music: Ray LaMontagne- ‘Till The Sun Turns Black
At the age of 24, I made the decision to enroll in a teacher training program whose goal was to prepare intelligent, qualified, driven adults for a career in teaching in the inner cities of the United States. I thought at the time that this would be my task for the rest of the time I walked the earth as a competent adult, that I was to work in the service of those who needed it most, that I was to play a hand in achieving social equity, that I was to battle ignorance and injustice on the front lines. I dug into the task with pluck and resolve, and emerged battle-weary 12 months later with a small piece of paper saying I was now qualified and prepared to fight such a fight.
I realized quickly that my approach to teaching in public inner city high schools demanded a certain degree of martyrdom from me. In exchange for doing the work necessary to achieve progress on the front lines, I gave up significant parts of myself. David took a backseat to his teacher alter-ego Missa Toss, who ran the show for 10 months out of the year. Missa Toss achieved things during his two years in Boston and received many high compliments from pretty impressive people and places, but it all came with a heavy personal price. David was left with nothing. David found himself being given Friday nights after a full week of Missa Toss hammering and blasting, being hammered and blasted. All David could do for those two years was put his pillow over his head and hide in the darkness until the unconsciousness of sleep took the pain away.
Somehow this was tolerable to me. I justified my own suffering by the thought of my students; how because of the work I’ve done for them they will be given some sliver on an opportunity that I had growing up, that somehow my endless hours and incredible sacrifices would give them that little edge that would help boost them into a position of opportunity in their life. And those students would make it, some of them at least, and they would find ways to achieve certain degrees of power themselves and then throw themselves into changing the system that had beaten me and countless others into acquiescence, a system that was designed in many ways to keep them down, keep them pacified, keep them poor and disadvantaged. This hope is what sustained me through countless weekends lost to grading and planning and worrying, and hundreds of accumulated free hours spent resorting the insides of my own head in quiet and darkness. By all measures, Missa Toss made me miserable and I did nothing to rectify the situation for a very long time.
Halfway through my 27th year, over three years after I pledged myself to the service of urban America’s youth, I sent Missa Toss into early retirement. I turned my back on my job and life in Boston, packed my things, and drove clear across the country. I reflect now that I drove as far away as I could from my life as Missa Toss. I landed in San Francisco, took a job that felt more like a vacation than work, and immediately felt the difference in my own life. I was told by those close to me that I sounded and looked much healthier than I have in years. I indeed felt better than I had in years. David had his life back, and was enjoying the hell out of it. My first year in San Francisco was one of my best years to date.
However, the lesson was not learned and that part of me that allowed for Missa Toss to exist was not yet quiet. Because of financial pressures, job market pressures, pressures of professional obligation, and internal pressure to not give up on such an important cause so easily, I found myself last spring poking and prodding at Missa Toss to see if he was really dead. Through a series of tough decisions and unexpected twists, I ended up taking a teaching job for this fall, fully believing that this time, it would be different. I believed that this time, because I had two years experience and because of some structural and pedagogical differences with the school, I could find a way to compromise Missa Toss’s relentless drive with David’s basic human needs.
I was wrong on all counts. I quickly fell right back into Missa’s old patterns and practices, and realized within days that this would once again be David’s undoing. Once again my physical and mental health suffered, once again I allowed myself to believe that Missa’s fight was worth the personal sacrifice. Once again I was martyring myself. It was someone else, someone who at the time cared more for me than I cared for myself, who had the empathy and love to point out to me how damaging it all was. Only six weeks after starting again, I began to plan my exit. The second attempt was not working, the lesson was not learned the first time, and I was realizing how much I’d tried to deceive myself into believing it would work.
I began to write this in the middle of December, almost two months after I snapped into admitting that my personal health is more important than the battle for America’s urban teenagers, and all the while I, and my relationship with this wonderful person who cares so much about me, are in need of rebuilding.
Just before my winter holiday, I gave notice to my principal that I would be leaving teaching at the end of the semester in January. I spent a great deal of time reading back some of the things I wrote as Missa Toss from years past, and was struck at how much I suffered under Missa’s direction. I spent a good amount of energy thinking about what my life has become, and am not at all satisfied or happy with my current predicament, but have been too intertwined with Missa’s work to do anything about it. Everyone in my proximate life has, to some degree, given up on me because of Missa Toss. I don’t blame them; Missa leaves no time for himself, let alone other people. Missa is unfair to himself and those close to him. Missa has slowly been wearing me down to nothing. It is for these reasons that I have decided to leave teaching, and with it, bury Missa Toss for good.
