” I tell him. 

“Thank you,” he says politely before turning and walking away. 

“Mr. J,” Pras says as I return my attention to the computer screen, “Is your son with you all the time?” 

“His mom has him every Wednesday and every other Saturday,” I answer.

“Is she in recovery too?” 

Everyone’s in recovery Pras. 

Restraining from putting my own personal spin on Pras’s question, I keep my thoughts to myself and answer. “No Pras, she’s not.” 

“Why do you have him so much?” 

Pras is not a shy person and he’s getting a bit personal, but I don’t think he realizes it. 

“I was at that halfway house for a while Pras. His mom let me spend extra time with him after in case I fell back…now this schedule is just what works best for everyone.”

“Did you know the Kardashian’s got famous because their mom leaked sex video of one of them…how crazy is that?”

Depleted of personal questions, Pras’s young bouncy-ball-mind jumps to the next thing that pops-up inside it. His question brings our conversation back to the reality television show on in the background. 

“I’ll have to do some research on that Pras,” I say not wanting to believe what he’s just said. “How about you do me a favor and change the channel though bud?”

Pras does what I ask. Taking the remote off his desk I watch him speak into it: “CNN,” says. 

My lover-of-politics’ choice of channels does nothing to help my current mental state. The caption on the bottom of the screen I see reads: “Will Trump Concede?” 

Donald Trump has lost the 2020 Presidential election to Joe Biden. To absolutely no one’s surprise, the results are being contested at the moment. On the right of Pras’s television I see the tally of Covid related cases and deaths. Apparently bored of me, Pras turns up the volume so that we can both hear what is being said.

The substance Pras struggles with most with is benzos; benzodiazepines. He’s told me he likes “feeling numb”. Right now, I can understand why. 

I told the students some of how I feel about this when we did that lesson on the news at the beginning of the year… but Pras really has no clue the level of frustration I feel about it. 

When I worked in finance I read that you should pay for your news, so I did, but even if I paid for my news today I don’t know how much I could believe. Seeing CNN on in the background now I remember watching Chris Cuomo during that 2016 election; the last time I semi-cared. He’s not there anymore for some reason. Canceled maybe—that’s what the cool kids are calling it these days. 

“After that market crash in 2008,”—I told my students— “Anything other than Breaking News became Boring News I think.”

If something happens today where I have to watch the news, I’ll flip back and forth between Fox and CNN to watch all the maked-upped faces play the “I Think Game” with each other. Pretending to listen to opinions but really just mentally preparing their responses. Or simply reading from screens with deflection in their voices meant to entertain their audiences. 

I flip between websites too. I feel bad for people writing articles as finding words between ads might crack the Top 3 things I find most infuriating about reality today—Maybe that’s why I wrote about starting a new internet in that journal? 

It’s not just the news that is being ruined by money and the internet. I’ve been having to Google where and how to watch sporting events lately. These streaming services are making an already frustrating existence FAF … FAF … FAF. 

FoxNews definitely irritates me more because of the effect I’ve seen it have on my loving father. Working together I always saw him trust people; and regurgitate things he was told by people that sounded like they knew what they were talking about. When it comes to being sold something, he’s a sucker like me— and the ideal consumer for that network I think.

Lost in my own opinionates thoughts, Pras tells me his through the computer screen. 

“In four years, he’ll will be back Mr. J,” he says. “Or maybe his daughter? I guarantee someone in the MAGA Tribe will be President again though.”

“Hey Pras—” I interrupt his fortune telling to ask the question I’ve been debating asking all week, “do you think you and Nel would want to come hang with me and the boys next week on Thanksgiving?”

“Umm…” he says, “Let me talk to Nel and let you know, okay?”

Large gatherings are not being encouraged this year because of the pandemic—or even allowed in fact—so me and my boys will be alone that afternoon. I’m sure a teacher asking him over for Thanksgiving has him felling uncomfortable, but we’ve gotten close with everything going on and so I don’t think it’s a weird thing of me to ask. 

Looking at Pras’s face on the computer screen, I think of making a stronger plea. Instead, I stay silent; not telling him what I want to say— We need each other right now bud.

*

Article Title: The Box 

Dated: Friday, November 20^th, 2020

 “Addiction isn’t a disease. It’s an adaptation. It’s not you. Its’ the cage you live in.”

—from the book Chasing the Scream by Johann Hari; quoting psychologist Bruce Alexander

I refuse to argue with people whether addiction is a disease or not. Doing so only invites disagreement in a world that finds it way too easy to disagree. Rather than argue, let me call addiction a “characteristic of my mind” and move on, because whatever it is, whatever you call it…I have that mother f’er. 

There’s a TedTalk on YouTube titled “Everything you know about addiction is wrong” where the writer of the book I just quoted is the speaker. When I was shown the video as part of a recovery program I participated in a few years back, I thought it was awesome but have since seen it criticized. I’m going to ask you to watch it later and tell me why you think that was. 

As a kid myself, I grew up a student of the D.A.R.E. Program. “Just Say No!” was the moto printed on t-shirts given out in middle school back then. That moto is a punchline to many jokes today, but people still use it… allow me to tell you when someone used it on me recently. 

I was in a store when I ran into an old neighbor. Let’s call him Mr. Jones. 

Mr. Jones had me as a paperboy as a kid. Asking me what I was up to these days, I told him about this recovery high school I was teaching at and explained how meaningful the work was given my own struggles. 

After telling Mr. Jones way too much information, he looked at me and said: “Didn’t you know it would make things worse? You were so smart. Didn’t you know to…just say no?” 

I’m not making this up. He really did say that. I had told Mr. Jones about how I used Percocet to help with depression. He’s really nice and meant no harm by what he said. It just seemed to fall out of his mouth. 

“My drug of choice is distraction,” I might have said to him in that moment, “if it wasn’t that pill it would have been something else.” 

Instead of digging myself a deeper hole; and saying something more stupid, I made up an excuse and left Mr. Jones feeling judged that day. That’s when I found myself thinking about that D.A.R.E. Program and how I was scared to use drugs as a kid. 

Honestly, that “Just Say No!” slogan worked to keep me safe for a long time. Until I discovered why someone would use drugs. And started believing the scariest thing about them was not having them. 

That sounds crazy—I know…. Maybe the drugs made me this way? 

There are people out there that really get recovery. The list of celebrities talking about it is endless. “I have zero self-control,” I saw Rob Lowe say on Facebook the other day. That actor was being congratulated for having “amazing self-control” by staying sober for so long. What he said in response to that compliment really spoke to me.  

“Anything that fills you up can also fill you with hollowness.” 

As someone who has finally accepted addiction as characteristic of his mind, this lyric from the song Hollow by Ivan B describes my struggle well. If this singer is in recovery I don’t know, but his songs and words help me see that there are people out there on a similar journey to mine. 

Today I want to introduce a new slogan. One that might speak more effectively to your generation than the “Just Say No!” that was used on mine. To do that I’ll be telling you a story. 

I call this story THE BOX….

Imagine you are a teenager sitting at home watching television and mindlessly staring into your phone. Bored. A knock on the door gets your attention. Answering it you find no one there but look down to see a box. Picking it up, you read a message:

If you open this box you will have three of the craziest years of your life. If you open this box, your mind will awaken to new possibilities. If you open this box, you will be rid of all the P.A.I.N. that tortures you today. If you open this box…YOU—WILL—BE—HAPPY.

Below this message is a warning written in big bold letters:

A DISCLAIMER: After three years, there is a 30% chance your life will be more miserable and emptier than you could ever imagine…LIKELY ENDING IN PREMATURE DEATH.

Most teenagers don’t believe in magic and would open this box out of pure curiosity. But what if this box really was magic? Like that lamp in the Aladdin movie. For this exercise let us believe in magic. 

Would you open THE BOX? 

Knowing this box really was magic, a teenager looking forward to an amazing life might throw this box away believing it could derail their plans. They have an amazing future ahead of them…why risk it? Another might hide this box away for later…just in case. 

There are those however who are not happy in this reality and not scared of things getting worse who would immediately open this box. 

“Life sucks right now,” they might think looking at it, “There is nothing to look forward to…The world is coming to an end anyway…What is there to lose?”

Could you imagine a person thinking such ridiculous things? 

Someone receiving this box might not need the happiness promised. I’m told those people exist. Most people however would find themselves tempted by that promise of happiness at some point. And the odds on that warning label might start sounding pretty good. At a moment of weakness, maybe you yourself would be tempted to peek inside.

So…. What is in THE BOX?

It’s unique for everyone, but for me it was a magical three-year supply of Percocet: an opiate and my drug of choice. Also known as “Medically-Pure-Heroine”.

To say this medicine made me feel amazing would be a vast understatement.

As a teenager, I had a lot to keep me motivated in life and so this drug was just a small vacation when I took it for wisdom teeth surgery. After life had beaten me up for a bit, taking this medicine to feel better and more optimistic about the future felt like common sense maybe… What did I have to lose?

Little did I know I was the 30% that warning talks about. Perhaps I always was but never realized it. Or perhaps I did but didn’t see it as a real problem at the time. 

As an adult, I considered Percocet the ultimate anti-depressant. It helped me focus and to dream without reality weighing me down. The weight in my chest lifted when I took it; allowing me to breathe in all the hopeful possibilities for the future. 

Honestly, Percocet helped me be the best version of me…until it didn’t.

I’m telling you what I think is the truth here. For a while I did live a “happy life” when I was using this drug. For maybe three years—when I remember needing this drug to live any life at all. 

What’s in The BOX doesn’t have to be drugs. It can be anything that changes one’s consciousness for a brief period. Anything that fills up the hollowness of life. 

Maybe what’s in that box for you is food. Or television. Or your phone. Or maybe it’s a limitless supply of money or sex. What’s in The BOX can be absolutely anything that gets the endorphins in your brain firing. 

Open your mind a bit…What would make your life happier today? 

Is it a guy… a girl… a better mother or father? A nicer home? Is it fame? Or maybe it’s to be left alone? Or maybe it’s a more attractive image on that selfie you took earlier?

Not everyone that uses drugs become addicted. It’s true. I’m being honest with you here. But most everyone can feel happier by using them. And happiness is the drug we are all addicted to. 

Happiness naturally releases endorphins in our brain. Drugs produce endorphins in our brain. Drugs, we must therefore consider, is a natural desire of our brain. 

As an addict, moderation and me simply don’t mix, so using drugs and alcohol to feel happy is not an option for me. It’s about survival—”because I have no self-control”. But why did I do it in the first place? 

Didn’t I know it would just make things worse? … Why didn’t I “Just Say No”? 

I opened THE BOX because I was weak. Because I felt like a failure. Because life, I thought, could not get any worse. I wanted to feel better. I wanted to be better. I wanted to escape. 

Blah… Blah… Blah. 

Regardless of why I did it, I’m not that person anymore. I’m the person that scratched and crawled his way out that box to say this to you now: “F—THAT—BOX …. You don’t need it!” 

Or you could “Just Say No!” …. If it works, why not? 

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

Why do you think people criticized the TedTalk video titled “Everything you know about addiction is wrong” from Johann Hari? Please watch the video and write your thoughts in your journal.

The Teacher’s Playlist: 

Mr. Jones by Counting Crows

“Help me believe in anything. ‘Cuase I wanna be someone who believes.”

*

(End of Chapter 14)

Click here to continue to next chapter…

Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Chapter Thirteen: Anxiety

 “It ain’t about how hard you hit, it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.” 

— from the film Rocky Balboa

*

“We made this bed for ourselves…now we gotta sleep in it.” 

I remember being annoyed hearing Councilor John say this at the halfway house. He was right of course, but I still felt like life had sort of manipulated my reality to create this bed of mine in many ways. Whatever I wanted to say in that moment I didn’t as life had beaten me into silent submission then. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about the time I spent in that halfway house recently. Missing it strangely enough— Is it weird to miss something you hated so much?

I’m realizing I felt safe there. “Safe from the demands of a demanding world,” I wrote in my journal last night. 

I’m supposed to be grateful for being sober today, but I don’t often feel that way. Life continues to poke me. I move from task to task doing what I’m supposed to do, or trying at least, but don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere— When will I feel like I’m not just holding on by a thread? 

In my journal last night, I complained about the amount of caffeine I’m consuming: “I’m constantly tired,” I wrote, “and that’s just making it worse…why can’t I just feel better?”

My bad day yesterday began when my car started a making a new noise in the morning. I have Willard’s Auto on speed dial at this point. With my three boys anything I do costs a fortune. I could sneeze and spend a hundred bucks I think. Yesterday, when my car starting making that noise, I turned up the volume on the radio and tried not to worry about it, but worrying is what I do. 

