An Open Letter To Parents

Dear Parents,

Let me start by saying that we, as teachers, love your kids. Our jobs are hard - much too hard to put up with if we didn't really, really love what we do. And we can't truly love what we do without being heavily invested in the happiness and well-being of your children.

Too much of what I see involving students' relationships with their parents involves far too much apathy on the parts of parents. Moms who refuse to let kids participate in after school activities because they don't want to be bothered to pick their child up. Dads who don't at all care what their kids are doing in school, how they feel about what's going on in their lives, or much of anything else involving their children. Kids who say that nobody ever read to them as a child.

Those are the truly heartbreaking stories. And they are heartbreaking. I don't know a single teacher who wouldn't wince at stories like these, feeling emotional pain so real that it actually feels like we were beaten, scalded, or otherwise abused. Even my friends who got into the profession before deciding that it wasn't really for them would feel much sympathy for kids in these types of situations, and do whatever they could to help.

So, in looking at the big picture, the problem of an over-protective parent is a good problem for a teacher to have. I am so, so, so glad that you are there to listen to your child's complaints. That you care enough about what is bothering your child to contact the school about it. That your child's pain hurts you even worse than it hurts her. These are good things that compassionate and caring teachers recognize. I am relieved to find that your child is not one of the ones who needs my love, because she is getting it at home. But that doesn't mean that I don't still love her.

I know that when your child is struggling in my class, and finds it frustrating, it can seem like I am picking on her. I remember being absolutely convinced that some of my teachers were out to get me when I was in school. I was 100% sure of it. Now that I'm a teacher, I wish I could go back and talk to all of them and say how wrong I realize I was. Even the teachers for whom I was sure that spiting me was their primary reason for getting out of bed in the morning almost certainly had my best interests at heart. Their attacks on me were, at worst, mistakes in judgment or speech. More likely, they were imagined by me because of stress and frustration.

Being a teenager is hard. I think it's much harder than being an adult. I don't think there is a kid in any high school in America who doesn't sometimes feel awkward, bumbling, uncool, and like everyone hates him. And then we teachers expect them to deal with that, troubles with significant others, troubles with siblings, troubles with parents, exhaustion from working and going to school simultaneously, and all the work from their other classes while they listen to us talk about what we are teaching that day. Teenagers are fucking soldiers for dealing with all of that.

So I don't blame your child if he feels put upon in my class. I think it's almost inevitable at one time or another for your child to feel persecuted. It's an unfortunate fact of growing up that a teenager's emotional cortex develops well before his center for reasoning. I hope that your child is able to tell me when he feels that I have been unfair or he needs something so that we can work out a solution that results in both his comfort and learning. I am human and I make mistakes: I say the wrong thing, or something doesn't come out the way that I mean it to. I get frustrated and become impatient. I try my best to limit these mistakes, but they happen to everyone, and a slip up like that can make a child who already feels like everyone hates him be even more certain of that.

But I do not hate your child. I have never, will never consciously do anything to hurt him. If your student has a problem with something I did or said, please try to assure him that it was not malicious, and that any embarrassment or anger or resentment that your child feels was the accidental by-product of an innocent mistake by someone who wants nothing but the best for every single person in his classroom. It is not often that I run into parents who feel that I or another teacher hold special hatred in our hearts for students, but it has happened. Nothing has hurt me more as a teacher than finding out that a student felt like I really hated her. Nothing could be further from the truth. There are sometimes certain things about students that I dislike (The student I mentioned didn't even have any qualities I didn't like), but I have never once had a student that I wished I hadn't met.

It is really great that you love your child enough to stick up for her. But please, instead of attacking me like an enemy, ask me how we can work together to help your child succeed. That is what everyone involved wants.

Sincerely,

A teacher who loves your child and every other child who sets foot in my classroom.

Go buy Scrivener

This is going to be a short post. Most of my posts over the next month will probably be pretty short. I am still going to try to keep up the at-least weekly posting, but I will be focusing on attempting to get a novel written between November 1st and November 30th.

As I stated in an earlier post, I'm competing in NaNoWriMo this year. I was scared pretty much shitless by the idea when I signed up, but as the start date approaches, I am feeling pretty confident. In large part, that is due to the fact that I downloaded a trial version of the program Scrivener. If you happen to be a writer of pretty much any style or genre, I highly recommend you give it a shot. It has helped me organize and plan my novel in a way that has made this insane task I'm undertaking much more manageable and clear. I now have a general plot arc with summaries of each chapter, character dossiers, and plenty of other background research-type information at my fingertips. It has helped me realize that I have a lot more ideas than I thought I had, which was certainly a welcome surprise. Scrivener's user interface is simple, neat, and fun to use - something that is probably likely to help me stay motivated on days when I just don't feel like writing in November.

On a related note, I went to my first official NaNoWriMo event on Sunday evening. It was a kickoff party at Capital Ale House, and I really enjoyed myself. The people there were strange; many of them were even weirder than me. I guess a contest like this attracts its own unique set of participants, most of whom were a lot of fun. It was strange seeing the people who have done this for a few years, and how confident they felt when other newbies like myself seemed so terrified. The organizers provided notebooks for everyone, and we went around and wrote encouragements or ideas in each other's books. It was fun talking to such a varied group of people and hearing the ideas that all of them had. I expected there to be a lot of young people there, and I was surprised that it seemed like most of the participants were baby-boomer aged. I don't know why, but it kind of made me hopeful to see that creativity doesn't die in older folks - apparently, it's more alive there than anywhere else.

That's it for now. I suppose all that's left is to actually write the damned book. Piece of cake.

It Doesn't Seem Like That Much Has Changed in the Last 400 Years

This week at school has been the type that convinces me that teaching has to be one of the greatest professions a person could ever possibly have.

When I decided to get into this line of work, I did it because I wanted to be a coach and because I wanted to sit around and talk about literature all day. There has been less discussion of books than I imagined when I signed on - the fact is that most of my students don't understand a lot of what they read the first time through, which makes deeper discussion about meaning difficult - but I did find an unexpected joy as I really got down to do the work of teaching.

Most of the kids I teach are fairly low-level students. They don't understand a lot of what they read, they are generally unmotivated by either grades or the pursuit of knowledge, and a lot of them are just flat-out lazy. Thinking about teaching a group like this could be mildly depressing, but it's not all bad. No matter what we are doing, there always seems to be at least one kid who is interested. Usually there are a few in scattered pockets across the classroom. These pockets, though they may shift from day to day or week to week, are who I choose to focus on. It's inspiring and gratifying to see a student really connect with a piece of literature: they feel good about themselves for the positive encouragement they hear when I assure them that yes, that is pretty much exactly what the author was saying. Watching a student really understand a difficult concept (it sounds sort of funny, but you really can SEE someone understand something, I promise) brings hope for the future. I figure that if I can find and enlighten those students who open themselves up to be enlightened each day, everyone will gain at least some small shred of literary knowledge during their time in my room. Sometimes it's hard to feel like I'm leaving the majority of students behind, but I try to imagine the impact I'm having with the ones who are getting something rather than focusing on what the ones who are asleep or zoned out are missing.