Tomorrow will be my last day in the classroom. Tomorrow afternoon I will turn in my semester grades, hand over my keys, box up my personal belongings, and turn my back on Missa Toss after four very hard years of much struggle and little progress. I, as an individual human being, am experiencing a strange mixture of emotions, including relief, disappointment, anticipation, and deflation. The price I have been paying for fighting what amounts to most days as a losing battle is not worth it. I am excited to be able to soon get to things that have been waiting in the wings for over four years. I am hopeful to re-establish contact with my friends nearby. I am praying that I can mend my relationship with those I’ve hurt in the interim. But I am also feeling quite defeated, feeling like I’ve failed in my work to a large degree, feeling quite guilty that those that believed in me and counted on me to do this important work are being let down. I think: if someone like me, who is qualified and intelligent and in all ways cut out to do this important work, if I am unwilling to do this, then where does that leave our society? I worry greatly about the future, and about the inequity that exists in our world. I worry greatly about people growing up and not being able to contribute productively and positively to the world. I know, though, that I can’t begin to address these problems if I am myself not an effective person. It’s because of this that I have to leave, however shamefully and reluctantly. I know that I have to find a way to take care of myself first, and then worry about the rest of humanity, and I can’t take care of myself as Missa Toss. If I can’t take care of myself, I surely can’t take care of the kids I’ve promised to serve.
The kids…again I am amazed by them. As I leaf through some of the parting words they left for me, I reflect on how frustrating they are, how needy they are, how immature, bullheaded, volatile, nasty, selfish, irresponsible they are, how needy, scorned, protective, resilient, damaged they are, and in the end how compassionate, thoughtful, empathetic, supportive they are of their teacher. For all their setbacks, struggles, and faults the kids I taught are good people. And in the end, that’s all I want for them: to be good people.
So this is Missa’s requiem. He is slipping quietly into obscurity, with very little fanfare or ceremony. He is not finishing what he has begun. He is admitting defeat at the hands of the system he worked so hard to serve, not able to cope with the crush of humanity that passes through his life at school every day. He is leaving me worn out, defeated, underfed, underslept, and depressed. But I am still here, ready to start rebuilding my own life, excited about the infinite possibilities and directions I might take, anxious about what the next short while will look like for David. With Missa Toss out of the way I will able to find the time to take care of myself, and by extension, those other things and people I care about.
This time of year carries with it the most darkness, but also the knowledge that light is ahead. It has been gray and raining all week, but there is hope for sunshine in the near future. I have been crying most of this week, but I am keeping faith that the struggle now will ultimately point towards healing. I reflect on some of the moments in my life when I knew that afterwards everything would be different — my last days at camp, my last weeks of college, my final visits with my grandmother before she died — and I know that this week carries equal gravity. By the end of tomorrow it will be done. Missa Toss is dead; long live David. The future is wide open, brimming with possibilities, and for the first time in years I’m excited for it to come.
music: Rodrigo y Gabriela- Rodrigo y Gabriela
Dearest Sigma DR1-ST,
We’ve been together a long time. I remember when I first took you home, fresh from Wade’s and realized that you and I were in for a long-term relationship. Granted, my buddy Mike set us up, picked you out of the crowd and said something like “yeah, this one will do you for a couple years,” but once we had some time together to get better acquainted I knew you and I would go places, and for more than a couple of years. It was the end of high school. I was young and didn’t really have a clue as to what was going on; my future was fuzzy at best. And you were there through all the craziness, solid as spruce and rosewood laminate. You were there during those last days of high school when my world was turning upside down. You were right there with me as I played and sang to my first real crowds at summer camp. You got me through some really hard nights in the dorms my first year of college. Your good looks helped me earn spare change for lunch on the streets of Montreal the summer after, and then accompanied me to several concerts where you and I made quick friends with other people. I took you up to the cold North Woods of Wisconsin where we celebrated the new year on more than one occasion. You served as a translator when I had no more words, you helped me find a common language with complete strangers. You’ve eased some of my more awkward moments. You made the trip up to Boston with me after college ended. You endured a summer in the trunk of my car as I drove around the country, but I made sure that we had some quality time every night. You got a lot out of your time in Boston with me; we tromped around that crazy city and did some weekend trips as well, having good times all the while. I remember that on one trip up to Maine we were sitting by the fire and you were lying in my arms when I had one of my more defining musical experiences to date, and you and I formed what would be come the greatest acoustic duo in history. You even sat in the back seat of my car when I drove out to California, squished between boxes and books and fancier electrical equipment. We’ve been places, you and I, that’s for sure.