In recovery, car problems are called “luxury problems”. Because when you’re in active addiction all you can think about is your drug, and so we are supposed to think it a “luxury” to have other things to worry about. Telling myself that yesterday didn’t make me feel any better. 

Maybe that’s because I’m picking what teeth to chew on again. I have a no interest loan I’m paying to my dentist already, and more work I’m waiting to get done when my yearly allowance kicks in next year. 

When I’m feeling overwhelmed like this I find myself getting irritated so easily I irritate myself. 

Last night my mom was trying to be nice and offered a bunch of choices of things she could make for dinner. “Cook whatever you want mom,” I thought frustrated with her wanting me to choose. “You’re a great cook and I like everything you make…just don’t make me think about it please.” 

Life at that halfway house was less complicated for sure. We ate whatever was served. Maybe that’s why I’ve been reflecting fondly on my time there—this demanding world is just too overwhelming. 

Is having to choose what I want for dinner really overwhelming? … Or am I just being a b-word again?  

Driving to school this morning, with all this going on in my head, I saw that old lady sweeping her driveway again. All year she tries keeping that driveway clean of leaves and sticks and snow. She must accept this impossible task because life is supposed to be a constant struggle I guess…  Or maybe cleaning that driveway mindfully brings her some peace.

“You gotta get after that Jose.” 

From beside me Mr. Joseph whispers to me. He’s talking about Miss Lily; who sits on stage in front of us with Principal Sam and two administrators from downtown. It is Monday morning, and this school cafeteria is filled with chatter amongst staff who are all wondering why we’ve been called in for this meeting today.

Turning, I see Mr. Joseph stick a finger beneath his mask to lick it before going back to those papers on his lap. 

This math teacher has become a somewhat friend to me here. Lately he’s had fun imagining Miss Lily and I as an item. Her recent break-up has only fueled this little fantasy of his. “Go for it,” he said to me the other day. “If not for you, for me.” 

Mr. Joseph fancies my single life, what he doesn’t know—or care to be told—is my single life isn’t what he imagines. When I told him I don’t date because of my boys, the way he eyed me I was pretty sure he took it to mean I have a bunch of wonderous one-night stands. “Nothing could be further from the truth,” I told him. “I’ve never had a single one.”

I do like playing with Mr. Joseph sometimes though. At our last teacher’s meeting I told him my convenience store story…

A few months ago, this pretty young girl was moving boxes at this convenience store I got to when I asked if she needed help. Doing so had me walking directly into a poll. Her and I watched it on a security camera after and shared a laugh. 

A few days later that pretty young girl asked if I was single. Thinking I was maybe getting hit on, an excited little boy in my head bounced on his toes: “Oh my gosh,” it shouted gayly, “It’s happening!” 

Uncomfortably confirming that I was in fact single that day, this pretty young girl then asked if she could set me up with her mom. In that moment, that excited little boy in my mind was immediately replaced by an old man pushing a walker with tennis balls at its end. 

Everyone loves that story when I tell it. Even my grandfather laughed when I told him. Mr. Joseph was no different. 

I think this math teacher watches too much Sex and The City with that wife of his. I got him to admit he watches that show the other day, but honestly it could have been any number of shows where everyone is hooking up with everyone. 

In my experience as a single person, that’s just not how things are in real life. People like him just don’t believe that though; hence his fancying my single life—If he only knew how lonely my single life is. 

I tried dating apps for a hot second. I put up a picture and didn’t advertise the complex nature of my life but still got no bites. The whole experience left me feeling more alone. While I do crave intimacy still; and might appreciate the distraction of a relationship—or to just feel wanted maybe—relationships take time I just don’t have with my boys right now. I wasn’t lying to Mr. Joseph. 

Even if what he wants to believe was true, that life wouldn’t interest me and would most definitely come with drama I don’t want or need. Regardless, I can’t pay attention to what he wants for me at the moment…as my mind is concerned with other things.

After posting my article Saturday night, I anticipated a student contacting me; surprised for any number of reasons. I hate putting myself out there with a story and then having to wait to see if people like it or not. I ended up going to bed that night without hearing a word from anyone. 

Sunday morning then came and went and still nothing. That’s when my car started making that noise. At that point I assumed the students just didn’t read it. Around noon I texted Lily: “Did any of the students say anything to you about the article?” 

I got no response from Lily who goes “off the grid” from time to time. With her recent breakup, my mind had her dealing with more pressing issues. 

My day was busy as I had all my boys with me, so I didn’t give her silence too much thought. That was until I got an email from Principal Sam: “EMERGENCY STAFF MEETING MONDAY MORNING BEFORE SCHOOL,” was the email’s headline sent to all teachers in all capital letters. Inside the email was a short message: “There is a situation we must discuss prior to the students arriving tomorrow. Please arrive at 7:30 AM for this MANDATORY meeting. — Principal Sam.”

I barely slept last night after reading that email; worried this had something to do with that ham sandwich story. I considered emailing Principal Sam to ask but didn’t. I did text Lily again to see if she knew what this meeting was all about but again received no response from her.

That story was meant to be a lesson. I wanted to teach the students that nothing is truly common sense and that we can be tricked by entertainment unknowingly. Sitting in this cafeteria now, worried about being exposed in front of the entire staff, I continue making excuses for why I wrote that story.

Not knowing what’s going on in my head, Mr. Joseph leans towards me again. “Grow some balls and ask her out,” he whispers; referring to Miss Lily once more.  

Hearing this has me looking again at Lily on stage—Why didn’t she respond to me?

A minute passes and Principal Sam stands up. The chatter amongst staff slowly subsides. I feel my heart beating against my ribs as I watch Principal Sam take a few steps to the front of the stage. 

“A tragedy has occurred,” Principal Sam begins. “Two of our students are in serious condition as we speak.”

A deafening silence fills the room. That heart, which was just beating hard in my chest, suddenly stops beating entirely—This definitely isn’t about me.

Principal Sam reads from a piece of paper. “Because of privacy laws we cannot share all the details with you now, but it is likely students will come in today knowing certain things. And we need to have a discussion regarding what we can and cannot say to them right now.”

I listen to a carefully edited description of this incident that happened over the weekend. Principal Sam tells us who these people behind her on stage are and why they’re here. Secretly I hope Principal Sam is being overdramatic like usual. 

Please let this be one of those times, I think to myself. 

“I’m going to invite Miss Lily to speak to with you now about how to best support our students,” Principal Sam says. “I again apologize for the lack of details, but our hands are tied. Please listen to what is suggested and see me privately with any concerns you may have after we break from this meeting.”

I watch Lily stand up and walk to the front of the stage as Principal Sam steps aside. Lily doesn’t read from a piece of paper, but I can tell every word she says has been carefully prepared as well. Again, no names of students are given. With what we are told, the fact Lily is not giving names seems silly to me—Secrets never stay secret…especially something like this.

I feel a mixture of fear and frustration as I listen to Lily. “No one has died,” Lily again assures us, “but things are still frightening and today will be a pivotal day.” 

Looking at the administrators from downtown standing behind her, I wonder which one is here to make sure we properly protect ourselves—Maybe both.

Lily finishes. 

“As the guidance counselor I am more of a friend than a teacher to our students, hoping to know what they might need I’ll meet with some of you one on one after this meeting. Specifically, with those who will be most affected, and perhaps most helpful, with this situation.”

The meeting ends and everyone gets up from their seats. Looking around the room I watch as adults seem lost; not knowing what to do or say. Mr. Joseph walks away from me and joins the group of teachers around Lily. I stand alone and watch from a distance. 

Between scattered bodies I lock eyes with Lily; she gives me a look and what might be a small smile beneath her mask. I study the teachers around her. All of them look to be alarmed but I assume many of them cannot stifle their curiosity as to what students we are talking about. 

Looking at me again, Lily aims her eyes at one teacher in particular— Does she want me to come save her?

Considering this question, I watch Lily edge her way through the sea of bodies surrounding her. I watch her walk towards me looking strong and confident as always. As she approaches, I try to think of something to say.

With her only a few feet away I see them pooling in her eyes…fresh tears. Lily doesn’t stop once she reaches me, instead she points to the door and waves her hand at me to follow. 

Leaving the cafeteria, I follow her down the hall towards her office.

*

Article Title: P.A.I.N. through Anxiety 

Dated: Friday, November 13^th, 2020

 “Anxiety is the illness of our age.” 

— from The Heart of Buddha’s Teaching by Thich Nhat Hanh

When I go for those walks I’ve been telling you about, I’ve been listening to this audiobook titled The Heart of Buddha’s Teaching. In it the author continues his argument about anxiety being the illness of our age: 

We worry about ourselves, our family, our friends, our work, and the state of the world. If we allow worry to fill our hearts, sooner or later, we will get sick. Yes, there is tremendous suffering all over the world, but knowing this need not paralyze us.

These are nice words… but what happens when it does paralyze us? 

On November 19^th, 2013, it paralyzed me. That was the day my good friend took his own life. 

With everything going on this week, I’ll be using this article to share some of my pain and frustration with you, hoping it might help you cope with yours. 

My friend, like me, came from a good family. He had a wonderful wife who had recently given birth to healthy baby girl. He had a great job running his dad’s family business. I had done a kitchen remodel for him a year earlier; everything seemed fine then, what he did that day just didn’t make sense to me. 

After his death I learned that my friend’s brain had been playing tricks on him. Things got so complicated and convoluted in his mind, that he decided this world, and everyone in it, would be better off without him— If he only knew I fought with similar feelings myself, I thought sitting alone at his funeral. 

Though I did not suffer like he did, I sat there that day with a million what if’s running through my mind. 

What if I told him of my struggles? … What if we could have helped each other?? … What if I could have saved him??? 

I was in the heat of my opiate addiction at the time. Thinking I could “save him” sounds a bit “self-important” to me today. That’s a phrase I heard my councilor at the halfway house use a lot. I think that’s what pain does to us. It makes us want to have answers when sometimes there are none. 

At my friend’s funeral—fully grasping the reality of that moment—my mind swelled to the edges of its skull. The pews of that church were filled with people that knew me. Looking around at them I began to sweat. With the walls of that church closing in on me, it felt as if all those people could see the guilt consuming me from the inside out. 

Holding it together the best I could, my body began to literally shake, and I felt like I might throw up. Then, without warning, the tears came. My shoulders jumped up and down uncontrollably as I gasped for air…unable to catch it. 

I sat there unable to do anything. For myself or my friend. The crushing sadness of that moment was just too much, and I completely lost it…in front of everyone. That might have been the first panic attack I ever remember having. Probably not, but maybe. It wouldn’t be the last. 

Shortly after my friend’s funeral I attempted to kick my opiate addiction in secret. I did this by trying to do it cold turkey. This wasn’t my first attempt at trying to do it this way, but now I had to quit—for my friend. 

I curled up on a couch in my basement with three fans on high surrounding me. The sound of the fans and that breeze helped distract my body from its attempts at crawling out of my skin. 

Over a long weekend, I watched all the Rocky movies. Between punching, crying, sweating, and swearing I was doing my own impersonation of Rocky in that basement. The movies were merely on in the background. 

There was a moment in the movies I do remember though. It was when Rocky’s wife Adrian goes into a coma after childbirth but wakes up just in time to tell Rocky, “I want you to win.” 

Watching that scene, I imagined my friend as Adrian. I welcomed the delusion as it removed my desire for a pill in that moment. Imagining him sitting beside me I sort of choked on my heart: I’ll do it for you, I thought. 

Unfortunately, I was never as strong as Rocky and that attempt at getting clean was just another punch in the face. My willpower and desire to do it for my friend just wasn’t enough. 

Over time, I learned to accept that I could not have saved my friend as I continued to fight my own battles. He still needed me to win though. I’ve always known that deep down: That his pain and my pain would help someone with there’s someday.

On the day my friend took his own life he sat on a bed covered with pictures of loved ones. The time he took to place those pictures around him tells you everything you need to know about my friend’s heart. That heart must have felt heavy that day; weighed down by worries and fears no one understood. 

Was his ending inevitable though? … What if he didn’t own that gun he used to take his own life? 

As a kid I was never scared of guns. Year after year I remember wanting a BB gun for Christmas. Year after year I was disappointed. I was spoiled with gifts but never got that BB gun I wanted. As an adult I am scared of guns today but realize saying that out loud isn’t wise. 

I am reminded of this every day I pick my son up from school. There I always see the same grey pickup truck with that sticker on its back windshield. “*uc* Gun Control,” it says; the letters F and K are replaced with assault rifles. 

Hearing this story about my friend, you can imagine how I feel seeing this truck picking up their child from my son’s school. It’s always the same. I consider getting out of my car to knock on the window to say something, then my son shuffles out of school and heads in my direction, I smile at him and let myself forget what I wanted to say to this person.  