This is how I mentally and emotionally deal with the frustrations I encounter every day, and make no mistake, it can be very frustrating. But then there are weeks like this one, when everything comes together and for a moment you see what is really possible in all of these students and in the universe. Instead of looking for hints of light in a room of darkness, you are overwhelmed with the brightness that comes at you from all directions.

On a day that started with my students complaining that poetry is stupid and insisting that they will never need to know any of this, they were dumbstruck by the beauty of Pablo Neruda's words. The boy who volunteered to read his "Sonnet 89" looked as though he were about to cry when he finished. The entire group not only understood the poet's words, but really felt them.

When we read John Donne's "Holy Sonnet 10", my classes engaged in an energetic debate about the nature of death with a degree of intellectualism that I didn't realize many of them were capable of. They brought up their own fears of the hereafter, and recognized the paradox of realizing that there is nothing to be afraid of and their inability to let fear go.

A creative writing project which asked students to write poems using conceits ended with some of the best poetry created by young people that I've seen. One student, a 6'5" bohemoth headed to Virginia Tech on a football scholarship, wrote a tragic and beautiful poem about his mother being struck blind that left half of my class in tears.

When we read the seduction poems of Andrew Marvell, Robert Herrick, and John Suckling, my students were eager to discuss each of these men and their writing. I don't think I saw a single students asleep or not paying attention all day. Like much great literature, the poems we read focus on men's attempts to get women to sleep with them; after reading the poems and discussing their arguments, one girl said, "it doesn't seem like that much has changed in the last 400 years!" I agreed with her and we all laughed about it.

I love that my students are connecting with literature in a way that is meaningful to them. I love that they are interested when they get in the room. I love that I feel like everyone in the room is really getting something out of what we are doing, and not just the few who feel good that day. I don't expect every week to be like this - teenagers really do have very emotionally taxing lives, and it's almost ridiculous to expect them to care about everything every day - but when so many great days are strung together in this way, it makes me know for sure that I am doing the right thing with my life.

NaNoWriMo

November is National Novel Writing Month, as decided by the good people at the NaNoWriMo offices. I first heard about the contest, which encourages participants to write a 50,00 word novel in 30 days, a couple of years ago. The younger sister of a friend had participated a couple of times, and she told me about her adventures in insanely fast book-writing. I was immediately intrigued - I used advice from the website to help my middle school students craft short stories during my student teaching just a few weeks later, and I based my entire curriculum around the website when I taught creative writing last year. I flirted with the idea of undertaking what is probably an act of near-lunacy last November, but honestly was just too scared to do it. November is when wrestling season starts, and when my life become exponentially busier, I rationalized.

But I just signed up for an account at the website. I entered myself in this year's contest. I am committed to finishing a book.

I have never been much for New Year's resolutions. I actually can't remember ever making one before this year, but last January I declared that 2010 would be the year of novel-writing. I did about 30 pages of character sketches, background writing, outlining, and general preparation, but only wrote about 10 pages of actual story.

So November is here, my last chance to finish a book this year, and I am determined to get it done. It's time to "nut up or shut up," as the fella says.  I love to write. It's why I started this blog. I would love to get a book published and make some extra money, but my probably-quixotic quest is more about the fact that I feel like I have to actually DO something creative in my life. Finish something of my own rather than just be an appreciator or a scholar or a critic. I feel like a writer, even though I haven't really done all that much writing in my life. This is my chance to earn that feeling.

I'm sure my book is going to be pretty terrible, at least on November 30th. Hopefully I can turn it into something that someone might actually want to read, but even if no one ever does, I'm excited at the prospect of doing something.

I'm anxious and giddy and fearful and curious to see what next month brings. 50,000 words is an awful lot. Nearly 2,000 words a day. I'm sure I will be exhausted and at times discouraged, but I hope I can keep up the resolve to actually get this thing done. I think I can. I've done things in my life that seemed impossible at the time, and I have always been glad that I completed such tasks. It's been a long time since I did something really difficult, and I'm looking forward to the challenge.

Dribble, Dribble, Backspin, Dribble, Shoot

I don't have a very scientific mind, but I do enjoy reading about science when it's explained in a way that doesn't require an exceptional knowledge of math.

This is especially true of quantum mechanics. I know I don't possess the background knowledge or intelligence to gain a really authentic understanding or appreciation of what is happening in the world of physics, but everything I hear about what is happening in the discipline just seems so cool. Scientists have done a number of very interesting experiments that deal with light's ability to be both wave and particle; they have turned oxygen into a solid by focusing light through diamonds; they have manufactured gold (albeit out of platinum - not a good business plan, want-to-be alchemists); and they have made the same object appear in two places at the same time. Not two copies of the same object - the same object!

I suppose my first introduction to quantum physics was by way of an old thought experiment - the famous Schroedinger's Cat. If you are unfamiliar, the basic idea is this: if you were to put a cat in a box with a timed-release poison, until the moment you open the box to check on the cat, he exists simultaneously in two diametrically opposed states. He is both alive and dead at the same time.

When my dad first told me about this experiment in 8th grade, I didn't understand it, but I thought it was a really neat idea. To be able to be two totally oppossite things at once was such a totally novel and strange and subversive idea to my cliquish middle school mind. I still don't think I totally understand how Schroedinger's theory works in all its intricacies, but the more I learn and the more I think about it, the cooler it seems to me. It hints at the possibility or multiple worlds. I have images flash through my mind of Doctor Who and Sliders and Quantum Leap.

I think I also like the implications it has on Free Will. I'm not sure if I believe in Free Will or not, but I really want to (how's that for a paradox?) - the idea that, for even just a split second, multiple worlds exist seems to indicate a nexus of those worlds at each moment we make a choice. By choosing Option A instead of Option B, I am choosing World A instead of World B. The more I learn about the world of quantum, the more intertwined it seems the strands of science and philosophy become.

I'm sure that mixing up the ideas behind the two is a dangerous enterprise - in fact, This American Life recently broadcast an episode on the very subject. It's just too tempting not to. Even the name of this blog comes from a probably-misinterpreted law of physics (a story for another post!). When I hear about these rules of governance that affect the world I live in, I want to look at them through the lens of the type of thought that makes sense to me.

As far back as I can remember, I have always been very superstitious - very observant and respectful of ritual, especially when it comes to sports. This was more easily explainable when I still believed in God and the supernatural, but as a humanist, it became rather difficult to justify. Nevertheless, when I sit in a certain position and The Mets do well, I can't bring myself to move, no matter how uncomfortable I am. I learned to deal with cramps silently, because I was unwilling to sacrifice a rally to stretch for relief. I remember an entire two season span when I had to leave the room for every one of Roger Cedeno's at-bats, because he always struck out whenever I watched.