I know it hasn’t always been easy for us, that sometimes you felt as though I may have been abusing you. I know there was that one time in that dingy apartment where I dropped you on the floor and gave you a solid crack in your finish (but I did get you all fixed up, didn’t I?). There was that other time where I may have forced one of your pegs out a little too harshly and worn into some wood. There may be a few belt scratches, dings in your headstock, gouges in your finish. I know that one night, when I was messing around with one of those cheap pickups that are meant to pop in and out I accidentally took off a chunk of wood and finish right from the edge of your sound hole. I’ve tried to take good care of you, I really have, and there have been many times where I tried to go the extra mile and have your frets leveled, replace you new tuning pegs, or install a strap knob as to take the tension off your neck. I’ve tried to be good about keeping your fretboard clean and changing your strings on a regular basis. I know that I often kept you under the bed or in the closet. and that sometimes when i kept you out the temperature and humidity made your body warp a little. I’ve treated you rough, I’ve thrown you on the bed on more than one occasion, I’ve picked you up improperly on many more occasions. Some days we just can’t find harmony and I get frustrated with you, but you know that the truth is you’ve made me as happy as any inanimate object can.
So, dear guitar, don’t take this the wrong way: I’ve met someone else. I’m hoping you can be friends, because — and I mean this when I say it — I’m never letting you go. I know you got less face time with me when the Gibson came into my life, but those quieter, tender moments were always reserved for you. But now, as of yesterday, really, There’s a new acoustic. You’re from the same family, it turns out: the Sigma DR-28 that swooped into my life took me by surprise. You can’t plan for these sorts of things. But the DR-28 is, by all measures, a beautiful guitar. It’s older than you, made in 1982. It’s well-crafted, has amazing hardwear and solid construction. It’s a rosewood and spruce model, just like you. I can plug it in. And if I could tell you a secret, DR1-ST, I finally decided that the DR-28 was the right one for me because it reminded me so much of you. I know that’s hard to hear, but it’s the truth.
I’ll tell you this right now: If push comes to shove, I’ll get rid of the other one. You may be road weary, dinged up, full of nicks and chips, but you will always have a place in my life. In those dark, lonely hours you are my go-to guitar. You’re the guitar on whom I’ve written all my songs, please remember that. Instead of being jealous, I hope that you and the DR-28 can be friends. We will have our time still, old guitar. Nothing (except the green osprey silhouette - you know the one, hanging out right across the room?) has been with me longer. We’ve been through so much that I could never let you go.
Here’s to more good times down the road. Things won’t be the same, how could they be? Things won’t be better or worse for you and I, just…different. I hope you can understand this, Sigma DR1-ST. You are beautiful. You have made me laugh and cry, and I’m sure will in the future. Thank you for your time, patience, caring, and understanding.
Love,
David
music: Miles Davis- Kind of Blue
In June of 2006, Missa Toss hung ‘em up. Two hard years as a schoolteacher in Boston Public Schools was about all he had in him. David left Missa Toss be, and drove clear across the country. By himself. Now it’s the end of August in 2007, about 14 or so months after MIssa Toss said goodbye, and he realizes that it wasn’t goodbye after all. Tomorrow Missa Toss rises from the ashes and takes on a new school, a new city, a new group of kids, a new set of challenges. Missa be mad forcin’ it.
I myself am surprised at my decision making here. To be absolutely and perfectly clear, I am quite excited to be getting back into the classroom. There are so many good things to be said about teaching high school that I often take them all for granted. But there are also enormous challenges, herculean struggles, impossibly high mountains to climb. Teaching takes its toll on all fronts, especially the more sensitive, personal fronts. And after this past amazing year of movement and growth, after many who have been close to me as Missa Toss have said that I look and feel and act measurably better than I did when I was teaching, going back into it can seem like completely lunacy. Maybe it is.
Last March, when I realized that my current gig as a Naturalist in the Marin Headlands was not sustainable nor personally challenging to the extent I needed it to be, I began to consider other professional options. Resumes were e-splattered all over the Bay Area (because one thing is for sure: I’m nowhere near done here), and of the 30-odd probes into sectors ranging from education to nonprofit to consulting, not even a second look from any institution outside high schools. It’s like that in a city like San Francisco, I suppose, with thousands upon thousands of overeducated, overqualified, upwardly mobile young people all vying for the same 15 jobs on Craigslist. This significant reality check crystallized certain sentiments, though, namely that teaching (and more specifically public urban high school teaching) is what I’ve been trained to do more than anything else, it’s something I’ve been told I’m good at, and more importantly, it’s something I enjoy. That the David on paper could only appeal to that for which his resume was groomed made things much simpler and much more clear. And so by no large surprise, I’m back to exactly where I started.
But Missa Toss has come out of retirement to entirely different circumstances. The school I’m in now is a drastically different place: much more progressive in terms of pedagogy, much more collaborative, much more young, energetic, motivated, intelligent. Instead of planning for ten classes a week from scratch on my own, I am co-planning for three classes a week and working from precedent. Instead of traditional drill-and-kill tactics, I’m encouraged to think creatively about assessment and demonstration of understanding. I’ve been in PD for the past three weeks, and for the first time I feel like I’m being treated like a professional. All this, of course, is the backdrop to the real work that hasn’t even started yet. When 8:00 hits tomorrow morning and the kids are in their seats, expectant and restless, everything changes. No doubt it will be hard work. No doubt I will sweat, bleed, and cry over these kids like I did the last group in Boston. But given the perspective gained from a year away and the years I have under my belt already, I think I’ll manage much better. Beyond the job, I’m in a much more healthy place mentally, socially, and physically and I’m quite sure that I will spend far fewer weekend nights staring at the insides of my room by myself.