This past week, with everything happening at our school, I sat in that line of cars boiling over this sticker. I imagined my freckled face friend sitting beside me and knew what he would say to me in that moment. “J—the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun, is with a gun.” 

Sitting alone in my car, I looked over and asked my now imaginary friend a question, “Is that what you said sitting on the bed that day?”

“Oh shit!” My imaginary friend responded. “Shots fired … pop—pop—pop … You got me bro.” 

My freckled face friend could be super funny when he was alive.

At thirty years old, with a pop of that gun—a gun he purchased legally to protect his family—my friend removed himself from this world and all its problems. And from his family forever. While that is the sad truth, I’ve come to believe my friend is one the reasons I’m your teacher today. 

“Lives that inspire never expire.” 

To kick my opiate addiction, I entered a detox facility soon after that little Rocky experience I just told you about. There a therapist encouraged I keep a journal where I wrote this thing about inspiring lives. Opening that journal this past week, I found a lot of irrational gibberish in it. There was a page where I wrote about starting a new internet for some reason. 

When we are hurting, thinking a bit irrationally should be expected. Don’t beat yourself up for it like I did. 

In that journal I also wrote about this idea I had while watching the movie X-Men. In the opening scene of that movie, Charles Xavier—the bald dude in a wheelchair—says this: 

Mutation. It is the key to our evolution. It is how we have evolved from a single-celled organism into the dominant species on the planet. This process is slow and normally takes thousands and thousands of years. But every few hundred millennia, evolution leaps forward.

If I’m being honest with you, which I think is important right now, when I wrote that I was off opiates and alcohol but still smoked weed. When I heard those words in that movie a lightbulb went off in my head: That’s what we need, I thought and later wrote, another leap forward.

Was my friend somehow giving me ideas? Or was I just high? Does it matter?

Later, while watching a Star Trek movie, I wondered what must have transpired on Earth to make this “Enterprise” exist in the future. Here’s the entry I wrote about that: 

It would take a massive amount of cooperation on this planet and require the bringing together of wealthy people in some sort of united vision. It would also require the encouragement of the masses to make possible…I think Star Trek needs an origin story.

I did not understand what any of that really meant back then. They were just pieces of information my mind was feeding me. But somehow, years later, all that information encouraged me to create this curriculum for you. 

Maybe losing my good friend somehow brought us together? 

I like to think it did. 

Listening to other people tell me how to think or feel didn’t much help me when I was struggling. And I can remember getting really upset with people who tried. That said, I will not tell any of you how to think or feel right now, instead I will talk to myself for a quick moment. 

“How you think and feel right now is temporary Mr. J. You are more durable than you realize. And you will survive this. Just don’t give up.”

I don’t remember everything from that period of my life. It’s probably better that I don’t. How I felt then seemed unbearable to me. Being sad hurts. The word sad is a simple word but the feeling is anything but. 

My friend’s life served a purpose though and his memory gives me strength to this day. I told myself that if I ever did put that puzzle my mind was working on together, I would have him to thank. 

Hoping that all of you are pieces to that puzzle, I will remember him now—I love you AJR, you are missed. 

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

In your opinion, is an individual more likely to use a gun for protection or out of anger or frustration? Please answer thoughtfully and respectfully in your journals.

The Teacher’s Playlist: 

Broken featuring Amy Lee by Seether

“I want to hold you high and steal your pain away.”

*

(End of Chapter 13)

Click here to continue to next chapter…

Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Chapter Twelve: Common Sense

“I think if you dream it, you’ll do it.”

—from the film Elvis

*

Rising from her slumber—like a sleeping soul rising from the dead—Candace speaks. “I still can’t believe you made me a character in one of your stories, Mr. J.” 

She looks at me from behind that mask she’s wearing. I haven’t completely broken through that shell of hers yet, but I’m working on it. 

“Well,” I say to her, “if you weren’t gonna talk in my class I decided to make you talk in my story instead.”

Week nine of this 2020 school year has us sitting in class for some In-Person-Learning. All four of my students are in attendance; Lauryn, Nel, Pras, and Candace. It is Monday and we are discussing the story about worry I shared with them prior to the weekend. Miss Lily is joining us for class this week as well. 

We were just talking about Facebook. They all laugh at me because that’s the only social media platform I use. For some reason I keep getting fed inappropriate or stupid stuff and asked if anyone knew how to stop this from happening. They weren’t much help but had some interesting theories about why I was being fed such stupid an inappropriate things.

“What are using to phone to look at Mr. J?” Nel asked suspiciously after I shared with them some of the posts I’ve been fed. I wanted to know if these students see similar stuff as I’m going to have to start worrying about what my boys are being fed on their phones very soon. 

That worry article required a lot of editing on my part. Writing it, I discovered I could write an entire book about worry. I think anyone trying to survive the world today could. 

“Is it possible to prove you were right all along?” 

That was the question I had originally used to start that article. I explained to these students in front of me how that was the question that had me creating this curriculum in the first place… and how I still worry I haven’t proven much to anyone yet. 

“We really don’t need to rush any of this. It’s happening already. You’re happening. You just don’t know it yet.”

I wrote that in the front cover of the journal I was keeping when I was living in that halfway house. Showing these students that journal, I had them all write the same thing in the ones I bought them for this class. I was planning on using just regular notebooks for a journal but with only four students I splurged for some nice ones. I think it was worth it. 

Reading to them from that journal I also read this: The young mind worries about its future entertainment, while the mature mind considers its future demise, worrying replaces excitement as we adults are forced to consider how things might fall apart at every turn. 

“This is not true for all adults,” I said to them, “but it has been my truth.” 

It’s been a good discussion but is now coming to end. Pras jumps in with one last question. “Mr. J,” he says, “was that story your way of telling us to vote?”

Tomorrow is election day. The fact it will be the first time some of these students are old enough to vote has been a hot topic amongst students and staff at school today. I however continue my refusal to get involved in the drama surrounding this election.

“No Pras,” I answer. “Common Sense might have you thinking that, but I most definitely did not write that article for that reason.” 

Knowing Pras would love nothing more than to spend this entire class period talking politics, I purposely use the words “common sense” to transition into this week’s lesson. 

“Which reminds me,” I say enthusiastically, “would any of you like to learn a sure-fire way to piss someone off?” I pause but don’t let them answer. “I’m gonna share with you three words that will make almost anyone angry. I’ve seen it work on friends. On co-workers. On bosses. Even on children…just like all of you.” I mock them to make sure I have their attention. “Can any of you children guess what those three words might be?”

“Go F*** Yourself?” Lauryn says, not editing herself of course.  

In the back of the room Lily laughs. She quickly turns and pretends to sip on her iced coffee while Nel jumps from his seat to give his girlfriend a high five across their desks. 

“Its—Common—Sense.”  

“What is?” Candace says still laughing at Lauryn’s comment.

“Those are the three words you can say to make someone angry,” I answer. “But Lauryn’s work too I guess.” 

Smiling under this mask I still must wear I turn and talk while writing on the board. “Saying these three words to someone is often the equivalent of saying ‘you’re dumb’.” 

On the board I write in all capital letters: IT’S COMMON SENSE = YOU ARE DUMB. 

“I read Thomas Paine’s Common Sense before that little house fire accident. It was in this little six-inch hardcover book that I just came across at the bookstore one day.” 

I grab that small brown book off the edge of my whiteboard to show them. 

“I bought this, and another the same size called Rules to Live By that George Washington supposedly wrote. I remember liking this phrase Common Sense and being inspired by how one man’s words could inspire so many people. I have since learned to dislike the phrase, as I see it used to belittle people today. Maybe I’ve become too sensitive, or too soft, or whatever… but I’ve seen these three words start a lot of arguments.” 

I continue my prepared lecture. 

“Thomas Paine wrote this believing we have it in our power to start the world over again. But in our world today—where everything seems to have a double meaning—I don’t think anything is common sense anymore. Before Miss Lily and I explain what we will be doing in class this week, I want you all to write in your journals your thoughts on this equation I’ve written on the board. Write anything you want but fill one page.” 

With the students writing in their journals, Miss Lily puts a handout on each of the students’ desks. The handout is a printed slideshow showing the outline for the week ahead. It’s title page reads, Deciphering Texts: 

Slide #1:

Tuesday: Students will be introduced to the “Sarcasm Meter.” Using this meter students will read texts provided and then give scores based on “Intended Sarcasm” and “Perceived Sarcasm.” This ten-point scale will be further explained using examples.

Slide #2:

Wednesday: Students will be separated into groups of two and given pre-written text conversations. Students will be asked to rate each text using the scale practiced on the day prior from two separate perspectives: (1) As the one sending the text, and (2) As the one receiving the text.

Slide #3:

Thursday: Students will role play conversations from the previous day. Each group will work with the other and discuss differences in their ratings after reading text conversations aloud to one another. This should be fun but remember to PLAY NICE!

Slide #4:

Friday: Students will discuss the following question: What have you learned about deciphering text conversations? And how is it relevant to your life? After a class discussion, this one-page report—done individually—will be due next Friday.

Slide #5:

Monday—TODAY: Students will analyze the following text: “How you doin?”

Once I have reviewed the slideshow outlining the week ahead, I let Miss Lily take over. From the back of the class, I watch her write the words referenced in the slideshow on the whiteboard: “How you doin?” 

Lily and I stole this phrase from the television show Friends. The students don’t recognize it and Lily doesn’t tell them where it comes from. A character in that show, Joey, used those words as a pickup line when talking to women. 

He’d say them with a sexy smile, an eyebrow lift, and a seductively hilarious nod. Miss Lily and I thought it the perfect phrase to introduce this lesson we created. 

“What I’ve written on the board seems rather straightforward,” Miss Lily begins. “If I walked up to you and asked you this question, how would you respond?” —Lily walks up to Pras— “How you doin?” she asks him.

Lily and I discussed this introduction and how it would be difficult with us having to wear masks. Watching her now, she is making it work just fine. Looking uncomfortable, Pras responds to Lily’s question. “I’m good,” he says. 

Lily can appear intimidating when she wants. A skill I see her using on Pras; who she chose on purpose. 

“Psychologically speaking,” Lily says talking to the rest of the class, “when I walk up to you and ask you this question your mind is doing many things. Pras subconsciously processed the tone in which I asked the question. His eyes attempted to perceive the mood I was in when I said it to him. And then, after he responded, Pras looked around the room to see if his response was acceptable.” —I see Pras nod at Lily’s analyses— “We all do this in one way or another, but remember, I’m a teacher and Pras is my student.” 

Lily walks over to Pras again, pointing to him and then herself she says, “But what if I was his girlfriend? How would that change things?… Lauryn—What do you think?”

Taking only a quick second to think, Lauryn asks, “Did he do something wrong?” 

“Exactly!” Lily laughs at Lauryn’s question and then continues. “Our relationship makes you think there is more to the question. If I was his girlfriend, maybe I’d ask the question differently.” —Lily turns to Pras again— “How you doin?” she says in a lower more concerned tone. 

Lily has to wait an extra second before Pras realizes he’s supposed to respond. “I’m fine,” he says.

Without delay, Lily presents the question again, sounding angry. “How you doin?” 

“I’m okay,” Pras responds with a nervous chuckle. From the back of the class, I watch Pras bring two hands up to his thighs beneath the desk. 

“Nel,” Lily says turning away from Pras, “what was the difference in how I asked Pras that question the first time compared to the second?” 

Sitting up in his seat, Nel responds. “It sounded like you thought something was wrong at first but then you sounded mad.”

“Do you get where I’m going with this Candace?” Lily says, turning to her.

Candace speaks confidently. “You’re showing us how a question can be interpreted differently based on tone.”

“Exactly,” Lily agrees with Candace and then turns to the board.

When I told Lily my idea for this lesson, she agreed with my concerns about what texting was doing to us as a society. Verbally, humans can only digest a few words at a time, that can do enough harm, but what we want someone to take from a text is almost always interpreted in a way we don’t intend. 

Lily continues. 

“On the board is this question: How you doin’? As a class we will pretend it’s a text message someone has received. Our objective today is simple: Fill this whiteboard with as many interpretations as possible. Do not explain why it was interpretated in the way you imagine, just write the interpretation a person might have.” 

Lily grabs a marker and says, “For example.” Then writes: Did I do something wrong? on the whiteboard. Moving slightly—so that the students can see what she wrote— she then turns to the board again. “Or” she says before writing: Does this person think something is wrong?

The room stays quiet while Lily prepares to give them one last example. The example she is about to give was the reason we decided she should be the one to introduce this lesson. Turning to the board this last time, Lily speaks louder. “Or…” she says and then writes on the board: Is this person trying to get in my pants?