I wore the same pair of ratty orange shorts under my pants in every football game I ever played in; one time my mom tried to throw them away, and I had to search through the trash to get them back. I had the same foul-line routine for every freethrow I ever took, and the same pre-match warmup for every bout I ever wrestled. Now that I'm done competing myself, I have the same routine I go through with my wrestlers when they take the mat. I'm eager to pinpoint rituals that work and adhere to them religiously, whether it's wearing the same shirt to every JMU game or listening to the same song before every wrestling tournament. I am aware that my adherance to such habits is irrational and borderline obsessive-compulsive, but I simply can't bring myself to forgo the ritual - if my team lost, I would be saddled with the guilty knowledge that it was entirely my fault.

When I heard about the scientific principle called action at a distance, I felt a sense of justice and relief. It was a strange reaction, given that I can't recall anyone ever mocking me for my adherance to superstition. I guess I just enjoyed telling my rational mind to shove it. The basic idea behind action at a distance is that two objects or events, without any measurable connection and in entirely separate locations, can act upon each other in meaningful and profound ways. If you shoot two electrons away from each other at the speed of light, actions you take on one of the electrons are mirrored by the other - poke one and both react. It's crazy and I'm not sure that anyone understands why that happens - I certainly don't - but hearing that immediately brought to mind images of me sitting in my bed in 1999, in incredibly uncomfortable positions because the Mets were on a hot streak. The things I do matter!

This world works in ways not only mysterious, but also bizarre. The little bit I know about Superstring Theory makes it seem like a piece of bad short fiction out of one of those 1950s Sci-Fi magazines, but it also seems to be the most likely candidate to explain how our universe really works, and lots of very,very smart people back it with their full support. Every advancement in modern science seems to point towards things being connected in a deeply important way that makes physical separation seem trivial. "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together" has always sounded intellectually and spiritually right, but it also now looks to be factually correct. That kind of connection is the kind of thing that makes me want to throw my hands in the air and dance everywhere I go, and it also makes me want to sit down and think until my brain melts. I can't claim to know much of anything about how the universe works, but I do know that it's a large and beautiful and unknowably complex thing that never ceases to amaze me.

The Hardest Thing about Teaching

I recently found out that one of my favorite students from last year (let's call her Karen here) is pregnant.

Some of my kids this year were talking about how they never see one of their friends anymore, since he dropped out, got his GED, and started working. I like to try to get to know my students as much as I can, and so I asked them more about the situation.

"Ever since he knocked up his girlfriend, Karen Jones, he ain't been around."

As soon as I heard the name, my heart sank a little. Karen was by no means the brightest student in my class, but she was a really sweet girl, she worked hard, and I liked her a lot. In fact, she was one of the people I was most looking forward to seeing at graduation, and the one I was most disappointed with not running into. Now I know why she wasn't there.

It's not that I think Karen will be a bad mother; honestly, if any 18 year old girl is capable of being a good mother, Karen is probably the most likely candidate. She is likely to have the support of her family, she is compassionate and interested, and she is a genuinely good person interested in the welfare of the world. I am just sad for her and all the things that I feel that she will now probably be forced to miss out on in her life. She showed some interest in traveling - she asked me about places I'd been and places I wanted to go, asked what kinds of things you can do and learn abroad. It seems unlikely that an unwed teenage mom with a boyfriend with a GED will get to see much of the U.S., let alone Europe or Asia. Her chances of going to college and enriching herself through education seem slim. I also got the impression that Karen was a little bit more sophisticated and cosmopolitan than many of her classmates, and I had hopes that she would be able live a life that satisfied that part of her. While it's not set in stone, I kind of get the feeling that where she is now will kind of be her life from here on out. I'm glad that her boyfriend has not abandoned her and is fulfilling his responsibilities and taking ownership, but I also feel bad for him. I don't really know the kid, but I think it's probably safe to say that "be a father" wasn't on his list of things to do before turning 18.

I've wondered if it would be appropriate for me to contact my former student and say something to her. Like I said, she was definitely one of my favorites, and I want to make sure that she's doing alright. I could imagine her not dealing with the stresses of pregnancy and the prospect of the rest of her life so well. But honestly, I wouldn't know what to say. First of all, I haven't talked to the girl in 7 months. More importantly, it's not like there is anything I can really do - What I want to do is express sympathy, but that doesn't really seem appropriate. Maybe she is excited at the prospect of being a mom, and even if she isn't, it certainly won't help anything for me to tell her that I'm sorry this thing happened to her and that her life may as well be over. I'm sure that's too cynical a view - there is plenty of time left in her young life to enjoy many things in this world, but she won't have the opportunities that she might have had otherwise. I feel like any effort I might make to reach out would be at best patronizing, and at worst implying that her pregnancy is some sort of curse.

The thing I really love about my job is also turning out to be something that will probably be really hard in my life. I have the pleasure of meeting and getting to know all of these really great kids. They become a part of my life, and hopefully I become a part of theirs. It's gratifying to hear a student say that something I did in class influenced his or her life. It feels wonderful.

But this situation also highlights the fact that after a short time, these kids are gone from my life, just as I am gone from theirs. I would love to keep in touch with all of them, but the fact is I have trouble remembering the names of kids I taught less than two years ago. Of course, some stick out - there are students like Karen that I will probably remember for the rest of my life, but even with those students, I may never have any contact with them again. Memories are great, but it's difficult to realize that most of these great people I work with every day are just fleeting parts of my life.

I genuinely like my students; even the ones that are a pain in the ass in class have positive qualities, and nearly all of them are people that I really enjoy getting to know. I dislike the fact that in 5 years I probably won't have a clue what is going on in most of their lives. Of course, it would be entirely unreasonable to expect that I would be a big part of every kid's life for the rest of his life, but that's kind of what a part of me wishes sometimes. I look back and remember my teachers, and I wonder how many of them remember me. I wonder if they want to remember me. If it would feel good to know what all of their former students are up to, or if it would just be too overwhelming to try to keep up with that amount of information. Practicality limits what we can know, but I think that I would love to be able to keep tabs on 20 years of students, and continue to have personal relationships with all of them.

I hope Karen is doing alright now, I hope that she does alright in the future, and that all of my students have long and fulfilling lives. I want the best for every single one of them, because I get to know them in a way so much more personal than I ever thought that I would. I hope that some of them decide to stay in touch, that I continue to have such an interest in their development, and that they can remember something that I taught them. I hope they remember that I cared about them when they were in my room, and that they know I keep caring about them after they leave. I hope that my students live lives that influence others to do good, and that they feel as fulfilled by whatever they choose to do as I do by teaching.