I’m apprehensive. That much is certain. I’m determined to put David ahead of MIssa Toss this time around, but I also know how David and Missa Toss have this tendency to work themselves into the ground for the things in which they believe. There will be some serious adjustment, and some long hours, and some days where there is nothing I’ll be able to do but come home and faceplant into my pillows. But I’m also expecting moments of exhiliration, transcendence even. Missa Toss is much more grounded, sure of what he’s able to do and how he’s going to do it, and because of this new context is all fired up. There will be time enough for all that in the coming months, but for now it’s time to get horizontal. It’s a school night, after all.
music: The Curtis Twelve- 5/13/2006, Somerville, MA
(Long TIme No Blog. I think February of 2007 was the first month I missed since I started this thing in June of 2003. Things have been busy and I’ve been pushing myself away from this contraption as much as possible.)
Of all the material possessions that I still have, only a few have been with me since I lived in Milwaukee. I moved out to Providence in the fall of 1997, so most of my belongings are newer than that. Between 4 moves in Providence, 6 moves in Boston, and one big cross-country drive this summer there are only a few things that have survived the changes of the last 10 years. I take inventory as I look around my room: what has made cut after cut for the past 10 years? There is my acoustic guitar, a very important object. There are a few ratty t-shirts, each with sentimental value for one reason or another. There are certain CDs and books, for obvious reasons. There is my clock radio. There is my big green Osprey Silhouette, a very important item indeed. And there is my little stereo, which has been around longer than any of the above items.
I bought my little Panasonic shelf unit in December of 1991, when I was in seventh grade. It was a pretty expensive piece of equipment at the time, but put out a lot of good sound for the size and had some top-of-the-line features. That little stereo made its way to college, every apartment I’ve lived in, my cabin when I was a summer camp counselor (where I dubbed a good 100 tapes from AJM in the summer of 1997).. Every night I gazed at the flickering LCD EQ as I drifted off to bed, every morning I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the time on it. Today, though, that all came to a close as I picked up a used receiver off Craigslist for $35. It was time; I’m running three sets of speakers, multiple inputs (the least of which is this computer). Moreover, after 15 years the CD player on the shelf unit no longer works for most CDs and one of the tape players is broken. The new receiver puts out incredible power, is able to fill the entire upstairs of my house with sound, exhibits great stereo separation, can handle multiple inputs with ease, but something is still off. After living with something and interacting with it on a daily basis for 15 years I’d imagine this will take some getting used to.
It is said that every cell in your body regenerates after about seven years, meaning that you are made of completely different molecules every seven years or so. The little panasonic shelf unit, as an extension of my cellular makeup for the past 15 years, has survived two complete biological overhauls. Now it sits under my bed, unused, gathering dust. Its time has definitely come, but it’s still awkward to not have the thing around.
music: Sigur Ros- Ba Ba Ti Ki Di Do
My car has been in some pretty wild places. Since I brought it out to the East Coast in 2000 I’ve been dipping here and there, down interstates, city streetst, country lanes, and roads that it probably shouldn’t have gone on. THW-455 has traversed the country’s lattitude three times and longitude twice. It has been accomplice to several impromptu road trips. It has hauled my stuff around more than it would like (if it had the capacity for liking); I treat it like a truck. I lived out of the thing for two months in the summer of 2004. And all the while it had Wisconsin plates on it, even though i haven’t really lived in Wisconsin since 1997.
Today was the last day for THW-455. The car is fine, save some dents, dings, scrapes, and a small rust spot on the trunk. But I finally did the legal thing, went to the DMV, got a smog inspection, and transferred the trusty Camry’s title and registration to the state of California. It’s now got some stupid string of numbers and letters and a stupid red font that says California. Gone are the little dairy farm and sailboat of the far superior Wisconsin license plate. It’s all very strange, like a good friend who has been growing their hair and beard for eight years finally decides to shave their head bald. But it’s done. the old Wisconsin license plate is hanging on my wall, 2005 inspection sticker and all. But this is a new phase for the Camry. At eight years old and with 70,948 miles it’s hopefully just entering middle age, and even with this strange new alphanumeric designation I’m hoping that this car that has been so far with me isn’t through. After all, there is much more adventuring to be done.
music: Spanish Pop Covers at the Cafe International, San Francisco
If we are lucky enough to live to age 80, we have 960 months of life to fill. Most of them are split minimum 5:2 with school or work. There’s a good run at the start where you spend a lot of time drooling and sleeping. On the whole, though, of these 960 hypothetical months that we are given to fill we rarely spend even one doing one thing, especially one thing that we want to do. I chose to spend one of my months of life walking in the mountains, and it was a solid month of walking. From July 18 until August 16 I found myself once again with a big green backpack, but this time strolling through one of the largest roadless stretches in the continental United States. By the end, I had walked an estimated 280-300 miles, had risen 36,000’ and had descended 40,000’. And now I can say that I am a thru-hiker alumnus. I’ve completed the High Sierra Trail and John Muir Trail in succession.