Seeing what Lily wrote on the board the students don’t laugh but I can see them maybe want to. If I had written it maybe their reaction would be different. Lily lets the quiet set in before acknowledging the uncomfortable nature of this lesson. 

“We are all adults here,” she says placing the cap on the marker. “And there are things that will be interpreted that are inappropriate. Mr. J and I have anticipated this and have come up with some doosies ourselves.”

Lily pauses and looks at me with what must be a smile beneath her mask. 

“Write whatever interpretations those immature minds can think of,” Lily says turning towards Nel who had just laughed. “But if you take advantage of us treating you like adults, there will be consequences. And with that warning the board is now yours.”

There were many reasons I wanted Lily to introduce this lesson. As the school’s guidance counselor, these students seem to respect and fear her at the same time. I, on the other hand, struggle with the respect thing and will never have the fear thing. 

Lily and I watch the students struggle to come up with interpretations at first but soon there’s no stopping them. Her and I eventually join in as the writing on the board gets smaller and smaller. 

That lesson served as a great start to the week. It was fun, enlightening, and educational all at the same time. Was a lesson inspired by a television show a waste of these students’ time? I don’t think anyone would say it was.

Working together the rest of the week, Lily was thrilled with how well the students did with the lessons we created. Talking with them about the many ways one can misconstrue a text message was not only educational for them but us as well. 

On Friday, Principal Sam even joined us. I told Principal Sam that getting funding will require I show students engaged in this class and that doing things like this will help.

The article I will share with my students this week is hilariously inappropriate. To protect myself—and bring Lily and Principal Sam together at the same time—I gave it to them and had them read it. I thought they might give me a hard time but they both laughed and are now very interested to see how these students will react to it. 

I had been posting my articles on Fridays on my website but wanted to build up some suspense this week: “I’ll be posting this week’s article on Saturday night,” I said to them. “It’s worth the prime-time slot in your schedule…trust me.” 

*

Article Title: Common Sense 

Dated: Saturday, November 7^th, 2020

 “I’ll be your teacher…. You’ll see a side of love you’ve never known.”

— from the song In My Head by Jason Derulo

One of my objectives here is to prove that a well-crafted piece of entertainment can manipulate the mind into seeing things in the world around it in a completely different light. 

On the radio, I heard it said a song had recently hit one billion downloads. Hearing that I couldn’t help but think how that achievement highlighted the significance of entertainment in our world— Could you imagine manipulating the minds one billion people with a song?  

I decided to try and creatively incorporate that song into my story for you this week. Stumped on how to do that, I decided to have myself a ham sandwich to clear My Head. It was lunchtime, so I figured…why not?

To truly be alone with myself and my thoughts, I left my cellphone on the kitchen counter and headed to my bedroom to enjoy my ham sandwich in silence for once. While I do find technology useful, it can make finding that alone time to really learn about oneself difficult. 

Sitting on the large bed in the center of my bedroom, I found my feet dangling off its edge. The walls around me were covered with posters from a wide range of movies and shows. Sharing this room with my boys, a bunkbed fills a corner of it. 

Me and my boys only hang posters on this wall that mean something to us for one reason or another. We’ve nicknamed these walls of our bedroom our Wonderwall. It’s silly, but I gave it this name wanting them to wonder what great things they might do someday.  

Looking around the room, my eyes stopped at the poster for that 50 First Dates movie. 

On it Drew Barrymore and Adam Sandler sat together on the beach. The dorky, yet loving way, Adam was looking at Drew reminded me of my childhood friend who likes to tell people the story of “The Move” I taught him when kissing a girl for the first time…

“Grab both her hands and look into her eyes.” 

According to this story my friend loves telling people, the two of us were standing atop a hill as I gave him this lesson. According to him, I grabbed both his hands and showed him how it was done.

“Don’t talk, just smile lightly—Don’t show your teeth,” he claims I said, “it’s not a class photo.” 

Correcting his face, I continued my lesson. 

“Look for a smile,” I told him. “How she smiles will tell you everything. You go forward or turn and run based on that smile. Pay attention because you don’t want to get that part wrong.”

As I spoke—according to my friend—he gazed into my eyes without a hint of embarrassment. 

“If that smile is inviting,” I continued, “slowly bring one hand up to her cheek, like this…” —I let go of one of his hands and gently touched his cheek— “Don’t break eye contact,” I added. “Now, softly hold her face in your hand and move your thumb just a little bit, like this…” 

According to the way my friend tells people this story, it was cold that night and so my hand felt warm against his face. Under a moonlit sky I finished my lesson. 

“Now, move your hand up along the side—like this…. near her eye—like this…and then brush her hair behind her ear…like this. Then…slowly move in.” 

According to my friend I held the side of his face and demonstrated how to gently go in for that first kiss: “The Move,” he calls it.

This funny friend of mine is super-successful now but back then we were just two high school dorks. At get togethers he’ll re-enact everything I just did; uncomfortably touching me right in front of people. Everyone loves him and so I just play along with an awkward smile on my face. I’m just a prop to him.

When my friend is done telling people this story, he’ll throw an arm around me and repeat some silly words he claims I said that night: “If you want someone to love you, get in their mind first—that’s where true intimacy lives.” 

That word intimacy didn’t even exist in my vocabulary as a kid. Why he adds that part, I have no clue. To end this little show, my friend says the same thing every time…something that always gets people to laugh.

“I tell ya—” he says squeezing me tightly in one of his strong arms, “this sexy son of a bitch right here is a Bona-Fide Vagina Whisperer!”

Sitting alone in my room; with my feet dangling off the edge of that bed, I couldn’t help but laugh remembering my good friend’s exaggerated story about me. 

Looking at that poster, while enjoying my ham sandwich, I attempted to refocus on the task in hand. That’s when the eyes of that actress stole my attention, and my mind woke up as something inside of me came to life…

“A girl and a zombie.” 

A line from that song in the Disney movie I watched with my son the night before entered my mind for some reason. “Someday.” At this one word I felt it start to grow—that feeling of hope. Thinking that word “Hope” to myself—I felt it grow some more.

Finishing my ham sandwich, I cleaned up and jumped from my bed excited to get to my writing. Walking up to that poster on the wall; feeling giddy about the idea this actress had just given me, I kissed my four fingertips and reached up to that poster: “Thank you my dear,” I said touching Drew’s postered face.

Turning away from that poster, I grabbed the napkins off the bed and headed to the door. That’s when I faced two questions I wrote and placed on that door a long time ago: “Are you sure?” and “What am I doing?” 

I placed those questions there to practice mindfulness. It was a suggestion in some book to hang them somewhere I would see each day. Looking at them in that moment, a concerned voice from inside my head asked a question: Are you sure you should do this?  

In the past I got excited to run out a door like this with ideas I thought were exciting—or meaningful—or funny—or inspirational—or so many different things. My mind often did this to me. It gave birth to these ideas that I thought were great and so I’d want to share them with the world. But too often I’d simply get myself in trouble. 

Would this get me in trouble?

On the other side of this door was the real world. Full of anxiety and fear. Full of judgement and ridicule. It is not the world that exists in my mind—I must constantly remind myself of this. 

Debating whether or not I should do it, I again laughed to myself and the idea: It’s too good, I thought, it’s gonna be hilarious. 

“Just do it!” I said out loud staring at the door in front of me. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

Grabbing that handle, I turned it deciding I was ready to face the real world that waited for me on the other side: Ready or not, here I come, I thought. 

In that moment I was grateful for my other childhood friend who came up with That Code. That Code me and my friends used in high school to inform one another that we were enjoying some “alone time”. 

We used those words, That Code—Ham Sandwich—with our parents and laughed at them unknowingly. It was That Code we used to secretly tell one another that we were…well…masturbating.

Dear Class, 

Wonderwall by Oasis was the song that had been downloaded one billion times. It was not the song In My Head by Jason Derulo. The entire story you just read was a FAKE depiction of me…well…having a ham sandwich. 

I just used a piece of entertainment to manipulate your mind into seeing things in your world in a completely different light—You’ll never think of a ham sandwich the same. 

I apologize if my story has disturbed you in some way but let me remind you that last week you all got mad I wouldn’t let you watch the movie Saw in class for Halloween. Feel free to watch that movie to restore your mental sanity if needed. What one finds “disturbing” is a matter of perspective. One way or another, I’ll teach you that. 

Sincerely Yours, With Love, Mr. J. … See you all on Monday! :0)

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

If you discovered a pill to cure hopelessness, would you sell it or give it away for free?  In your journal answer this question and explain your reasoning.

The Teacher’s Playlist:

Wonderwall by Oasis

“The word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out.”

*

(End of Chapter 12)

Click here to continue to next chapter…

Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Chapter Eleven: Worry

 “For my whole life, I didn’t know if I even really existed…but I do.”

—from the film Joker

*

Playing the role of the Joker, Joaquin Phoenix talks to his publicly provided psychiatrist: “Is it just me or is it getting crazier out there?” he asks.  

In the scene prior he is being paid to wear a clown costume and hold a sign on a busy street to advertise for a local business. This kind but troubled man; who enjoys his job, has his sign stolen from him by a group of boys who he then chases and eventually gets brutally beaten by. The Joker’s laughing face before asking his psychiatrist that question haunts me. 

“It is certainly tense,” the downtrodden psychiatrist says in response to the Joker’s question. “People are upset. They’re struggling. Looking for work. These are tough times.” 

It’s Friday, the day before Halloween, and week eight of the school year is coming to an end. Miss Lily and I are working together in her office as snow falls outside her windows. Snow on Halloween is unusual, but this year just keeps getting more and more unusual it seems— Is it just me or is it getting crazier out there?

“As kids we loved the heroes…as adults we understand the villains.” 

That quote with an image of the Joker showed up on my Facebook feed. I used it as a warm-up activity with my students this past week. Afterwards I explained why watching that movie was so difficult for me. 

When I told Lily about that chat Principal Sam had with me about that diverge story—the one she encouraged I enter in that contest—she went and talked to our principal about it. “The kids love his stories,” she claims to have said. “They like not knowing what to expect. That sometimes he’s funny and sometimes he’s serious. That he keeps things interesting… You’d know that if you listened to people.” 

According to Lily the students like me; even if they don’t much show it. Lily’s defense got me an apology from our principal later that same day, but Principal Sam has acted cold towards her ever since. I would never ask Lily to do what she did, but that’s just who she is. 

“When do you think you and Principal Sam will kiss and make up?” I ask her from across the desk our laptops share.  

“We’ll be fine,” Lily answers casually. “People just don’t like being called out. It’s an ego killer.”

Lily and I begin to gossip about Principal Sam; about how that ego was long overdue for a little adjustment; and how Lily is everyone’s hero for giving our principal a long overdue reality check. 

“People like being a Karen,” Lily says. “Arguing and finding ways to make life difficult for people today.”

Lily’s comment has me looking up the definition of what a “Karen” is on Wikipedia: a name society has given toa middle-class white woman who is perceived as entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is normal. 

I’m not above the name games we play today. My youngest and I have started calling people “Beverlies” because of this show The Goldbergs we watch.

In that show, Adam’s mom—Beverly—lies and exaggerates to keep her kids safely scared of people…and the world in general. When I see a mom doing this in the real world my son and I will give each other a look that says, “Someone’s being Beverlied.” 

Lily takes a piece of chocolate and hands it to me across the desk. “Try it,” she says, “It’s really good.” 

Bringing the chocolate to my nose I can tell its dark chocolate. I’m not usually a big fan of dark chocolate. “Smells good,” I say, placing it in my mouth.

Somewhat enjoying this treat, I watch Lily put her hair into a ponytail across the top of our laptop screens. She flattens her hair and then refocuses her attention on the laptop in front of her. We are both working on a lesson for my class next week: Deciphering Texts, we are calling it. 

Not wanting to get back to work quite yet, I offer a distraction. “I’ve got an appointment to get myself fixed next week.” 

Lily looks up from her computer. “What?” she says at my sharing of personal information.

“You know…” I snip the air with my fingers. “It’s an easy surgery I guess. The guy doing it made feel like I was gonna throw up when he explained it though. I’m not good with blood.” 

“Are you talking about a vasectomy J?” 

“Yup…If that’s what it’s called,” I nod and offer a goofy smile. “What else could I be talking about?” 

“Do you really think you’re ready for that? What if you meet someone who wants kids?” 

“I’m pretty sure I should be done at this point,” I answer. “It wouldn’t be fair to my boys…I’m spread thin already.”

Lily sounds like my mom again. What I’ve just said to her isn’t the whole truth, but it’s enough for this conversation. 

People like to say “It goes bye too fast” when talking about raising kids. I’m sure I’ll feel that way myself someday, but what people often fail to mention is what a painfully slow process it can be. 

I’m more of a friend to my kids than a dad most of the time I think—maybe that’s why I find it so hard. 