Greatest Hits, Volume 1

I spent some time today going through the archives of a blog I used to contribute to with some folks I graduated with. It was meant as sort of a support group for new teachers - it was great, and I really enjoyed reading about all the insanity that the people in our profession deal with on a daily basis. I'm a little bummed that it's died down, but I guess now that we are a bit more experienced, we might not need the support as much.

Anyway, I wanted to share one of the posts I wrote for that site here. It is, without a doubt, my strangest teacher story to date. Part of me kind of wants something else this batshit crazy to come along and rival it, but I'm terrified of what that could be.

So I now present, in all its glory:

The Rat Incident

Working with 9th graders, you sort of begin to expect outlandish things. Students shout out at each other across the room like vikings in a mead hall; they try to escape from the classroom, squirming through a barely open door like a cat slipping under a fence; God help you if a bee flies in through an open window - you might as well be in the middle of Tokyo as Godzilla approaches.

In my short month and a half working with freshmen, I have seen mayhem. I see mayhem everyday, I expect mayhem. That could not prepare me for The Rat Incident.

I don't know how these students get out of class so easily, but everyday my class is visited by escapees from other teachers. This usually plays out with my pushing them out into the hallway and closing the door in the wayward student's face. On this particular Thursday, though, things went a little differently.

I was enjoying the relative quiet of my classroom sounding only about as loud as a 747's engine room, as opposed to the inside-the-space-shuttle's-rocket-chamber sound to which I am accustomed, as my students were working on writing a memoir. All of that changed when my class received a visitor.

"Yo, Ike, you want some of these fries?" the mystery student asked, handing Isaiah a styrofoam takeout container.

"Hell yes, motherflipper!" said Isaiah, taking the container from his friend, using the parlance of the student told not to swear in class.

As I was getting up to remove the interloper, I was distracted by Isaiah's jumping and screaming, as if he had just heard a gunshot. 

Well, Isaiah screamed and jumped like I would have if I heard a gunshot, but since my students are usually the ones perpetrating the shootings around here, they might react differently.

By the time I got to Isaiah, the gift-giver was gone, running off down the hall. When I looked in the box, I immediately understood what had so shocked my student. In the styrofoam container was a large, dead rat caught in one of those sticky traps that gets the rat's fur so matted and tangled that there is no hope of ever removing it from its tiny cardboard coffin.

"Ugh, that's disgusting, Isaiah. Go throw it away. Outside."

Isaiah is the type of student who doesn't like to be told what to do, and so even a reasonable request, such as throwing away the disease-ridden corpse of a dead rodent, can become a source of disagreement.

I saw a dead rat and a room full of squeamish 14 year old girls. Isaiah saw a dead rat and a room full of squeamish 14 year old girls. And a chance.

This is when things started to get out of hand. Isaiah started chasing the girls around the room with the rat. Girls were jumping on desks, screaming in voices so loud and shrill that they would drown out air raid sirens. I had 12 girls rushing from one side of the room to the other, knocking over desks and each other, all in pursuit of a safety that did not exist. A place where their classmate would not follow. Luckily, we only had about 5 minutes left in school, and so it was time for students to go to their lockers and get their things ready to go to the bus. This was a perfect way to get Isaiah and the rat out of my classroom, and to a trashcan.

Taking this opportunity, I allowed everyone into the hall and directed Isaiah to a trashcan. Unfortunately, he took this opportunity to chase around those girls who he was not able to terrorize in class. He even chased a teacher around with it.

It was about this time that Isaiah had an absolutely brilliant idea:

"Hey, I should go get Mr. C with this."

Mr. C is our principal, and he does not like bullshit.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Isaiah."

"Naw, man. It'd be funny. I should go get Mr. C."

"Yeah, Isaiah. You're right, go get Mr. C."

Good life decisions are not Isaiah's strong point.

"So I can go? Yes!"

Isaiah ran out the door to the buses and the waiting principal. Maybe I won't have to see him for a day or two.

Believing in the Resolute Urgency of Now

Last week was my first week back to school, and it was exhausting. Regular readers of this blog may have noticed the lack of posts recently, a direct by-product of the return of students into my life. Several times in the last 10 days, I had ideas for posts, or resolved that I would write something today, but then I fell asleep on the couch instead.

As a result of this exhaustion, I decided that this weekend would be filled with glorious nothing.

Then I woke up on Saturday morning. As I lay in bed, awake, but not really ready to get up, I started perusing Facebook on my phone. I saw update after update of friends from JMU who had made the trek to Blacksburg for the David vs Goliath game of James Madison vs Virginia Tech, and I started to feel a little bit of regret for opting not to go. At that very moment, the phone started to ring. Seeing that it was my friend Jenny, I answered in typical fashion:

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?"

The reply was what I expected, but not in the voice I expected.

"WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT? DO YOU KNOW WHO THE FUCK THIS IS?"

I did. It was not Jenny, but our friend Travis's mom. She proceeded to harangue me for not being at Tech for the weekend, and then passed the phone off to yet another friend, who told me I should come to the game. I looked at the clock. It was 9:30 - I had just enough time to make it to Blacksburg for the 1:30 kickoff if I left immediately and drove fast.

I thought for a second about my plans of laying on the couch all day to recuperate from the rough week, but I knew I didn't really have time to contemplate my decision. If I was going to go, I had to go now. I went with my gut and said I'd be there as soon as I could. Getting that phone call in the middle of second-guessing my decision to stay home felt something like providence, so I just went with it.

If you pay attention to college football, you've probably guessed that I am extremely happy with the decision I made. JMU beat VT 21-16 in the biggest upset in this young college football season, and my beloved alma mater gained some attention in the national spotlight for beating one of the top teams in all of football. More than that, I got to spend unexpected time with friends, run into many people I haven't seen since college, and share an historic moment in our school's history with all of them, and many others.

This may be true with your university as well, but the sense of community among JMU students and alumni seems extraordinary to me. I feel such a bond with people I barely know when we each express our love for our home in Harrisonburg. Many outsiders have expressed wonder at how strange it is that almost all JMU students love their school SO much; I don't know if I can really explain, but there does seem to be some sort of magic that we feel. Dukes are without a doubt the happiest, friendliest, most positive people I know. It was special, and I feel incredibly blessed to have been able to share in one of the most inspiring moments in our school's history with a group of like-minded people.

It would have been easier for me to decline the pleas of my friends (and my friends' parents) for me to high-tail it across the state to go to the game. It would have been a lot easier to lay on the couch all day and maybe watch the game on TV. It would have been easier, and it would have been the logical decision, but it also would have been the wrong decision.

I don't know why I keep needing to remind myself that life needs to be lived in the moment, that planning things out too much is silly. My very first tattoo reads "Believe in the resolute urgency of now", a reminder to myself to accept things as they come and not worry about left-brained things like logic and practicality. The universe is full of amazing experiences just waiting to be had, and every time I allow myself to take advantage of the opportunities presented to me, I am thankful that I did. I think most of the greatest days of my life were unplanned - the results of whimsy and whims. I am thankful that Travis's mom drunk-dialed me at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, I am thankful that Emily took the phone from her and asked me to come to the game, and I am thankful that I heeded the advice that I had put under my skin and did something kind of stupid and totally fun.