I’d like to say that the whole thing was pure, unadulterated glory. Certainly there were moments of transcendence and beauty such that I have not encountered in my previous 332 months of life, but there were also moments of pain and agony. It’s tough business carrying a pack through the mountains, and doing it every single day for 29 days. My pack, I estimate, weighed anywhere from 30-55 lbs. depending on how much food we had. The first couple days left me completely spent and hurting while I built up the callouses on my hips and the muscles in my shoulders and back. Ibuprofen was part of my hardly-balanced breakfast. On day 6, in a mad dash down Mt. Whitney, I tweaked my left ankle something fierce and endured shooting pains up and down my leg for the next 6 or so days. The nights were cold; it dropped below freezing frequently when we camped above 10,500’. It rained every day for the first eight days, something that any sierra hiker would swear their life against happening. The mosquitos swarmed in plagues of biblical proportions. This was an encounter with Nature in its most raw, primitive, and uncaring state. Natural paradise has no concerns about your comfort or well-being. I learned that quickly. But there were also moments of indescribable beauty, and they were plentiful.
The journey was, in very simple terms, a long walk. So while the sightseeing afforded to us by alpine lakes and mountain passes was the reason why we decided to walk where we did, the walking itself took center stage. Have I ever done anything so physical for so long and for so many days in a row? Probably not. After my body stopped rebelling and settled into the reality of 10 or so miles up and down every single day walking became less some necessary painful experience required to get to the next campsite and more something that would induce a very quiet meditative state. Meditation is often depicted as a sitting affair, but there are also forms of meditation in which the practitioner walks. And walks. And walks. And walk I did. By the second week the struggle of walking subsided. Uphills became less arduous, downhills less jarring. Speed gave way to rhythm. I had so long to walk that there was no sense in being in a rush. In some great paradox time passed more quickly because of it. I found that my thoughts slowed and for a few short moments I reached moments of what buddhists would call something like “clear mind” or taoists would call “not-thinking.” And when I came to I found myself in some of the most amazing natural scenery that I’ve had the fortune to see.
The High Sierras themselves are dynamic. The path led us through high mountain zones that looked like what I’d imagine the moon to look like, and down into small glades bursting with plants and greenery. There were waterfalls and quiet lakes, trees literally older than Jesus, and scenic vistas around almost every turn. The JMT is called the most scenic trail in the country, and that could very well be possible, considering how long it is and how it just doesn’t stop being positive (although there’s a couple shorter trails in Utah and Hawaii that could possibly give it a run for its money in terms of raw wonder). That I find myself so close to the Sierras out here is a huge plus; Yosemite has replaced Franconia Notch as my weekend warrior destination.
And Yosemite is something to behold. While Sequoia and King’s Canyon are enormous in scope with ranges of jagged spires in all directions, Yosemite is rounded and polished, mellower, but not any smaller. The trip ended with a sunrise ascent of Half Dome and a subsequent mile descent into Yosemite Valley. Then motorized travel back to civilization proper, replete with fast food burgers, beer, ice cream, and other tasty food that doesn’t have to be rehydrated. I admittedly missed some food (and after 2 weeks even my food cravings diminished), but other than that I didn’t miss much about city living. And I was out for long enough time to get it all out of my system that it now seems foreign and slightly abrasive to me as I scurry about San Francisco and Oakland trying to find a new place to live. Maybe I shouldn’t habituate to the smell of rotting garbage, car horns, mobs of people packed into buses. But maybe it’s unavoidable. I could only make this hike happen because of civilization, having done it all with my fancy camping trinkets and gadgets and plastic clothes and inflatable lightweight mattress and dehydrated meals and water treatment system. By most people’s standards, one month of life spent walking the John Muir Trail is something unfathomable. But consider John Muir himself, spending not one month but upwards of 50 years walking through the High Sierras with nothing more than a blanket, some tea, some salted pork, the clothes on his back, and the shoes on his feet. That’s a Wisconsin Boy done good out West.
After spending one glorious month of my life hiking the trail named after him, I guess it’s time to see how I do out here.
music: none
In a few hours, once I’ve packed up my laptop, sleeping bag, and buttpack and thrown them into the front seat of my car, and after I haul what furniture of mine is left in the pumpkin-colored room at 12 Curtis into the basement, I’ll drive west on I-90. Away from Boston and the East Coast, into the sunset. Five years I’ve been in Boston, and nine years on the East Coast, and it’s time. It’s been time, I think. Since I got back from my road trip two years ago I’ve had my eyes on the Western horizon, waiting for the day when I could pack all my worldly possessions into my car and drive. That day is today.