The other day my youngest forgot to bring his iPad to Sirena’s brother’s house. Dropping it off, her brother teased me. “Enable much,” he said. His criticism was valid and is just one of the many reasons I think getting fixed is the responsible thing for me to do at this point. 

Talking to Lily now my throat hurts. Last night I had all my boys with me. They were acting crazy and so I semi-yelled at them. They stopped for a second, I turned away, and they proceeded to act crazy and giggle and joke again. Eventually I spazzed. “Can you just listen to me for once!” I yelled to the point of seeing stars and pounded the kitchen counter where I was cleaning dishes for the third time. 

I hate yelling. I really do. I just don’t know what else to do sometimes. I love my boys but selfishly look forward to when they are older…and I can maybe have a life of my own again. 

“It’s not like I’m using the thing anyways,” I continue explaining my decision to Lily. “It would be just my luck to get someone pregnant if I did though.”

I shrug my shoulders and offer Lily another goofy look. She shakes her head at me but is unable to hold in a smile. “You’re an idiot,” she says. “You should really think about it though. And if you’re not active what’s the rush?”

“With two ex-wives and three kids, I don’t think I’m rushing anything.”

“I still think you should wait,” Lily says in doctorly fashion. “But really we need to finish these conversations. Let’s just get them done.” 

Lily looks down at her laptop and goes back to typing. Looking down at mine I begin questioning myself again. I’m comfortable around Lily in a way I haven’t been around a girl in a long time, but it’s easy for someone like her to plant a seed of doubt in my head. 

I’m mostly getting that surgery to ensure I don’t sabotage my life more than I already have, but like I just said: it’s not like I’m using the thing—Maybe I should wait?

The doctor says I’ll need to ice myself for a few days and I’m not sure how I’ll explain that to my boys anyway. I’ll end up telling the twins about it; they’re old enough, but then they’ll wonder if that means I literally won’t have any testicles anymore. Then funny dad will be tempted to explain the accuracy and inaccuracy of their assumption. 

I’m constantly amazed at the things my boys believe, but as a kid myself I was the same. A friend once told me that after a man ejaculates one hundred times he can no longer get an erection. It sounds silly to me now but back then I remember trying to keep count—I guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree. 

A few minutes pass when a knock on the door interrupts the funny thoughts in my head and the silent punching of keyboards. 

“Come in,” Lily says loudly.

The door opens and Lauryn stands looking suspiciously at us.

“Sorry to interrupt you two lovebirds,” she says. “Can one of you let me in Principal Sam’s office? I need to get the speaker to bring outside.”

“I got it,” I say standing up and disrupting the awkwardness that has just entered the room. 

Lauryn points two fingers at her eyes and then directs them at Lily and me. “I’m watching you two,” she says.

I watch these two girls exchange a look with one another. The only thing Lily and I have to feel guilty about is not wearing our masks in school. Knowing Lauryn won’t snitch on us, I put mine on and push her out the door. 

With Halloween being tomorrow Principal Sam told the students they could have the afternoon off. With snow falling outside they’re a bit more excited for this than they probably would have been otherwise. 

Principal Sam called this break from classroom time “warranted” this morning; as many towns have cancelled trick-or-treating because of this pandemic. Hearing Principal Sam say that I couldn’t help but wonder how much learning was gonna happen anyways.  

Walking beside Lauryn, I’m wearing a Batman’s Robin shirt today. With the heavy sweatshirt I have underneath the students have been calling me “Fat Robin” all day: “It’s Robin’s Quarantine-Fifteen,” I told them; Covid had a lot of us packing on a few extra pounds and I’m no exception. 

Lauryn isn’t dressed up herself—she’s too cool for that—but is wearing a Kobe Bryant jersey today and has been telling people she’s dressed as “The G.O.A.T.” for Halloween. 

Kobe Bryant died a year ago in a helicopter crash with his thirteen-year-old daughter Gianna sitting next to him. The thought of them looking into each other’s eyes during their final moments made me physically ill when the news broke. 

This world needs better role models. With a lot of athletes saying “I don’t get paid to be a role model” I think Kobe understood he was one whether he wanted to be or not. This too must start in school though. We have to teach these future athletes and celebrities and YouTubers and influencers how to be good role models…and that clearly isn’t happening today. 

I was reminded of this just this morning when Lauryn’s jersey sparked a conversation about taunting. “Let them taunt,” I watched Nel say. “They’re big boys.” 

A man from a local recovery program was meeting with the students. When Nel said that this man stayed silent and let the students rally around Nel’s opinion about taunting. Watching from a corner, I told myself this visitor didn’t say anything because he was scared of being critical of these sensitive students of ours, but the truth is that man probably agreed with Nel. 

Sitting there I recalled buying a mouth guard with my twins. “Dad,” my son said showing me the packaging for his mouthguard, “It’s called ‘The Trash Talker’.” — A company making money by promoting trash talking to our kids…how nice. 

As usual, my boys know better than anyone how I feel about this. When we watch sports together, they, like me, get annoyed with all the over-dramatic acting and self-celebration and self-promotion that exists in professional sports today. While they are boys and do enjoy some of the fighting and trash talking we watch—especially in hockey I’m finding—they know how their overly sensitive dad feels about it.  

Watching my boys play their sports is when raising them feels like a painfully slow process to me. It’s not that I don’t care necessarily, it’s just that I don’t care like everyone else does. In that stretch of time, it is abundantly clear to me that I do not fit in the world in which I exist as I simply don’t care about winning. 

Maybe being competitive was beaten out of me with all the losing I’ve done lately, but even as a kid I don’t think it was winning that drove me. It was more about not wanting to let people down; and the desire not to embarrass myself I think. I’m not a give everyone a trophy person either though. Maybe there’s just an element of luck in all competition that doesn’t agree with me hoping to create my own luck today. 

“A society that promotes competition always struggles with trust.”

I heard that in one of my audiobooks recently. I felt like that guy in the Elf movie who yells “YES!” when sharing the idea of another writer with his boss. That simple statement explains so much of what I see happening in the world around me and made me feel justified in not fitting in. 

When everything’s a competition, it’s natural to believe we are being taken advantage of, or screwed over, or cheated, so that someone else can win. That “when you get punched you punch back” mentality might work in sports, but when an entire civilization lives that way, I think this current reality is what you get. 

When Sirena and I used to watch the kids play sports together she’d remind me to keep my opinions to myself because of how opposite they were to everyone else’s. Sitting alone watching my kids play sports now, I watch two games happening at the same time. The actual game and the blame game that goes on during and after. 

Blame refs. Blame coaches. Blame other players. Blame. Blame. Blame. “A society promoting competition always struggles with trust”. Yes! Yes! Yes! 

I feel the same way when I’m watching professional sports. Stadiums full of people that care so passionately about winning. I wish I cared like them sometimes; it’s why I gamble on sports sometimes—because I want to care. I hate who I am when I gamble on sports though…it’s a problem. 

Watching professional sports there’s also that little issue of the fighting over the disappearing money pie that’s completely FAF to most of us— What’s the point of Generational Wealth if we have no generations to leave it to? 

On Facebook I saw a retired football player take a dig at a baseball players contract: “Shoulda learned to hit a ball and not the gap,” that running back wrote. If millionaires are feeling resentful, how do you think the rest of us feel?

Trickle-down economics didn’t apply when cutting taxes, but it applies to astronomical salaries of players. Yes, billionaires can most definitely afford it…but they don’t. Rather, it trickles down to us: Teachers — Construction workers — Doctors — Nurses — Dunkin Donut Employees — Suckers and fans at all levels of society.

“By the way,” Lauryn says; interrupting this conversation with myself, “I’m the one that told Principal Sam about your suicide story. I’m sorry you got in trouble for it.” 

“I know you did Lauryn. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t listen to what adults tell me to do so much, huh.” 

I assume Lauryn’s comment means Principal Sam asked her to report on what’s happening in my class. Thinking this, I tell her why she really shouldn’t feel bad about it. 

“I should probably thank you,” I tell her. “After that meeting with Principal Sam I had a breakthrough… I realized I’d have to start opening up to you guys if I really wanted our class to work.”

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

“Just wait until you read this week’s article, you’ll understand.”

Lauryn looks at me for an answer. Grabbing the small speaker off the desk I don’t elaborate and the two of us leave the office. 

“What are you doing for Halloween tomorrow?” she asks walking beside me down the hall.

“My town is still doing trick-or-treating, so me and the boys are going. It’s been a few years since I went with the twins so I’m pretty pumped.” —Lauryn knows all about my unique family situation—”My youngest turns seven the day after, so I have a little party planned and a blow-up-jumpy being delivered for the weekend.”

Telling her about this jumpy I think about the snow falling outside. The boys will probably have more fun because of it. 

“Mr. J,” Lauryn says approaching the door to head outside, “your life is more f****d than you tell us, isn’t it?”

Beneath the mask covering my face, I laugh a response as I open the door to head into the snowy outdoors. “You have no idea Lauryn.” 

*

Article Title: P.A.I.N. through Worry 

Dated: Friday, October 30^th, 2020

 “I’m gonna climb over that anger wall of yours one of these days… and it’s gonna be glorious.” 

— a quote from the film The Other Guys

“HOW COULD YOU CHANGE THE WORLD?”

Writing this question in all capital letters on my white board, I turn to look out at my students and ask the question I just wrote on the board. A familiar silence fills the room. Getting students to engage in class is difficult and this silence is something I’m accustomed to. 

In fact…I expected it. 

As a teacher, I often do this. I ease my students into a lesson by asking questions or doing something I know they won’t understand at first. Sooner or later, these students will learn to expect this from me. 

Last week I wrote an article for them about anger. Reading it they may have been worried about that argument I had with their principal. I needed them to understand that just like every emotion, feeling angry is natural. That article I wrote was supposed to illustrate what happens when that emotion takes over. 

When I was young I had quite the temper, looking back I almost always experienced feelings of shame after I’d let that temper get the best of me. Whether punching a wall or saying something mean to someone: I have come to believe that worrying about things done out of anger is inevitable.

Anger is something I’ve tried to learn how to embrace over the years. That doesn’t mean I enjoy being angry; or that I want to learn how to enjoy being angry, I hate being angry, that’s the truth. But I’ve come to realize that whenever something upsets me to the point of anger, there is usually a lesson to be learned once that difficult moment passes. 

Looking at the world today there is plenty to be angry about. The article I wrote them actually connects to a reflection I’ll be asking theses students to complete in class. The writing prompt saved on my computer for that reads: 

Social media connected us to everyone but left many of us feeling connected to no one… Am I lying? Everywhere you look today people seem content on being mediocre and organizing people to do anything in this Era of The Distracted Mind feels impossible…. Am I lying? Many people are hitting their “MAX F IT LEVEL” at the very same time, resulting in this reality where the overall quality of service and attention to detail in every industry has hit an all-time low…Am I lying?…How can a person know anymore? … And what can we do about it?

I made amends with their principal shortly after getting lectured and was never really as mad as I let these students believe. That article was just me stirring the pot a bit. That Tarzan commercial thing with my son really happened though, and I do really believe this world is falling apart because of resentments. 

Some of what I wrote was inspired by a show called Mr. Robot. And that stuff about gambling was stuff I thought about after getting into an argument with my friends who I play in a fantasy football league with. 

I’ve played in that fantasy football league with my friends since I was in high school. I’m considering not playing next year though because it’s making me not like people I really enjoy liking. They argue about everything, and all the ball-busting just isn’t fun to me anymore. I’m not sure what to do though because it’s one of the only times I get to talk to those friends. 

Playing fantasy football might have ruined watching sports for me. It’s where my unhealthy obsession with trying to control the uncontrollable might have begun. Playing in that league with my friends has also showed me the drawbacks of democracy—When everyone has an equal voice…things can get very loud. 

This week I have been talking to these students about worry and how it affects them. 

“Worrying is like a rocking chair,” Van Wilder says in his movie. “It gives you something to do but it doesn’t get you anywhere.” 

I used that quote to tell these student that while worrying might not get you anywhere, it does often serve a purpose: “Like helping us learn from past mistakes and avoid past misfortunes,” I told them.

The three tips in that article were not tips on how to survive this world…They were what a person would likely come to believe by watching too much television. 

“What would happen if you COULD change the world?”

After Lauryn—one of my more lovable students—called my question “dumb” I changed the question on my white board just a bit. 

“Imagine you could,” I turn from the board and ask. “What do you think would happen?” 

Again, silent faces look back at me. I see Pras’s sleeping mind waking up though as he considers my question. 

This is all I can do as a teacher. Inspire my students to think and to ask questions and to wonder… What if?

Discussions born out of this question are my favorite as you can never anticipate where they’ll go. That’s the beauty of encouraging people to use their imaginations— a skill we no longer use enough. 