Go Dukes!

The Subtext of Every Mixed Tape

Last night on Facebook, I saw a quote from Alec Sulkin, writer of many Family Guy episodes and generally funny dude:

"I can't say it as good as them but I'd sure like to fuck you. (Subtext of Every Mixed Tape)"

Had the poster not been a recent recipient of a mixtape of mine, I probably would have found it quite funny. Even though she was, I still think it's a pretty good line.

But it got me thinking - is appropriation of someone else's art for your own purposes ever an artful endeavor? Can making a really good mixtape be something worthwhile, or is it inherently a cop-out; a futile attempt at masking one's own lack of creativity and talent?

I've long operated under the assumption that there is a subtle art to the creation of a good mixtape. I've created dozens over the course of my life; for myself, for friends, for various parties or activities, and yes - for girls I have wanted to fuck at different times. I have a set of rules for how the music should progress. Where the most energetic tracks should appear (tracks 3,7, and either 10 or 11, depending on the length of the cd). How to build up to crescendos and then safely back away, while remaining enteraining and interesting. It may make me sound like a braggart, but I feel like I am a pretty damn good mixtape maker.

But is that worth anything?

As apparent as my mad mixtape skills may be, my lack of any musical ability whatsoever is equally apparent. I've tried playing guitar several times, but I'm never able to progress very far before I plateau and get too frustrated to continue. I love to sing, but I know I'm not very good. I can barely clap a steady beat, let alone throw in any kinks that might make my attempts at percussion more interesting or musical. Writing is the one artistic talent that I sometimes possess, but even with that, I am more inclined towards analysis than fiction or poetry. I haven't tried much serious songwriting, but the little bit of poetry I've written is truly atrocious.

I love music dearly; it is a big part of my life, but I've always been stuck on the outside looking in. Mixtapes became my way to become part of the community. I may never possess the talents to be in a band, but this one thing I can do well proves my worthiness, at least in some small way.

It is both a wonderful and terrible thing to be an appreciator of art. I love the worlds and the feelings that music, film, literature, painting, and photography have opened for me, but it is painful to watch nearly every one of my attempts at any of these categories fail so miserably. Even when I am able to create something that I am proud of, I can always hear that voice in my head adding a "for you" to every "This is so good!"

In his tweet, Sulkin highlights the silliness of trying to get in on a party that you weren't invited to, and he does it in a sharp manner that has made a lot of people laugh. I appreciate, and even partially agree with, his sentiment. But I do think that there is some value in making a really good mixtape as well - songs feel different, and make you feel different, when they are placed around different types of songs. A good mixtape elicits emotional response in a way that is unique. You can't find the same feelings on the artists' original albums, because feelings compound and morph and flow as you continue listening. In the same way that a single sounds different at the end of an album than it does on the radio, the pieces of a mixtape sound different in that particular arragement than they do in any other.

I would never claim that making good mixtapes makes me an artist, but I do think that there remains the smallest shred of artistry in their creation. You may feel I'm deluding myself, and maybe I am, but I don't care; making mixes is something I do well, and something that allows me to feel connected to a world I would otherwise be isolated from. It may not be the same as singing for a crowd every night, listening to them sing my words back to me, but it's what I have and I love it.

What Comes Is Better Than What Came Before

The first time I heard Cat Power's cover of the Velvet Underground's "I Found a Reason", I listened to it 17 times in a row.

Even then, I only stopped because I was aware that this behavior was what some might call obsessive, and because I knew I could have listened to it on repeat all night and never fallen asleep.

Since then, the song has undoubtedly been my favorite. It's the only one on my iTunes that has registered more than 100 plays (110 at time of writing), and I've certainly heard it many more times than that. I played it often when I worked at TDU; I've probably seen every video on youtube that uses the song; sometimes I'm too impatient to listen to the 6 seconds of silence at the end of the track and rewind to listen to it again before my computer counts the play. Even after all of that, I still have the same strange, painful, beautiful reaction every time I hear Cat Power's voice open the song that I had my sophomore year of college, laying in bed with my laptop.

For those of you who don't know the song (and Hell, even for those of you who do), close your eyes and listen:

The moment I hear her start singing, I feel my internal organs tighten and my muscles melt. I get gooseflesh across my neck and down my arms. My body is at war with itself - it does not know what to do, how to react. It's been almost 5 years since that first "Ooooh" entered my ears for the first time, and my body still cannot figure out how to process the information. I feel sick and nervous and sad and relaxed and in love and joyous and fearful and vulnerable. In the first 7 seconds of the song, I feel most of the emotions that a human being is capable of feeling - and they all come at once.

That physiological and emotional confusion is almost certainly what keeps me coming back to it. I don't know if this sort of visceral reaction is something that many people experience with music; I've never heard anyone talk about experiencing something similar. There are definitely other songs that are capable of putting me back in a specific moment, vividly reigniting memories I didn't realize I had. No other song, however, has had the physical reaction that "I Found a Reason" has on me.

I've tried to figure out why I feel the way I do when I hear it. You can tell in her voice that she is deeply wounded, and holding on to hope is something that is both impossibly difficult and absolutely necessary for her - that is something that resonates with me very much. The simple nature of the piano accompaniment is tragic and beautiful - I love that it doesn't overpower the vocals but provides just enough support to enrich without distracting. I love the lyrics and identify with the sentiment behind them. I love the strange ending - it seems somehow open-ended, like you aren't sure for a second if the song is really done. It's the kind of song that if you saw it performed live, you might not be sure if it's time to clap yet. I know I said I skip the silence at the end from time to time, but those few seconds really allow it to set in.

In the end though, I realized that it's not any of the qualities of the song or its production that make me love it the way I do. In any truly great art, there is something intangible and unnameable. It's what makes me feel wrapped up and comforted by Cat Power's shattered voice on this track; it's what makes me feel calmed and inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night; it's what makes me feel like I can reach out and give a hug to Charlie in Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Art should move us - that is what it's created for - and Cat Power's extraordinary work on this track does that to me in a way that few things do.

Having a favorite song is important, I think. It fills you up and makes you feel connected in a way that nothing else can. I hope you all like mine, but more than that, I hope you all find a song that has the same effect on you that "I Found a Reason" has on me.





Jack White talks about his favorite song:

So Long, Sweet Summer

This summer - the first of my adult life - was filled with travel, food, music, new experiences, friendships new and old, joy, crushes, mojitos, and the return of an ability to really feel experiences in a way that I thought I had had all along, but had clearly lost some of as I "grew up".