I think I’ve spent so much time thinking about today that the actual event is a bit anticlimactic. At this point I’ve said my goodbyes-and-see-you-laters, I’ve tied up as many loose ends as life would allow, and I’ve distilled my material goods to that which can fit into my car. I’ve been feeling sort of dissociated from all of it this past week, in a fugue state of sorts, maybe to soften the blow of a major life transition. But even in my leaving some things comfort me; I’ll roll out of here much like I rolled in, with a little cold, a degree of exhaustion, and Peet waving me on from the porch. But this time is quite different; I’m headed into a big question mark for the first time in my life with no real plans or immediate goals. Should be interesting.
Connecticut today, the Midwest by Tuesday, Colorado by Friday, the Pacific ocean a week after that. Some stops in the Rockies and Utah to add some spice to the whole trip. Then some wandering through the Sierra Nevadas, and after that…who knows? The rear of my car is about 3-4 inches lower than it normally is, exhaust pipe clearance is less than comforting. But after 200-odd years of Americans pushing their wagons west to seek their fortunes, that isn’t going to stop much.
There is change in the air. My world in Boston is in a great deal of transition, and it’s not just me. I never did fully take to this city; a good deal of my energy was spent trying to work my way around Boston and it’s idiosyncracies. Staying any longer would have been counterproductive. Perhaps I stayed too long as it was, but nothing can be done about that now. There were some good things here…Chowdahaus, Live Live, Tuesday nights at Matt Murphy’s, grad school, 12 Curtis, the Biosphere, teaching….there will be things that I will miss, and people too. But it’s time. It’s been time. There’s much ahead to be excited about, and I am completely unencumbered and hold no obligations. I can do whatever I want. The freedom is intoxicating.
music: none
My roommate Jenn asked me what I would miss most about Boston a couple days ago. There’s a lot that’s happened in the past 5 years here, and a lot that I will miss, but the one thing that stood out in my mind was the biosphere, the music studio the basement of 12 Curtis. Every week (or almost every week) for the past year and a half I’ve descended to the basement and played my heart out. The biosphere has become a cruciible of artistic output, and has spurred me to push my music. What was accomplished down there isn’t groundbreaking or earth shattering on a consumable level, but the biosphere sessions hold a very significant place in my personal musical growth. Even looking back on the first biosphere sessions in February of 2005, it’s amazing how much has changed.
Two years ago the back of our basement was filled with tons of scrap, 30 years-worth of collected waste in a neglected triple-decker. The fall of 2004 saw a collective form here; 12 Curtis ceased to be three separate apartment units and became a house. With that, an opportunity: transform the basement into usable space. Ron and Tim cleared some space for workshop projects, and Peet started a modest bike repair center. Matt dreamt bigger than that; he singlehandedly designed and built a room in which music could be made. I initially thought he was thinking too big; just a cleared-out corner would be enough. But Matt persisted with minimal help and by November a room had in fact taken form. It was an incredible gift, although I did not know it at the time. Little by little the Biosphere flushed itself out, with gear and decor being added at a healthy rate until the room was packed with amplifiers, speakers, drums, microphones, posters, a mixer, guitar stands, and most importantly, people to use all the equipment on a regular basis. We had a fully-functioning music studio right in our basement, and roommates who not only tolerated the racket but encouraged it. The biosphere became my favorite room in the house; walking through the double doors was a transformation. You could leave the rest of the world out there. The biosphere was its own world, a haven.
We had a party at 12 Curtis this weekend, and a well-attended one at that. It was the final time I would play in the Biosphere. Because of this the night was bittersweet, a celebration with a tinge of nostalgia. One of my musical projects had ended almost a month previous, so it was left to Matt, Sebastian, Duncan, and me to close things out down there. I was glad to be able to do it with witnesses, to share what had been going on down there for the past year and a half. We had our last gig on our home turf, in the most comfortable setting to make music that I could hope for. We put up a good effort, at this point so locked in to each other that music came as second nature, and people responded positively. Never before had I seen people dancing (and dancing hard!) to music that I made, and I was floored because of it. We ended modestly, with a small sigh and without much fanfare, and that was that. Last Saturday my time in the biosphere came to an end.