Right as I’m about to tell these students to write an answer to this question in their journals, a single voice breaks the silence. “You would piss a lot of people off,” the voice says.

The words are not spoken loudly and they come out muffled because the student who speaks has their head down and is wearing a hood. I assumed this student wasn’t listening, but you know what happens when you ‘ass-u-me’ (You make an ass out of you and me).

“What do you mean by that?” I kindly ask the hooded figure in front of me.

Candace’s eyes appear from under her hood as she raises her head to look at me before speaking. “Everyone thinks they know how to change the world Mr. J,” she says. “You’d have to convince people that what they think is wrong. Who wants to be told they’re wrong?”

I love when I’m asked questions I don’t know how to answer. “What do you think,” I ask the class, “is Candace right?”

“Mr. J,” Nel responds sounding utterly uninterested, “I’m trying to change my own life. I really don’t care about any of this.”

Nel’s words stop me in my tracks. I often get lost in these wonderful classes that exist in my mind and forget that this class is supposed to be about these students, not me. Looking at the frustration on Nel’s face I realize a lot of what I’m talking about is probably annoying to them. I’m up here trying to act all cheerful and shit, while their minds face other problems that are more personal to them. 

Why am I up here jamming this idea of changing the world down their throats? — OH YES! —I remember now… Because I need them to! 

As a dad with children growing up in this world full of people hitting MAX-F-IT LEVEL at the very same time, this is something I’m counting on. I need to encourage these students in front of me to do something to change my kids’ future. For that, this class is sort of about me—Don’t let them think otherwise, I mentally remind myself.   

All these thoughts race through my head in an instant after Nel speaks. And I decide these students need me to act like an adult in this moment. They really have no clue how well I pretend to do this: I am actor on stage…and you, kiddos, are my audience. 

“I understand how you feel Nel,” I say attempting to sound sympathetic. “But let me ask you this: Does human conflict affect your ability to find peace in your life?” 

A look of confusion surfaces on Nel’s face—or maybe it’s annoyance. 

“What I mean is, does the world around you ever cause you to get angry or worried?”

“Sometimes,” Nel responds. “I guess.” 

“It does!” I say raising my voice. “Trust me. Most of us think this world stinks and we all want to change our lives. So, why not come together and change the world?”

Silent faces look back at me once more. 

Really, I don’t want them to speak right now. I want them to think. More than anything though I want them to accept the truth— YOU are going to have to change this world.

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

“I have come to believe that worrying about things done out of anger is inevitable.” In your journals, please write whether or not you agree with this statement. Try to again think of examples from your own life.

The Teacher’s Playlist: 

No Easy Way Out by Robert Tepper

“Some things are worth fighting for.”

*

(End of Chapter 11)

Click here to continue to next chapter…

Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Start of Act Two: The Turn

“In my travels I have seen the future, and it is a strange future indeed. The world, ladies and gentlemen, is on the brink of new and terrifying possibilities.” 

—from the film The Prestige

*

Chapter Ten: Anger

 “If we stick together, we’ll win…You’ll float too.” 

—from the film IT

*

“Now Jose,” the side of Principal Sam’s face talks to me, “you and me need to have a little chat.”

“Alright,” I answer, not knowing why I’ve been asked into my principal’s office today.

Always doing a million things at once, Principal Sam makes me feel like I’m just in the way most of the time. I feel that way now as I watch my principal punch buttons on a computer. The smell of the hand sanitizer I just used makes its way to me as I hear something begin to print. 

I rushed to get here this morning but was still a few minutes late—I couldn’t be in trouble for being late a few times with the chaos of this new schedule, could I?

In-Person-Learning has us parents waiting in long lines to pick up and drop off our kids from school each day. We sit in our cars and stare into our phones waiting forever. It’s awful. 

Elon Musk is out there making bullet proof trucks and self-driving cars and talking about wanting to expand human consciousness. He’ll need to unite human consciousness first. What he should be building is energy efficient busses to get these kids excited to ride busses when this is all over.

Water bubblers are off limits at school now too. Packing my son’s lunch today I was pouring water from a plastic water bottle into his reusable plastic water bottle and remembering when recycling felt important. With everything being delivered in boxes today, it doesn’t seem that way anymore. 

I filled two trash bags of Styrofoam from a television I bought not long ago—Is what we put in recycling even recycled anyways? It’s easy to rationalize our not-so-great behavior today. 

With everything coming in boxes, us consumers get to put everything together ourselves as well; using instructions that probably cost more to produce than anything. If something is wrong we get to call a number and try and find a real person to talk to. When we finally press that right combination of numbers that person usually can’t speak our language too well. 

It’s a frustrating world that’s for sure. FAF, I mentally labeled it filling that water bottle this morning: Frustrating as… that word Lauryn uses too much.

I was venting about all this to my son waiting in that drop-off-line this morning before school where he and I watched parent after parent let their child out and wait patiently for them to get safely all the way into the building. “For crying out loud,” I used my words and hands to express my frustration, “let the kid go already!” 

My son gets me. He knows I’m kind and caring, but that I still get angry. And when I’m just being goofy angry. He does this cute thing when I’m being super judgmental of people lately: “Judging…judging…judging,” he says mockingly to me—I trained him to do it to me. 

I was yelling at those cars half-joking this morning, but the lady in the big white SUV in front of me must have been watching me in her mirror. When it got to be that lady’s turn she paused extra-long once her kids got out of the car. I assumed she was doing it on purpose as it’s something I would maybe do if I saw someone acting like me in my mirror. 

Frustrated, I made my son get out of the car early and then pulled beside that lady and opened my window. She ignored me and would not look in my direction. I was planning on saying something nice. “I’m sorry,” I might have said apologetically. “I’m a teacher and need to get to school myself. Have a good day.” Saying something nice usually throws people off in those situations.

That lady—if she had seen me in my car—didn’t know what I was saying to my son. “Trying to keep you kids extra safe is instilling fear in you and killing your planet at the same time.” 

Driving to this meeting, annoyed by that lady, I debated sending my son’s principal a message suggesting he email parents proper drop-off etiquette. I know how much that principal is dealing with currently, so I won’t…but I still thought about it.

Grabbing the few papers that just printed, Principal Sam turns and looks at me in a way that makes me think this might not be a good “chat” we are about to have. 

“Could you please explain this to me Jose?” 

Principal Sam throws the papers that were just printed on the desk in front of me. Last week’s article I had written looks up at me. Reaching out, I grab the papers and read the title written across its top: dIverge. 

“This was something I wrote for a creative writing contest,” I answer. 

“Yes—I’ve heard,” Principal Sam responds forcefully. “But why are my students being told to read and reflect on something like this Jose?”

Assuming a student must have given Principal Sam this article, I answer. “Because each week I ask them to reflect on a piece of writing I provide them with…I told you I was doing this.”

“Yes—I know!” Principal Sam snaps. “But a story about suicide—With my students…. Are you crazy?” 

The final three words are spoken slowly—or maybe I’m just imagining it. These words have become my kryptonite. They stab me in pieces. Silently I slide the papers back onto the desk in front of me. I don’t want to touch them anymore. I hate them.

“Jose,” Principal Sam sits down and begins speaking in a lowered voice. “This story makes it sound like you’re glorifying suicide. I would think you’d know how I of all people would feel about that.” 

Principal Sam pauses to stare at me before continuing. 

“We need to talk about this Jose. We need to talk about your decision making and what exactly you’re trying to do here with my students….”

When Covid first started I began walking every day. It’s given me time to think about a lot of things. On those walks I’ve noticed most people don’t acknowledge each other. We act distracted by our phones or focus on the road ahead of us— Are we scared to acknowledge a stranger, or do we maybe feel it unnecessary? 

When I attempt to cross a street on my walks vehicles with blacked out windows in the front make it impossible to know if a driver can see me— How are we supposed to communicate with each another … Maybe we aren’t supposed to?

Listening to Principal Sam now I think to know why we don’t talk to people: “The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club.” 

A moment ago, I thought I was about to be angry, but now I can’t help but feel stupid and little. I imagine myself sitting on that white bench again with the name of that troubled boy from high school carved into it… I am once again that troubled boy from high school.

With Principal Sam lecturing me, I wonder to myself if this world is purposely designed in a way the more a person tries the more anger grows inside of them. Even now my stupid mind is thinking of things I might tell my students… Why can’t I just shut this stupid mind of mine off?

We get mad at those that make it look easy and annoyed with those that aren’t trying hard enough; as if we are being taken advantage of for trying too hard ourselves. Social media rationalizes our anger and unhappiness. It justifies our frustrations and feeds and encourages our delusions. And when it’s not doing those things, it’s numbing our ambitions with endless scrolling distractions.

“You may leave now Jose,” Principal Sam says. “Just know I expect better from you.”

A strange face across from me comes back into focus. It’s as if I’ve woken up and in an instant remember where I am. I stand up and leave the room, unsure of what Principal Sam may or may not have just said to me. 

Leaving the office, I head to the faculty bathroom down the hall. Entering, I shut the door behind me, lock it, and step to the sink. 

Breathe Jose… just breathe. 

Removing my mask, I reach down and turn on the water: Hot. 

“You idiot,” I say out loud to my reflection. “What were you thinking giving them that?”

Rolling up my sleeves I place my forearms on the sink and hands under the running water to feel it slowly getting warmer. I stop talking out loud and begin fighting the thoughts in my head instead: You let them in—You let them see… You should have known better. 

The eyes looking back at me have a mixture of rage and pathetic hopelessness waking up in them. This look is too familiar—I am so sick of trying.

“You’re too big for this place,” I speak a delusion out loud. “These people. This life…You’re just visiting remember.”

When I was in that halfway house and my life was falling apart without my permission—more than it already had—this is something I said to myself. Saying it now comes naturally. 

There are so many things I could say to this little boy looking back at me in this mirror: Your success is coming. My mind repeats a bs line I don’t much believe and pictures that Michael Jordan poster that hangs on my wall at home…

“Some people want it to happen,” that poster reads, “some wish it would happen, others make it happen!” 

The frustrated me clenches his teeth and wants to scream— That’s what I was supposed to be doing here!

A moment passes and I realize not all of this is that little boy’s fault. Instead of yelling at him I ask him question: “What are you gonna do now?” 

I consider this as the water finally scolds my hands. I did this at that halfway house too. I found myself crying a lot there and would hide from the men in the bathroom to gather myself doing this water thing…attempting to distract myself from the pain of my reality. 

“I want to challenge you to do something for me Jose.” —Something my mother said over the summer comes to me— “I want to challenge you to stop using the words ‘The World’ all the time.”

I had just gotten home from a meeting with Sirena and our son’s principal at his school. The same principal I considered sending a message to this morning—Why does that feel like so many frustrations ago already?

Sirena teaches at the middle-school just up the hill from where our son goes to school and was pushing to have him skip a grade over the summer. She had gone behind my back to pull some strings and make it a possibility: “These schools are so messed up,” was her argument, “I want him out as soon as possible!”

Our son is bright, but not that bright, and I did not believe her reasoning for rushing him through his childhood was in his best interest. I’ve watched Sirena jump around when things weren’t ideal her whole life, and felt she was encouraging that same behavior in our son. For once I stood my ground and surprisingly won the argument. 

Heading into that meeting, Sirena wanted me to act like it was my suggestion he skip a grade. “I work with these people,” she said, “don’t make it uncomfortable for me.” As usual I played along and just sat there as she, this principal, and this teacher friend of her’s—the real adults—decided it was in our son’s best interest for him to stick to his current grade. 

My mom knew I had been dealing with this the day she challenged me to stop using the words “The World” all the time…but just couldn’t help herself. She was suggesting I stop focusing on all the problems of “The World” and focus on “My World” instead; good advice but not what I wanted to hear right then. 

“I know I focus on big problems too much mom,” I wanted to tell her. “I think too much. I wish I wasn’t this way. Trust me.”

People are comfortable sharing their problems with me for some reason. I hear them so often I find myself using the words “The World” a lot. 

“I say The World mom, because I don’t want to add to the list of things others are looking to blame their problems on.” 

My mom tends to roll her eyes at me when I talk like that…she’s not the only one. She doesn’t read anything I write either. She says it’s because she doesn’t read, but really it’s because it makes her uncomfortable. She’s doing me a huge favor actually. I for sure will not be telling her about what’s just happened because of this stupid suicide story of mine. 

“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”— When will I learn to shut up for good? 

Removing my hands from the running water, I let them dangle over the sink. This program was my dream, and I fear it slipping right through my fingers— Should I play it safe from here on out?

Considering this question, I feel my worry transform into anger again. Making two fists I look at those eyes in the mirror before whispering two words out loud to them: “Screw that.” 