Today, I went back to work in preparation for the return of students in about a week and a half. Don't get me wrong - I really loved last year, and I'm looking forward to getting to know and teach and see a whole new batch of kids this fall - but I was a little bit sad to see vacation end. It's not because I had to start setting my alarm again, or resume the 45 minute commute, or spend my days in school - It's because, undeniably, Summer 2010 has been the best of my entire life. And I know part of what has made it so beautiful and special is the fact that time off is limited and fleeting and must be taken advantage of, but it's still hard to say goodbye.

The day after school ended, I went to a local massage parlor. I wasn't really feeling any specific pain - I just felt like I had worked hard all year, and so I was going to do something to enjoy myself a little bit. My school's graduation ceremony had been the night prior, and I was full of pride and excitement for all my students moving on to bigger and better things. I was proud and excited for myself, that I had made it through my first year teaching unscathed and with an even stronger desire to do this for the rest of my life. My head and my heart and my soul felt good, and 55 minutes later, my body did too.

I went into summer feeling relaxed and refreshed. I think having that mindset going in made me more open to experience the joy in all that happened. I'm not going to recount everything I did this summer - it would take far too long, and I'm not near a good enough writer to really make you feel all of the things I felt - but the point of this post, the point of this blog really, is to share all of the beauty and hope and pain and feeling that I see in this world, and hope that it moves you as much as it moves me. So I will share about 2 things. 2 wonderful, glorious weekends that I will remember for the rest of my life, because they taught me new things and showed me the importance of old things.

My best friend's younger sister and her husband are two of the coolest, most interesting, most fun people I have ever met. I have gotten to know them a lot better in the last few months; I've met many of their friends at monthly parties they throw at their house, and I feel richer for the opportunity. I like Kelsey and Ryan a lot, but I never imagined that I would be invited to their wedding. When I first learned I was going to get an invitation, I was excited and grateful that I was going to be able to share in their big day. And I knew that it would be one epic dance party at the reception. They held the wedding, both ceremony and reception, at Brae Loch near Roanoke. On top of a mountain, with the Star City below them, they got married with true class and, in true indie-kid style, with Jack White playing in the background.

The music at the reception showcased the bride and groom's eclectic tastes, with tracks by LCD Soundsystem, Lady GaGa, Old Crow Medicine Show, and Tenacious D all making appearances. I sang and danced with Travis, his sister, her new husband, and all of their friends and family for hours. I gave up for the night several times - and every time I did, a new great song would come on and I just had to go back out on the floor. I danced until my clothes were soaked, and I sang until my voice was hoarse. And the great thing was that everyone around me was having just as great a time as I was. A few times during the night I looked around me and realized that this is what life should be - people who love each other celebrating that love together with music, food, dancing, hugging, crying. We are meant to be surrounded by love. We should envelop ourselves in it. Love redeems us and makes us act like the people we ought to be.

I made new friends that night. I learned more about people I had only met in passing. I got to see Travis's mom drunk.

It was fun; hands down the best wedding I've ever been to, and I'm so thankful that I got to go and take part in such an amazing celebration of love.

I also was fortunate enough to spend a weekend at my friend Kendra's lakehouse in New Hampshire. I feel like this was really the centerpiece of my summer, and that almost everything since then has been caught up in a sort of storm following a few days of living life with such passion and urgency. Kendra is a friend from college; she was a good friend in college - one of the first people I met at JMU, and one of the hardest to say goodbye to after graduation. It's a shame we don't talk as much as we used to, but I'm thankful that this trip showed me the importance of keeping close with those who mean a lot to me. She had invited me up to Lake Winnipesaukee the past two summers, but I wasn't able to make it either time for one reason or another. I don't think I'll miss another trip for the rest of my life.

First off, it has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Watching the sunset reflect off of the water in front of the mountains at the other end of the lake is the kind of thing that makes you feel so small, in the best way possible. I also got to do all sorts of things that I had never done in my life: I rode in a boat for the first time, I went swimming in a lake for the first time, I played Bananagrams for the first time, I got to ride in a 1966 Pontiac GTO for the first time, and see one of the coolest collections of antique cars in the country for the first time. More important than all of the things I did for the first time were all of the people I met for the first time.

At the lake, I met Jon and Kristin, a couple of Kendra's friends from work. Both are incredibly intelligent and funny and sweet; the kind of people that feel like old friends 5 minutes after meeting them. Accidentally slaying Kristin in a game of Never-Have-I-Ever on a shot meant for Kendra was the strangest introduction I've ever had to a person, and somehow it totally fit the playfully antagonistic rapport we shared the rest of the weekend. Jon and I totally nerded out talking about video games and Borges, and he told one of the greatest stories I've ever heard involving New Year's Eve, an unexpected pregnancy, and the phrase "raw-dogging". I also met Cam, Kendra's ultra-cool English rocker boyfriend who seemed to have an unending knowledge of music and a willingness to try anything, so long as it was new and exciting. He was also an incredibly thoughtful and sweet boyfriend, and it warmed my heart to see how much he cared for my friend. I met Melissa, the funny, sweet, playful, interesting, beautiful cousin of my friend Katherine. Many of the most memorable moments of that weekend, of this summer, came courtesy of her. I got to see Katherine and Biz again, friends from college that I see far too seldom. I got to hang out with my old roommate Jenny, back together with the old college crowd. I got to see Kendra's strange, funny, loving family, who I hadn't seen in years. I swear, every one of Kendra's sisters is smart and sassy and adventurous and so much fun to be around that you almost can't believe that there is one family that is so great. I can't decide if three days in New Hampshire flew by too quickly, or somehow stretched out over an impossibly long time. Looking back, it all seems like a whirlwind of music and games and food and fun, but I can pinpoint all these individual moments that surely must have taken weeks to create. It was a beautiful, magical three days that I hope reignited everyone's passion for living the way it did mine.

Yesterday afternoon, as a sort of figurative nightcap on the summer, I got another massage. It was one of the best I've ever received, and my body felt totally loose, relaxed, and restored. As great as that felt, I know that no corporeal invigoration could ever rival the power of the spiritual invigoration of meeting new friends, spending time with old friends, and remembering how lucky you are to be alive and surrounded by wonderful people.

The Future President of the Coolest Planet We Will Ever Discover

My students have given me some pretty cool stuff. Some of it was just sweet - signs, cards, candy - and some has been a bit more... creative. After going on a rant about kids stealing all my pens and pencils, and threatening to fail anyone who didn't give back a borrowed writing utensil, one girl brought me a new supply. One student who liked to make fun of the fact that I drive a beetle gave me a stolen VW hood ornament. A pair of girls in a class I student-taught made me the most incredibly bizarre card I've ever seen, and attached locks of their hair inside. It was weird.

One kid even bought me a bottle of everclear on a hunting trip to West Virginia. I figured "Hey, it would be irresponsible of me to leave a bottle of liquor with a 17 year old, so really, I have to take this from him."