I can’t say how much more my mental health would have suffered had i not been able to go down to the biosphere, plug in, and play whenever I felt like making music. I can’t say how thankful I am that there was a place to play (and play loud!) right in my own house. I’ve meticulously archived all the biosphere sessions, and can say that I’m very proud of the music I’ve made down there. I can’t see a music-making situation as perfect as the biosphere wherever I end up. Most likely I’ll have to rent space, travel with considerable effort to some place in order to play. I still don’t know how good I had it. But it is time to move on from my basement, I think. Says Anansi: The important thing about songs is that they’re like stories. They don’t mean a damn unless there’s people listening to them. I’ll continue to play music, probably for the rest of my life. I hope to get into some inspiring and challenging musical arrangements, but I doubt that anything will be as familiar, accessible, and comfortable as the biosphere.
I spent a couple hours this morning breaking down my gear and carrying it out of that room. Of all the uprooting that has to happen with a cross-country move, I think that moving out of the Biosphere will be the hardest.
music: Cat Stevens- Cat ‘71-‘75
For the past two years the most important people in my life have been a collection of teenagers. They have, without question, been the recipients of the vast majority of my energy, thought, and time. This has hardly been advertised or mentioned to them and has been largely transparent to the whole stinking lot of them, but it’s nevertheless true. I have put more face time in with them than anyone else. I’ve spent more time thinking about them and talking with them than my own family and friends. I’ve probably received more phone calls from them as a group than everyone else in my life over the past year. I threw everything I had into teaching these teenagers for the past two years, gave so much that I often had nothing left for myself.
They take a lot out of me, suck the soul clean out of me some days, those teenagers. What limited energy I have for social interactions are largely used up after a full day with them. The halls of my workplace are filled with them, teenagers by the dozens, screaming at me and at each other, chasing, singing, wrestling, crying, ganging up, laughing, gossiping, finding excuses, sitting, sleeping, breathing heavily. The unbearable crush of adolescence has been my reality for the past two years. There have been days where I’ve come home and wished the whole thing away because it was just too much to process. Almost every Sunday during the school year, parked in front of a blue binder full of lesson plans and piles of textbooks, I’ve wished I picked something different to do with my time. For the past two years, I have served a collection of teenagers living in the city of Boston, and to be honest I haven’t always been happy about it or because of it.
That all came to an end today. Today was the last day of classes for the school year, and the last official day that I was obligated to teach Boston’s teenagers. And today, on the last day of the school year, I told what students had the motivation to still come to class that I was done. Packing it up, driving West, headed for parts unknown. Despite being the most important people in my life, they were the last to know of my plans that have been hatching in earnest since last August. I’ve known for some time that this would be my last year in Boston, but the news came as a great shock to a lot of them. In true teenager fashion some were indifferent, some angry, some sad, some relieved. And me, outwardly composed, quickly became a blubbering, gelatinous mess as the day wore on and as I told more and more of these human beings that I would be leaving them, moving thousands of miles away, probably never to see them again.
To be fair, the collection of teenagers I taught was the primary reasons why I have remained in Boston for the past two years. In the fall of 2004 it was all anticipation and idealism and curiosity, but now, two very full years later, the story is different. Missa Toss has found his voice and his niche, has established some pretty positive relationships with these teenagers, and by all rights has done some good things as far as schoolling goes. Missa Toss has invested an incredible amount of time, talent, and personal will in eighty-odd young lives, largely to the expense of his own.
I’d like to convienently separate Missa Toss from David but now, at the end of things, I realize that I can’t quite do that. My day-at-the-office has followed me home on a daily basis for the past two years and has irrevocably changed me, probably in ways I don’t yet realize. I’m still struggling to find the words to convey my experience to those teenagers that had the ultimate part in making it what it was, even after I’ll have the opportunity to tell them to their face. As it was with most school days, and despite the weighty news, today’s classes ended with very little fanfare or ceremony. I said some things, wrote on the board for a bit, teenagers awkwardly shuffled out of the room, I awkwardly waved goodbye, and that was that. Missa Toss’s work is done. I am completely deflated.
Tonight was a payoff of sorts-a collection of thirty-odd teenagers from the school in which I taught donned navy blue gowns, traditional mortarboard hats, and walked across the stage to receive diplomas. I had the fortune of working for twenty or so of the graduates this year, and as the school formally sent them out into the world I couldn’t help but quietly celebrate what small part I played in the process. No doubt I’m a minor character playing a bit part in the cinematic sweep of their lives, but looking through the other end of the camera, backwards and inside, the ups and downs of this group of teenagers has defined most of my time for the past two years. The ceremony itself was a perfect representation and celebration of our experiences together: unrehearsed, somewhat awkward, heartfelt, honest, distinctly human. I used to send kids away from camp with much of the same feeling, but this time around, possibly because it was the last time around, things swung into clear and significant focus. Now I can only hope that the time I had with these now high school graduates was spent well, that they all carry even a little bit of whatever message I may have imparted, and that whatever that message will become is something positive. That’s all that can be done at this point. I ducked out of the post-ceremony hobnobbing a little early, unable to confront the crush of humanity at such a late hour. I witnessed students of mine celebrating the first high school graduation of their family, students hugging and clinging to each other knowing full well that everything would change between them after this, students whooping and shouting, students with bleary eyes posing for pictures, students tucking their gown neaty over one arm and walking to the subway alone.