You’re being pushed J … Your back’s against the wall … If they want to call you crazy … show them crazy —— What do you have to lose at this point? 

*

Article Title: P.A.I.N. Through Anger 

Dated: Friday, October 23^rd, 2020

 “Just once I would love to be the guy with no fear who can stand up, and you know…kick some ass.”

—a quote from the show Modern Family; Season 1 Episode 19 titled: Game Changer

“People suck.” 

If I wrote that here, and only that, would I need to say anything more? Or could I just ask you to write in your journals exactly why they suck, then drop this microphone and let you have your fun.

Facebook fed me a video the other day of this actor I like talking about how he wants to play a villain in a movie. I felt myself get annoyed at this actor I like for saying this, but as someone trying to act like a good person in this world…I get it. 

With people behaving more and more awful to each other, who doesn’t dream of going out and kicking some ass once and while? To me it’s not just people that suck though…it’s everything. 

I was watching the cartoon Tarzan movie with my youngest son on television the other day when right in the middle of a Phil Collins song I was telling him was my favorite part of the movie, a commercial interrupted it. 

Why would they do that? Just when this song is making me feel good for half a second, I’m fed a commercial—like seriously…WTF.

Nothing irritates me more than commercials right now. We joke about companies spending so much on Superbowl commercials and laugh at actors getting paid more money than some of us will make our entire lives to be in them… But should we be laughing at this or utterly disturbed by it? 

I realize a lot of jobs depend on this advertising I love to hate, but excessive wealth uses sleight of hand to hide their tricks. Do those commercials really make that company money or are those actors being paid to distract us from bigger issues? 

Do more of us buy products because famous people tell us to? … Or resent those people for telling us we need things we can’t afford? 

I’d be interested to hear what employees of McDonalds think. Am I the only one driven completely insane going to McDonalds right now? 

I need to know how to use an app to find ways to feed my kids semi-affordably. I usually don’t and get upset with the poor person giving me food that costs more than they make in a few hours. It’s not really fast food anymore either. Have you had to wait in one those waiting lines yet? — like seriously…WTF.

If we’re lucky, a commercials might tug on our heartstrings and tell us how much a company does for charity. That’s another thing I’m finding FAF lately (frustrating as, that word Lauryn uses too much). 

Everywhere you turn someone is asking us to be charitable today. Being home with Covid I got to see the many commercials fed to those that are stuck home all day because of age or some other reason. 

“Donate to this or that and do something good,” those commercials tell us. “You can make a real difference for only a few dollars a day.” 

Oh really? —I think hearing that— How much money did that commercial just cost you? 

My kids are constantly having fundraisers for this or that. At school they turn them into fun little competitions. Win a pizza party — Win this — Win that! It drives me crazy. But it might be the most useful thing they’re learning in school right now… how to compete for charity. 

Should I be saying all this stuff? I don’t care. I’m angry. 

Online sports gambling will become legal in our state soon. I dread the day we start hearing those commercials everywhere. Celebrities being paid to tell us to “gamble safely” might push me over the top. On sports radio I don’t know where those commercials will fit with the number of uncomfortable erectile dysfunction commercials me and my boys hear all the time.

With so many commercials telling us something could be wrong, is it natural for us to think something must be? 

In moderation gambling is fine. My friend for example. He’s a hard worker and those scratch tickets provide him a chance to dream. But he’ll be the first to tell you how expensive dreaming can be. 

Let me tell you a secret. 

The legalization of sports gambling is a threat to the overall well-being of society because of something we addicts learn to be aware more than most: resentments.

If you want the world adding to their ever-increasing list of people to hate, watch what happens when they start gambling on each and every element of sports. People will blame their bad luck on individuals and then resent them for it——I’ll bet on it. 

“THE WORLD IS FALLING APART BECAUSE OF RESENTMENTS!” 

I wrote this in my journal the night of that Tarzan commercial. That was Monday and earlier that day Principal Sam had criticized me for sharing that suicide story with you last week. Don’t let anyone fool you—being criticized is the worst! As an adult I’m supposed to be able to handle it…but I’m not very good at it. 

Maybe me being angry when that commercial came on resulted in my epiphany about resentments? … Was there maybe something good that came from my anger?  

Principal Sam’s criticism that day had me looking to vent when I sat down to write this article for you. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll be done shortly.

It’s become an US verse THEM world today. Where the US is often just ME and the THEM is EVERYONE and EVERYTHING. We are angry and want to be heard— We are being pushed down and want our fair share— We want our shot because it’s our time now. 

To fight for change we go on long rants, like this, to make sure we are doing our part to make it happen or to at least make sure people know we are pissed. 

But is any of it really working?

For homework go watch the movie Idiocracy later. You don’t need to watch the whole thing, whatever your distracted minds can handle should be enough. That movie was made in 2005. People knew then most of humanity would be content as spectators or critics or agitators. People knew much much earlier than that, trust me. 

Or you could just watch an inappropriately honest episode of South Park or Family Guy. I’m not the only one who knows the truth about what’s going on. Everybody is itching to disagree or argue today. Spewing, oozing, and bleeding frustration. Yes, people say positive things: “You can be anyone you want to be in this life.” But who really believes that crap? 

Have you ever felt like this world hates you only to later wonder if it’s just you that hates the world? … I have … I do.

Mean is entertaining, so mean is everywhere. Stupid is funny, so stupid is everywhere. Hate is engaging, so hate is everywhere. Love is boring, so love seems to be nowhere. Or part of a commercial meant to sell me something. 

All of this upsets me more than you can possibly imagine. In a world so divided how did I ever expect to be a voice that could unite people. 

Even if I could convince people I was good person trying to make things better, would they even care? Nope—Absolutely not—No way. I’d have more success offering tips on how to survive this hate-filled world instead. Let me offer you a quick three: 

Tip one.

Every person you meet is a masterful genius in the art of disappointing you, manipulating you, and letting you down.

Tip two.

Lies are always amusing, revenge is always rewarding, and betrayal is always inevitable.

Tip three.

Trust no one, believe in nothing, depend only on yourself.

A lot of people reading those tips would give me a big hug for understanding how the world really works. 

“Kindness is a weakness.” — “No one is grateful.” — “Everyone is entitled… they won’t even wave when you stop to let them cross the street.” 

They’d want me to remind you of those realities as well. 

I was never built to be a person that could bring people together anyway. I walk around scared of how my words are interpreted every day of my life. When I do talk I end up offending someone and when people talk to me I feel attacked. It’s all so stupid. I see a world so easily hurt yet so easily hurtful. 

How do we fix this? Truly, I have no clue. It’s unfixable. The world is broken. Give up. 

As your teacher, I know what I’m supposed to say when I see people acting poorly. “Hurt people hurt people.” Or “No one bad is ever truly bad.” But having to tell myself this countless times a day, day after day, has exhausted me. 

Here’s where I’m supposed to tell you that everything happens for a reason, but the truth is that’s some goofy bs people who can’t face the truth tell themselves. We’re told to have faith, but what is faith anyway? Maybe faith is simply stupidity by a different name? Or maybe it’s a mental illness like I’ve heard people say it is? 

It’s all so clear to me now: People want to be entertained and sedated; not united or transformed or awakened. 

Today you win. I’m done believing in good. People are awful. They’ve always been awful… and they’ll always be awful. 

“People suck!” (Mic Drop)

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

Do you believe anger can be a motivator? More specifically, do you believe something good can come out of being angry? Use an example from your own life to explain your reasoning in your journals.

The Teacher’s Playlist: 

Mirror by Lil Wayne (feat. Bruno Mars) 

“I see you’re not satisfied.”

(End of Chapter 10)

To continue to next chapter click here…

Listen to chapter audio by clicking play above… Listen and Read at the same time to improve your “focusing fortitude” :0) Pictures related to chapter can be found by scrolling to bottom of this page.  Enjoy the ride…

The Real GOOD Loser, A Story That Could…

Chapter 9: dIverge

 “Houston…we have a problem.” 

— from the film American Pie

*

“Have you ever heard that the pursuit of love is stronger than the possession of love?” 

Miss Lily and I are sitting in her office waiting for our afternoon assembly to begin. Unsure of why my guidance counselor friend is saying this to me now, I answer her question. “Never,” I say.  

Pressure was put on schools to offer In-Person-Learning, and so week six of this school year has us back in the building finally; it’s the first time since March of last year. Today—Wednesday—was a scheduled Professional Development Day for teachers, and so we have no students in the building with us currently. 

Teachers received an email about this from the Teacher’s Union President after some parents took to social media to complain: “We have no choice,” that email read, “The PD Day was part of our contract.” I continue to let adults argue amongst themselves and just do what I’m told. 

“It’s similar to the grass is greener concept,” Lily says to me from behind her desk. “Where we believe a new situation will be better than what we currently have. People do the same thing with love…it’s twisted, but it is what is. Listen—” Lily interrupts herself and sits up in her chair. “I know you still care for her J, but it sure sounds like Sirena trapped you back then.”

When I’m comfortable with someone I tend to be an open book. Sirena being my second ex-wife came as a surprise to Miss Lily last year, but now she knows: I’m a twice divorced father of three boys from two different moms. That’s not an easy thing to tell people, so I don’t if I don’t have to.

I wish nothing more than to be completely honest with people today. That’s a weird thing to wish for but it’s true. I’ve gotten better at editing what I tell people, but I’m no expert at it by any means. Something that is now evident as I’ve just finished telling Lily things I immediately regret; details pertaining to how my relationship with Sirena first began. 

I’m not in a great mood today. Sirena—my second ex-wife I must sadly call her now—has received an offer on the house we built after the fire. We’ve been divorced almost three years now and it was only a month ago she told me she was selling: “I just can’t afford such a big house on my own anymore,” she said talking to me across the island counter in what was once our kitchen. 

The fact she’s selling isn’t why I’m feeling off today I don’t think. I’m the one who actually suggested she sell more than a year ago when money got tight and when it became clear she was in no rush to get back together. “We have no good memories in this house,” I told her when she insisted on keeping it.  

Sirena’s not dating anyone either; that landscaper she was seeing when I was in the halfway house has been out of the picture for a long while now, I think I’m just feeling off today because her selling is another chapter closing in my life. I think every person that gets divorced must go through this. This being my second time around…I hope I never get used to it.  

“You’re only hearing my side of the story Lily.”

Realizing I had painted some poisonous images about Sirena on Lily by what she’s just said about her trapping me I try to backtrack. Turning into a bitter person is a slow dance and I’ve been on that dance floor too often lately—I shouldn’t have said what I did.

“Well,” Lily replies, “we have time. Tell me her side then J.”

I watch Lily place one hand on top of the other on the surface of her desk; an inaudible way of telling me she’s all ears. She does this a lot— Doctoring our conversation, I mentally call it. 

“Sirena moved into a house a street over from me in sixth grade,” I tell her. “As kids we were like best friends…and she might have been a little in love with me her entire childhood.” 

“Don’t massage it J,” Lily says in a doctorly fashion. “Did she love you or not?” 

“Yeah, she did,” I answer honestly. “As kids we were only friends though. She’s convinced that’s because she was ugly growing up but really it’s because I was a lot smarter as a kid than I was as an adult.” 

Lily tilts her head and scrunches up her face. “Sirena is beautiful,” she says. “How ugly could she really have been?”

“It was her awkward phase,” I answer. “She was never ugly, but you’d understand why she calls it her ugly phase if you saw pictures.”

“Please,” Lily scoffs. “there’s no way.”

I’ve shown Lily pictures of Sirena and so I know what she’s thinking and try to think of way to describe Sirena as a kid. “She looked like Vada in that movie My Girl kind of,” I tell her.

“Never seen it,” Lily replies.

It takes me only a second to pull up a picture of the girl I’m referring to on my phone. Leaning over the desk, I show Lily this girl from that movie and describe Sirena as kid. 

“She’d always ride her bike past my house wearing this pink helmet with frizzy hair bursting out the sides. She had braces and dry rashy skin back then. And big teeth and lips she hadn’t grown into yet. And she’d always wear these cutoff jean shorts…even when it was freezing. 

—An image of Sirena is brought to life in my imagination— 

“We spent hours talking on the phone back then. Her bedroom was in the top left of a red house I could see from my driveway. That’s how she knew when to ride her bike bye my house. That was when we had house phones and us kids knew how to talk to each other better…when we all knew how to talk to each other better.” 

Saying this to Lily I feel something in my chest that shouldn’t be there. More than anything I miss Sirena’s friendship I think—she really used to listen to me back then.

Not wanting to think about what that feeling in my chest might mean, I’m grateful to hear Lily say something. “Jose,” she says pulling away from me and my phone, “that sounds sort of adorable to me.”

