To a Dear Friend, With Love

This post is dedicated to a dear friend.

We are a part of nature. We know that as a part of nature, we live and we will someday die. Knowing that doesn’t make it any less sad, however. It’s a way of trying to be logical with our minds, but when it comes to death, it’s our hearts that are torn apart, and no logic or reasoning can sooth the pain of a broken heart.

It’s particularly tragic when someone far too young passes away. We view our lives with a series of milestones, and it’s deeply sad to know the many years of joy someone will never know. We cannot beat ourselves up on what we could have done. We must mourn and grieve, cry and yell. But we also must remember and celebrate life, take care of those around us, celebrate the years someone had, even if they were far too short.

I know a good mother. When talking to her about visiting a troubled son, she once told me, “I’m going to hug him and kick his ass. But probably not in that order.” She loved him no matter his mistakes, like a good mother. She did everything in her power to discipline and help him, like a good mother. She was always there for him. I hope you know that. We always have a thought that we could have done more. But you did everything you could. Everything.

It is not right for the old to bury the young. It is not right for a parent to bury a child. It is not right and it is not fair, and I can think of nothing worse in life.

My dad passed away at too young of an age. Only in his early 60s, he should have had many golden years to live and laugh. I had to see him die slowly, moving from hospital to hospital, from nursing home to nursing home, with no brothers or sisters to help, as I was an only child. When he passed, my family knew it was also a blessing because he was in so much pain. But still I suffered and cried. I remember trying to go to bed that first night, but I began sobbing uncontrollably. It hit me like the flu, powerful and terrible and uncontrollable. I moved from the bed to the bathroom, where I sobbed by the toilet. I will never forget that night, as I have never experienced such painful sorrow.

But even with that: I knew it was coming. I knew he would pass, and I guess you could say I was blessed that I had months to prepare for it. I cannot imagine the shock of losing a loved one, especially a young and healthy loved one. No preparation. No chance to say a final good-bye. It’s the epitome of tragedy. What does one do?

I don’t know. I’m not an expert and I have not experienced that. Cry. Cry a lot. Never be ashamed of tears or emotions. Cuss. Cuss a lot. Never be ashamed of the power of words. Pray. Pray a lot. Search for a deeper meaning. When those stages pass (and really they never do—I will be doing fine for months, and a memory of my father hits me like a bee sting out of nowhere and those emotions come back all over again), I think we have to learn and celebrate. Cherish the stories and the photos. Do something in his memory. Find a purpose to fulfill the emptiness. Celebrate the years he lived and all the times he helped others and made someone smile.

Who isn’t terrified of death? Who doesn’t absolutely dread the day we must deal with the loss of a loved one? We will have those days, and if you are fortunate to have many loved ones, then you may experience many such days over a lifetime.

I’ve always thought that you can’t fight emotion with logic. We will think that we could have done more, we will be terribly sad, we will hate the world that caused this, and we will cry. Telling yourself it’s not your fault is logical, but it doesn’t help. The only way I know how to fight emotions is to be emotional. Let the tears flow. But find ways to smile and laugh. Find positive emotions to fight the negative, and live your life. Your life is every bit as special too, and we cannot forget to live while mourning the death of a loved one.

This all may be garbage, who knows. But when I want to reflect, I take to pen or paper (or a keyboard).

Dear friend. I am here for you. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. Please know that there are many people who love you, people who will help you stand tall when you feel weak.

All my love,

Joe

P.S. I know you’ve probably seen this before. I’m not shy in sharing it. I read it at my dad’s memorial, and it holds deep meaning for me. This is an excerpt from Mitch Albom’s Tuesdays With Morrie.

“I heard a nice little story the other day,” Morrie says. He closes his eyes for a moment and I wait.

“Okay. The story is about a little wave, bobbing along in the ocean, having a grand old time. He’s enjoying the wind and the fresh air — until he notices the other waves in front of him, crashing against the shore."

“‘My God, this is terrible,’ the wave says ‘Look what’s going to happen to me!’”

“Then along comes another wave. It sees the first wave, looking grim, and it says to him, ‘Why do you look so sad?’"

“The first wave says, ‘You don’t understand! We’re all going to crash! All of us waves are going to be nothing! Isn’t it terrible?’"

“The second wave says, ‘No, you don’t understand. You’re not a wave, you’re part of the ocean.’"

I smile. Morrie closes his eyes again.

“Part of the ocean,” he says. “Part of the ocean.” I watch him breathe, in and out, in and out.

Who am I? Who are you?

I sit down during the summer of my life and the fall of the year to ask, “Who am I?”

We all need to consider the big questions from time to time.  The who, the why, the how.  We need to know who we are, what the world is, who others are.  We need to know about the big guy upstairs and little guys surrounding us.  Essentially, who we are, who I am, is somewhat dependent on those answers.

I am made of elements, atoms, cells, those science things.  I will die and someday return those elements to the earth as I decompose.  The earth will swallow me whole, and a part of me may appear in a rose, a dandelion, be eaten by a raven, a cow, and maybe pop up in a happy meal.  That’s kinda weird, but kinda true.  One way or another, we will return to the earth.  We are part of something bigger.

But who am I?  What makes me unique beyond those points?

I fear at 35 that I sometimes forget the face of my younger selves.  Who was I when I was 4?  7?  17?  21?  Who I am is who I was . . . time is a lazy river that never ends, and I am the part of that lazy river from when I was born up until now.