I've only had a year and a half of classroom experience, and I've already amassed so much goofy shit that I'm not entirely sure what to do with it all. I'm thinking of getting a steamer trunk: If I'm going to be doing this for 30 years, it looks like I'm going to need a lot of room for all these mementos.

I love all of the crazy, funny, strange, and nice things kids have given me, but one surpasses them all.

In my first student-teaching placement, I had two classes that were a lot of fun to work with, and one that was full of demonspawn clearly engineered by evil scientists to destroy the hopes of would-be teachers like Piggy's brain upon the rocks in Lord of the Flies. Out of this hellaciously awful experience, however, came the most wonderful and hilarious artifact of my teaching career. Not so much given to me as confiscated by me, this glorious picture



was drawn by the ringleader of all d-bags in this class. On the day I found this, I had noticed him rather intently staring at me, but clearly not paying attention to what I was saying. I figured as long as he was quiet and not disturbing the rest of the class, then that's a pretty good day out of this kid. It was when he got up in the middle of my lecture to walk across the room to give the picture to another kid that I decided that I needed to see what this was all about. When I grabbed the picture off of student #2's desk, I immediately started laughing - I couldn't help it. I mean, honestly, it's a pretty good likeness. The kid is quite talented.

My beard was in its infancy then, and the shadow he drew got it just right. He nailed the spiky thing that my hair does when it's a little bit too long to lay flat, but not quite long enough to curl yet. The glasses look just like mine. He even added the textbook's built-in bookmark ribbon hanging over the edge of the lectern.

Perhaps I should be offended by the caricature's pink pants, girth, and horns. After all, those pants are red, not pink. I'm a large dude, but not that large. And my horns are nowhere NEAR that tall.

Actually, I think it's the horns that really make the picture.

I was so enthralled and amused by this drawing that I showed all of my friends as soon as I could. I hung it on the fridge in my apartment. I scanned it so I could make it my profile picture. Everybody I showed seemed to enjoy the picture. When my friend Shawn saw it, he said I looked like the future president of the coolest planet we will ever discover. Other friends started calling me Mr. Willis, a shout out to the fact that that class deliberately "forgot" my name every day. People still make references to the drawing, or ask if I still have it.

"Of course I still have it," I say. "It's the coolest thing a kid has ever given me."

If you'll excuse me, I think I'm off to get this thing framed.

Let the Wild Rumpus Start!

Since I was very little, Where the Wild Things Are has been one of my absolute favorite books. One of my earliest memories is my mother reading that story to me in my bedroom in our old house in Richmond after I woke up from a nightmare, and her sleeping in the chair in the room with me all night. I used to have reoccurring dreams that I was in the world of the book at least once a week for much of my childhood. I still have that dream from time to time, though not as often these days. It's probably strange to have the same dreams at 24 that you did at 4, but I look forward to the nights when I can ride my private sailboat across the ocean and into the land of The Wild Things.

I've told a few people about my plans to decorate a room in my house, should I ever buy one, with the framed pages of the book. I've considered getting a WTWTA sleeve tattoo at some point. I have WTWTA decal stickers over my desk, and one of my favorite articles of clothing is my WTWTA tshirt. Despite the fact that it is a 37 page picture book for children, Where the Wild Things Are still has a strikingly profound effect on my life.

I've tried several times to figure out exactly what my fascination and connection with this book stems from, and I've come up with several unsatisfying answers. Is it pure nostalgia; a wish to go back to a time when my mom reading me a book and sleeping in the room with me could make me feel safe, like nothing could hurt me? Is it the fact that Where the Wild Things Are taught me how to use my imagination; that it awakened in me the idea that there is a world much bigger and with infinitely more possibilities than the one we can see with our eyes? Is there something innately cathartic about the story; does Max's kingship over The Wild Things satisfy some deeply human desire to control rather than to be controlled?

The answer to all of those questions, of course, is "probably". Maybe that should be reason enough to explain why I love this book so much. Maybe my quest for something beyond that is entirely quixotic, full of wholly-fruitless romantic idealism. Rereading the story today though, something else struck me:

Max is kind of a piece of shit.

I know he's a child and children get wild and that's sort of the point of being a kid sometimes. But Max goes above and beyond. He maliciously destroys things. He chases the dog with a fork. And when The Wild Things give him everything he ever wanted and treat him as a God, he sends them to bed without supper. Not the way his mother did - as punishment for misdeeds - but purely out of spite. Something bad happened to me, so now something bad has to happen to you too. It's the equivalent of one kid dropping his ice cream cone and deciding it would be appropriate to go around and knock everyone else's ice cream on the ground too.

I've read this book literally hundreds of times and I always knew that Max was doing bad things, but I think this last time through it really clicked exactly how bad he was.

But now I can't stop staring at this picture after the wild rumpus is over and Max has demanded that all The Wild Things go to bed without supper. The text below the picture reads:

"And Max the king of all wild things was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all."

And it's not just the words, but the look on his face - Maurice Sendak's illustration has the most nuanced and human expression that I've ever seen in a cartoon before. The words on the page say that Max is lonely and wants to be loved, but his face says that he's lonely and wants to be loved and he doesn't think that anyone can love him. It's on this page that Max realizes that he's been a total asshole, and THAT is why he leaves The Wild Things. He knows that they will be better off without him as their king - he waves them a simple goodbye, denies their pleas for him to stay, and then turns away from them forever, because he knows that he does not deserve their adoration.

If this were just a story of a bad kid doing bad things and then going home to find that his mom still loved him enough to give him his supper after she said she wouldn't, it would still probably be a fine children's book, but it wouldn't have the following it has or the impact it has. What makes Where the Wild Things Are really resonate with me is the fact that Max realizes he doesn't deserve love, but receives it anyway.

I've done, said, thought awful things in my life. Terrible things that were cruel and petty and heartless. I've sought vengeance and delighted in other people's misfortune. I have manipulated, played, and taken advantage of people. I have hurt countless numbers of people countless numbers of times. And as much as I try to never do things like that again, as much as I try to be a good person, I will always fail.

Like Max, I realize that I am not the person I ought to be. And like Max, inexplicably, people still love me. And I am grateful.

That is why Where the Wild Things Are has endured as a staple of kids' lives for almost a half-century. That is why I have loved it so much for nearly my entire life. I think that very few of us are entirely happy with every decision that we've made. Lingering on past mistakes too long is a mistake in itself, but the warm feeling you get when you realize that somehow people still love you despite all of the things you have done is something that feels as good and as surprising as an adult as it does when you are a kid.

Bi-Polar Bear

Today's post was originally going to be about my favorite song, and what makes a favorite song so special. While I still do want to write about that, I'm feeling a bit more passionate about something else at the moment, so I decided to postpone.