I made it sound to Lily like Sirena was some super-powerful enchantress that had swooped in and ruined my life earlier. While I do sometimes feel that way, I shouldn’t have let Lily know that. Lily doesn’t know how hard it is to love someone like me, and she doesn’t know everything that happened either. 

Reminded of this I continue my defense of Sirena.

“When we were kids she wanted to be more than friends. How we got together wasn’t a strategy she masterminded, and she definitely didn’t trap me. Really she helped me break out of a reality I was unhappy with back then.”

Feeling as if I’m again saying too much, I stop talking. In silence I watch Lily do her councilor thing; deciding in her mind how bad of a person I really am. In my first marriage I felt like a passenger along for the ride; that all changed with Sirena…for a short time at least. 

“Jose,” Lily says preparing to give me her verdict, “you’re an extremely sincere person. You can’t fake that. I know I’m younger than you and we haven’t known each other long, but I’ve studied people and there’s something about you I don’t often see. People lie and we all exaggerate. Telling the truth the way you do is rare. You’re an outlier Mr. J—a real-life Jon Snow.” 

Lily stops and gives me her lippy smile; her face lighting up at the mention of this character from that show Game of Thrones. Lily and her boyfriend started watching this show recently and she’s told me a few times already how “dreamy” she finds him. I’ve finished the show myself however and don’t take what she’s just said as the compliment she intends it to be.

I see this character as naïve and easily manipulated. Being compared to him now makes me fear his fate in the real world. I’m reminded of the scene when that little boy Jon Snow had saved sticks that last knife in his chest—How can people be so unforgiving and vengeful?  

I started watching Game of Thrones for the second time when Lily and her boyfriend started it. Today I told Lily how I close my eyes during the gross parts and mute my screen when I can’t stomach someone maybe getting their privates cut off; last night I used a baseball hat to cover my eyes and blur that scene just enough. 

While I like the show I simply can’t watch a lot of it. I’m finding that with a lot of stuff lately. In class last Friday Nel reviewed the show The Boys that had me talking about this. 

The first time I watched Game of Thrones I found myself relating most with Tyrion Lannister, but now I’m seeing myself more in Daenerys. That’s what good shows do; make you feel a bit like each character. The annoyance and disgust that show makes you feel about someone and the subtle backstories that explain their behavior has been interesting to watch this second time around…

Why was Joffrey so awful? … Was it because he was a child who had never witnessed good behavior? … How many Joffrey’s are we raising in the real world today? 

Lily and I just talked about this as I’m considering discussing it in class. There is symbolism in that show everywhere. Like when strong pony-haired Drogo pours gold on the blonde head of a character who the writers made you despise. 

Watching that gold being poured on that character’s head, one wonders: What does gold really get you?

“Really J,” —I watch Lily open her lips to interrupt my thoughts— “you’re special. Something tells me you need to hear that. Someone’s out there looking for you.”

I turn to stone wondering why Lily thinks I need to hear this. The compliment hits like an invisible paper cut; not justifiably painful just stupidly annoying. It’s something my mother would say. 

My life is beyond messy, and I’ve accepted that a new relationship isn’t the answer. Lily knows I haven’t completely given up on Sirena either, so really I can’t make sense of why she thinks I need to hear this right now—I must look pretty pathetic to her. 

I’m not looking to move on but wouldn’t even know how if I was. I have zero game when it comes to making a relationship happen and the only person that has ever really pursued me was Sirena. Seeing how that’s going currently…perhaps I should consider myself lucky. 

Miss Lily and I eventually leave her office and head to the afternoon assembly; where staff are gathering to listen to a rallying talk about having students back in the building for In-Person-Learning. 

“How’s the article coming by the way?” Lily says walking beside me down the hall. 

Lily found a creative writing contest and insisted I enter something in it. I haven’t had a cheerleader like her in a long time. The short story I enter in that contest will double as my article for my students this week. I’ve titled it dIverge. 

“I’m almost done,” I reply, “I’m just trying to decide on the best words to use at the end.” 

I got the idea for this short story when Lauryn was doing her report on that show 13 Reasons Why last week. Writing this has been sort of an emotional rollercoaster for me; I’ve even cried a few times. I’m hoping that means its good; both for this contest and for these students of mine. 

Sitting in the cafeteria for this assembly, I find myself scrolling through Facebook waiting for it to begin. 

I stop to read a friend from college tell me how much money she saved using coupons this year. I remember when this friend traveled the world on aid missions in college. She left her job in public service recently according to a recent post she made, to start a new exciting career selling real estate—The things we do for money. 

My twins probably won’t go to college. They’ll end up working with their hands and won’t have me pushing them to go; and I know their mom won’t either. How colleges continue to have crazy enrollment numbers is baffling to me. Just another element of this reality that seems unsustainable. If I had the money to send my twins to college for just the experience I would though. 

“I don’t care what anyone says,” another friend’s post reads, “good people get tired of being good to ungrateful people.” 

Next Facebook offers me a picture of Post Malone. The quote attributed to him reads: “A wizard is never late, nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he is supposed to.”

Miss Lily taps me on my thigh. “Put it away,” she says, referring to my phone. 

The chairs for this assembly are all placed six feet apart and everyone is wearing a mask. Looking around I realize doing anything other than listening will be difficult. I used to love being just the right amount of inappropriate at meetings like this. Knowing me, I’m sure I’ll find a way keep myself distracted somehow. 

For the first fifteen minutes we listen to steps the district is making to keep kids and staff safe. My mind struggles to stay present as the meeting is handed off to someone here to talk about administering MAP Testing next week. 

MAP Testing is just another standardized test created to track student progress—a complete waste of time and money in my opinion. In big bold letters on a screen behind the presenter I read: “Teaching with a sense of urgency is required!” 

I’ve seen big proclamations like this everywhere. Our world is full of them. I think of them much like I do encouraging words we hang on walls for others to see—just words most of the time. 

Seeing these words now has me thinking of other jobs I’ve had where us employees are asked some serious and important questions about the future: What do you want to improve? … What action steps will you take to improve? … How can WE help make YOU successful? 

Us employees are then asked to make our mission statements. I think of it as busy work for adults; meant to keep us excited for the day we finally find that pot of gold on the other side of that magical rainbow…so that we can finally go and buy ourselves more things and suff.

Silently frustrated with this reality, I let my mind leave the meeting as none of what is being discussed is relevant to my class anyway. Paying little attention to the voice in front of me talking about “The importance of data driven analyses” I mentally debate what words I’ll use to end my story this week…

*

Article Title: dIverge

Dated: Friday, October 16^th, 2020

 “There is an art to losing yourself.” 

—from the film Divergent

Some people choose to see the ugliness in this world—the disarray—I choose to see the beauty. To believe there is an order to our days; a purpose. I like to remember what my father taught me: that at one point or another we were all new to this world; the newcomers are just looking for the same thing we are—a place to be free. 

That’s how I used to think. Until I woke up from that delusion. Now all I see is the mess. We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life…. Oh, what desolate place this is. 

The date today is Tuesday, February 22^nd, 2050…. The day I die. 

As I sleepwalk these quiet streets in darkness, the ‘What If’s’ come and go like the streetlights passing by. What if I caught a break? — What if I didn’t give up? — What if they would have listened to me? 

This has become my life now and I am so very tired of it. My poor me portfolio, playing on repeat in my mind. Today will be the day I leave this world, but it is truly no different than any other. I am a man who has finally learned the truth——That there are two kinds of pain in this life: the kind that hurts and the kind that alters. 

My feet are heavy, and they hurt with every step. On my way to that All-Powerful Oz, I can’t help but wonder if this was my destiny all along. I feel like the rusty-tinman, scared-scarecrow, and cowardly-lion all at the same time. 

There is no place in this world for me…poor me.

I tried getting better. I really did. For my kids, my family, my friends. For those that might need me some day. But I failed everyone by proving myself incapable of defeating those demons that tormented me. 

I remember it all now. The dark clouds that blocked all light from entering my world and that all-consuming sadness that they said was just in my head. 

They wanted “happy me” again—What else was I supposed I do? … I was just doing what they wanted…Wasn’t I? 

Alcohol was never my drug of choice, or my downfall, so I had a drink that night. Maybe I did it because I was sad. Or angry. Or bored. Or maybe I was happy and overly confident… Maybe I can’t remember everything. 

That helped me escape and be that happy me for a while. It didn’t last of course, and eventually people got sick of that me as well. My boys were kept from me “until I got better” and my parents had to walk away as watching me destroy myself was destroying them too. 

Everyone did what they had to do. I never blamed them. And I definitely don’t blame them now—I hope they know that. 

It’s my boys I let down the most though. Being proud of what little I could give them just wasn’t enough. I wanted to give them the world…but in the end I gave them nothing. 

I wasn’t supposed to leave the hospital, but really there was no reason to stay. I am now beyond repair. Broken. Just another loser in this game called life. 

My liver is failing, and I don’t have much time left. My body shakes because it needs its medicine. During the day I could scrape together a few dollars for a cheap bottle and a bag of chips—my diet for so long now—but it’s late and that’s not what I want now anyway. 

Approaching the entrance to the subway tunnel, I reflect on the first time I begged for money. 

It was at an intersection much like this one. At first I felt ashamed; remembering how I looked at beggars in my previous life, but I quickly realized no one here knew me. Even if they had known me, no one would recognize the person the pain turned me into. 

Life on the streets became normal. Never easy, but normal. Over the years I was laughed at and ridiculed more times that I care to remember. My mind recalls that man who stopped in front of me and had that heart-to-heart with his son…

“See this man right here son,” that man said looking down at me. “He could go get a job and work but instead sits here wanting us to feel sorry for him. We do him no favors by giving him our money. Most of them are faking and have more money than we do. Don’t be a sucker, son.” 

I remember the boys’ eyes. The sympathy in them quickly turning to a look of disgust at the counseling of his father. I said nothing that day… How many times had I been told to get a job? 

If I could hold a job, I’d want one. It would have made supporting this miserable existence easier. That’s just not possible for someone like me though. Alcohol made my life unmanageable. I never understood that word before. It was just a word I heard people say. I understand it now. 

Dear Alcohol—I hate you.

That money people gave kept me alive. I wasn’t living the life they wanted, but that’s why I was there, and they weren’t. There was nothing I could do about it…Or was there? 

That man didn’t know who I was before I became a no one from nowhere belonging to nothing. When I thought I’d make this world a better place for that son if his. How delusional I once was. A wannabee Pirate King, set on stealing the world’s attention with his words—What a joke.

I descend the stairs of the subway and see my friends in their usual places. Soon the last train will be making its final stop for the night, and we need to find a place to hide down here before they close the gates or be left out on the streets for what remains of the night. 

Sometimes they kick us out but not tonight it seems. Thank you for that, a grateful voice in my head whispers.

I smell the moldy air and moist concrete as I glance at the digital clock on the wall: 1:19 AM. Below the clock is a phrase that has been graffitied on this wall for as long as I can remember: “This cycle is complete. MAY THE MANY DIVERGE. For the end is about to begin!” 

Reading the words, I can’t help but think what an anti-climactic end I’ve arrived at. 

Dropping my head, I walk with faked purpose and arrive at my planned destination. In the shadows I quietly lower myself onto the tracks. If I get to that one spot no will know. It’s the least I can do. 

How many others have made this journey before me? … How many others will come after? 

Looking into the darkness ahead I find myself thinking about my boys again. About the smiles I left behind and the laughs we might have shared had I just been better. I had dreams of making you so proud. But I failed you. You that mattered to me the most and anyone that I thought might need me—I failed you. 

Getting to that spot I was shown years ago I look at the track and can’t help but think how fitting this is. Most of my life I’ve been hiding, and now I’ll die hiding. I lie on my stomach and rest my head on the metal.

I’ve let them win. Those people and those voices in my head that made me hate myself— Is this payment enough for you? 

I feel the train on my cheek. Not wanting to listen to my thoughts any longer, I speak into the stale air around me. “If there is anyone listening, I’m sorry…. If you want to grant me one wish, let it be that they forget me.” 

A tear for all the hearts that will stay frozen long after I’m gone falls from my face. I see the bright light approaching and close my eyes and feel my heart pound. 

I am scared but also relieved for the pain to be over. Maybe a different life wouldn’t have been any better? Maybe this world was going to destroy me no matter what?

I failed you…I failed you…I failed you———— 

WEEKLY QUESTION FOR REFLECTION:

In recovery we are told to “play the tape out” when faced with a decision that might have an undesirable outcome. Allow me to use this sad story of my undesirable outcome to ask you this: Will things in this world be better or worse in the year 2050? Explain your reasoning in your journals.

The Teacher’s Playlist:

Let Go by Beau Young Prince 

“Who do you call when you need some help?”

*

(End of Chapter 9)

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