I try to remember what the child Joe felt.  I want to look him in the eyes and ask him questions about the world.  I wonder how he’d answer.  I want to know what the puberty Joe felt.  I want to remember his hormones, his humors, his fears. 

Sometimes I feel that I am on top of the world; sometimes I feel that the world is on top of me.  Sometimes I yell with enthusiasm; sometimes I can barely breathe at all.  But I don’t think this is unusual.  It just . . . is.  There are days where I can accomplish anything.  There are days where the actions of the world sadden me to a point where I don’t want to get out of bed.  Thank God for coffee.

I am inspired and passionate. 

I am my family.  I have the fire of my grandmother, the fire that caused her to hit my four year old head with a telephone receiver because I first did that to her.  I have the laziness of a hard-working grandfather (RIP) .  He worked his bones dry and desired nothing but comfort and relaxation in the winter of his life.  I am my father (RIP)—his jumbled brain and maniac thoughts.  I am my mother—empathetic and sensitive but coated with a turtle shell that grows harder to defend against life’s blows.  I always want to feel, always want that passion, and the few times I’ve lost it, the few times it began to slip away, I grew cold and frightened.  My passion and fire are everything.

I am the kindergartner who threw racecars into other kids’ building blocks to destroy their castles. 

I am the 7^th grader who almost failed science because I fell in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, and she had to sit right next to me.

I am the 8^th grader whose best friend did the worst thing a friend could do another.

I am the 9^th grader who pretended to be sick so that I could stay up late and finish a horror novel.

I am the 10^th grader who encountered great evil and was surrounded by a gang of kids violently swinging baseball bats.  I am he who said I would learn how to not be afraid.

I am the 11^th grader who had his self-esteem smashed by two teachers, teachers he respected, teachers who hated the youth they had lost.  I am he who vowed never to let young people encounter the wrath of such demons, at least not in my classroom.

I am the 12^th grader who rarely showed up for school because I lost enthusiasm for learning.

I am the college student who vowed his life would mean something.  I am he who decided to devote my energy to others, who found passion, meaning and inspiration all around him: some wonderful professors, amazing friends, and incredible experiences.

I have known true love.  I have experienced the loss of people close to me.  I have had a gun pointed at me head and thought I would surely die. 

Now, thirty-five years later I am just getting used to being called “Professor.” It feels good.  No, it feels great.  But we all wear many masks; we all have many faces.  These are but a few.

I am a little of all that surrounds me.  I am you, and you are me too. 

                                                                                      

The Day I Cussed Out a Student

The first time I was called into the principal’s office was when I was fifteen years old. It’s a memory that haunts me still twenty years later because—even if for a brief moment—I was the kind of person I hated the most.

Teenagers can be cruel, no surprise there. In my sophomore geometry class, I sat next to a group of pranksters. They were always teasing someone and laughing behind the teacher’s back. One day they started teasing an overweight girl.

Whenever the teacher would turn and write something on the board, these boys would say, “oink.”

There was a quiet girl sitting near them. I remember her soft brown hair and innocent eyes. She had a round face and a round body to match. Truth be told, she could have crushed any of those boys had she tackled them, but she wasn't aggressive or mean. She was just overweight.

First, one boy would “oink.” Then two or three would “oink” together. Then something happened that made me hate myself: I laughed. My fifteen year old self found this funny for a moment.

There’s something to say about group pressure, the desire to be included and not excluded. The boys who instigated the “oinks” smiled at me when I laughed out loud. Then I did the worst thing: I “oinked” with them.

The girl burst into tears. The teacher turned and snapped at all of us. We were kicked out of class and sent to the principal’s office. As soon as I saw the girl’s tears, I felt incredibly bad. What kind of person had I become? An asshole, that’s what. I was so mad at myself. I spoke honestly to the principal and surprisingly never got in any more trouble than a one on one talk. I apologized to the girl too.

Ten years later I found myself in the principal’s office again, only this time I was a teacher getting a reprimand from my boss. You see, I had cussed out a student in class, and I guess teachers aren't supposed to do that.

But there was this boy, a fifteen year old, skinny, pimply jerk face of a student. He never did his homework, he talked back in class, he got up and walked around whenever he felt like it. And then one day, he started teasing a girl who sat in front of him. This girl too was overweight, round as a stability ball in the stomach. I heard the boy call her an “oompa loompa.” And then he called her a “fat cow.”

I snapped. “Hey, asshole. Yeah, did that get your attention? You are an asshole. And I won’t tolerate that in my classroom. Get out, now.” My face was red, my lips thin and angry, and my eyes were wide with adrenaline. I kind of wanted him to fight back, to say something mean back to me. I had plenty more to say to him.

He told the principal what had happened, and I was called down that afternoon to speak with the boss as well.

“You can’t cuss out students in the classroom, Joe,” he said, but he was smiling. “Between you and me, the kid is an asshole. Just watch your temper, ok?”

“You got it, boss,” I said. I can’t say it was the last time I had ever cussed at a student, but believe me, the few times a swear word has come out of my mouth in fourteen years of teaching (and I can count on my fingers the number of times it has happened), the person always deserved it.

But that first time, I will never forget. And let’s face it. The kid was an asshole, but that’s not all that was going on here. I was also calling my fifteen year old self an asshole too. When you see the bad in you reflected in other people, it makes it all the more real.

It’s these small moments that shape who we are, I think. And it is small reflections like this that have made me into the much stronger teacher I am today: the one who will stand up for everyone and put the assholes in their place. 

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