Bipolar Disorder is a monumentally misunderstood disease. I hear my students refer to other teachers or administrators they don't like as Bipolar, I hear people on tv throw around the term like it's some sort of character flaw borne out of personal weakness. I understand that most people who pull out the term as a cheap insult mean no disrespect to the 6 million or so people in this country living with some version of the disease; it's an easy attack - like calling something "gay" or "retarded". And like using the words "gay" or "retarded" as synonyms for "stupid", using "bipolar" to describe someone who is angry or whose rationale for a given decision or action may seem inexplicable to you is harmful to the general widespread understanding and acceptance of the condition.

In the interests of full disclosure, I'm Bipolar.

In November 2007, I spent about a week in the mental health facility attached to Rockingham Memorial Hospital going to group therapy sessions, speaking individually with psychiatrists and counselors, and generally trying to get myself right to go on with my life in a healthier and more productive way. I suppose it worked - I haven't had a major episode of either mania or depression since my time there. However, when I think about the 5 days I spent at RMH, what I think of is not any of the meetings, lessons, or coping techniques that I learned to deal with my disease - I think of the people I met.

There were usually about 10 of us in the room at any given time, though some people sort of came and went, and every single person in there had Bipolar Disorder. A few had other issues as well - PTSD, addiction troubles, OCD - but nearly all of the problems in that room stemmed directly from Manic Depression. It's been almost 3 years since I have seen any one of the people I met there, but I still think about them from time to time and hope that they are doing alright.

The thing about Bipolar Disorder (and the main reason why you shouldn't accuse that woman who got a little bit snippy with you in line at the grocery store of having it) is that it really affects the sufferer's life. I'm talking life-changing, can't-be-the-person-you-want-to-be, every-day-is-marred-with-the-footprint-of-disease kind of effects here.

One of the patients in those sessions - let's call her Kate - had just gotten back from a mania-fueled bender to New York, where she spent every dime she had without any recollection of how she had gotten there, who she had seen, or what she had done. The only thing she had to remember the trip by was a new tattoo on her arm (luckily, she told us, she kind of liked it). Kate had a Master's degree in Criminal Justice, and wanted more than anything to be involved in law enforcement, but due to her condition it is illegal for her to ever be in possession of a gun. She was looking into options within the federal prison system that might work for her, but she could never be a police officer like she had wanted to be her whole life.

Another patient - James, for today - was a football player who had come at the request of his coach. You could see on his face that he was uncomfortable with the thought of having a label put on him that might make him seem weak or unable to deal with his problems. When he spoke, it was clear that the social stigmas associated with mental illness weighed heavily on him and made dealing with his issues even more stressful and unmanageable than they were already. The facilitators of the sessions tried hard to convince him that there was nothing wrong with accepting his condition; that he could deal with it more effectively and be a happier person in general if he treated it like what it was, a disease. James left after a couple of days without receiving much help.

Two more patients were local women. One worked at the Wal-Mart distribution center, the other as a receptionist at a tire-seller. Both were in the midst of months-long depressive episodes. It took every ounce of energy for them to get out of bed in the morning, and each of them complained of regular hours-long crying sessions at work. Their families tried to be supportive and help, but they didn't have the resources or knowledge to really make much of a difference. One of them said it was such a relief to be with other people who felt the same way, because then she knew it wasn't just her.

There was the abused teenaged mom. The day trader who worked on the internet because he couldn't reliably make it out of the house every weekday. The physics student who had been at JMU for over a decade because his illnesses kept necessitating leaves of absence.

The person I think about the most when I think back is a woman who I'll call Lynne here. Lynne showed up my third day in the facility, and we sat next to each other at every meal and every session until I left. It's a little bit strange: I can't remember much of what our conversations were about, just the feeling that we had each found a friend in that place. Lynne came from a relatively privileged background, and whatever her husband did seemed to bring home enough money for the two of them and their children to live comfortably, but she had had a very hard life. She had been raped twice, suffered the abuses of an alcoholic father, and lost a child when she was 7 months pregnant, forced to deliver his lifeless corpse anyway.

More destructive than any of those things though, I think, was the impression I got that no one took her or any of her troubles very seriously. From the time she was a teenager, everyone seemed to think "you're blonde and pretty and have money. What is there to be upset about?" For the short time I knew her, Lynne was experiencing what's called a Mixed State episode - Basically, she was simultaneously exhibiting signs of depression and mania. It's a hard and confusing way to live, more so when your husband doesn't understand or care and everyone you know is telling you that you should just be happy. Several times in the three day span I was with Lynne, she expressed a simple and earnest desire just to go back to the couple of years she spent in Charleston, SC while in college. It was the only time in her life that she was able to really look back on fondly, and her face and voice were different whenever she told me about it. She told me about how she goes back there for a week every summer, all alone, and it is always the best week of her year. She told me about how disappointed she was when she went with her husband once, and he complained the whole time. I listened to Lynne, and I made her laugh. She made me feel happy and comfortable and needed. To this day, I still get sad when I remember her face when I told her I was checking out, and exactly the way she said "but who will I talk to?" She sounded like a little girl then, and all I wanted to do was hold her forever.

I haven't seen, talked to, or in any way heard about any of the people I met since my time at RMH. I used to hope to run into Lynne or some of the others when I went back for my bi-weekly counseling sessions or when I saw the psychiatrist, but I never did.

Every single one of those patients were good people, and they all had hard lives. Much harder than mine. My professors let me slide on some things that I missed, my boss and my coworkers covered for me at my job, my friends were supportive and helpful. I, for the most part, have a handle on my condition and live a normal, fulfilling, and productive life. I'm lucky. But whenever I hear someone misappropriate the term "bipolar" or sling it like a joke, I think of the friends I made in a few days at RMH and all the troubles that they have gone through and survived. It makes me wish everyone could have experienced that and come through with as much more empathy and understanding for others as I did.

Some Links:

Wikipedia's Entry on Bipolar Disorder

A list of some of the many celebrities and historical figures who are bipolar

An article my cousin's husband wrote on a JMU student who killed herself as a result of her bipolar disorder

So I guess I'm a blogger now?

After a few years of careful observation, I've decided that I think this whole internet thing is here to stay. As a result of this realization, I figured it's about time I got in on the party.

I suppose the goal of your average blog is to entertain the reader; to create an interesting or thoughtful diversion, to make you laugh, to keep friends up to date on some sort of project of the author. I can't promise that this blog will be insightful or funny, that it will make any of you see me in some new or deeper way, or that it will be in any fashion full of excitement. I hope it will do all of those things at different times, but all I can promise is that I will be entirely honest in this forum, and that I will write new entries often and faithfully.

The last year of my life has been noticeably devoid of a significant creative outlet, and so I am hoping that this can evolve into something that either satiates my thirst for that or leads to some other creative opportunity.

So there it is - That's the deal. I write, you read, and hopefully we all feel a little bit more enriched.

More to come soon. I promise.