It’s enough to twist your heart clean out of your body and squeeze it until it bursts.
These teenagers, at the end of the day, are very real humans of the highest order, humans with whom I spent much of my time for the past two years. Humans who struggled and progressed, and in doing so enriched my life with struggle and progress. I’ve voluntarily taken the honor of working with such exceptional human beings away from myself, and for the time being I’m going to leave Missa Toss be. He needs to rest. But that doesn’t make saying goodbye any easier.
There are some odds and ends to take care of, logistics to work through, exams to grade, desks to clean out, posters to take down, and grades to submit. But for all intents and purposes, I’m done. I’ve given the past two years of my life to the youth of Boston, and despite the difficulties I encountered I’m very glad I did it. Those teenagers…those teenagers. They are sometimes infuriating. They sometimes have the world working against them. They sometimes have suffered more than any person should, they could always have worked harder. They are worth every second.
This one’s for you, should some of you happen to read this. To Angelica, Jamie, Cameron, Marvin, Neptopha, Michael, Stanley, Mary, Anna, Chris, Asiya, Nateia, Sid Marie, Kenny, Corey, Marcus C, Derick, Oliver, John, Dejon, Ariana, Matt, Asadullah, Irakli, Malena, Susie, Marcus W, Julie, Nykole, Jevon, Kimmy, Cassandra, Justin, Sean, Mick, Octavia, Qing, Charles, Enka, Christine, Shanay, Lena, Kristen, Camille, Kelly, (and to my seniors) Vanessa, Janei, Frederick, Bukky, Erica, Jenna, Manny, Danielle, Keshav, Taisha, Monique, Ashley, Michael, Tella, Galicia, Aleyda, Nkenge, Matt, Andrew, Jason, Angela, and to those of you who didn’t make it to the end: my undying thanks and appreciation. It has been an honor working for you. You will be missed. You will not soon be forgotten. Without knowing it, for the past two years you have been the most important people in my life.
music: Top Shelf- 12/3/2005, Boston, MA
Five years ago this week I woke up, packed all my worldly possessions into a U-Haul truck, and drove them from a barn-like yellow house on 276 George Street in Providence, RI to a funny-smelling yellow house in Jamaica Plain, MA. When I finally returned the U-Haul truck and that monumental day had ended, I can remember siting on the couch-come-cat scratch post in JP in complete stupifying shock. College had ended. The total distance spanned that day was probably less than 50 miles, but in more personal terms, that drive from Providence to Boston was an ocean crossing into a new and unfamiliar continent. Before the final semester of my senior year of college, I’d never really given much thought to what came after. Five years completely removed from such a rich personal pantheon, I realize that I’ve been subsisting on that strange new continent called adulthood long enough to stake a claim to it. This weekend marked the completion of my fifth year of life after college. And to commemorate such a herculean act of survival: an honorable invitation from the old homestead to come back and celebrate the passage of time with old friends.
Because of the manner in which things ended for most of the class of 2001, things were very open-ended. There were very few acknowledgements amongst the faithful of how the events of late May, 2001 would mark a very significant end to the what will prove to be one of the best experiences of our lives. There would, of course, be no going home again, because home was not as much a collection of buildings on campus as it was the collection of people who worked and learned and slept in those buildings. To have a critical mass of those people in that place once again was positive beyond all imagining. There were friends who I haven’t seen since our own graduation, people I’d largely taken for granted during our time in college, and having so many of them reunited in one place was a testament to what we had, as well as a reminder to me that I am a very lucky person to be able to contribute to that environment. I have never experienced so many inspiring and amazing people in such close proximity as I did in college.
This from my notebook on Satruday afternoon:We intersect with others’ lives and often take the time we share with them for granted. Being back here is a blast in the face of how much we share with others and how quicky and completely it can slip away. I’m sitting on Brown’s Main Green right now, on a bench next to Sayles Hall, looking at the graduation stage. Alumni of all ages and experiences walk past me, each reminded in their own way of a time they shared with others here and those experiences and people that defined four of the most incredible years of their lives. I miss what I had here now that I’m back in it, immersed in it. I’ve almost forgotten, and it is supremely bittersweet. Beautiful because of right now, this moment, this weekend; sad that the once brilliant intersection of my life with college has passed.
In a very palpable way this revisiting of the place that was my world, for better worse, allows me to let go of it a little more. Seeing this place, knowing that I can still look in from the outside (and that I really can only look in from the outside) and more importantly realizing that I still can connect with those who have left with me gives me some sense of finality. Brown was the reason why I moved East. This is the beginning of the end of my time here.
One of the highlights of commencement weekend is a highly ritualized and traditional procession that seniors, alumni, and faculty participate in. The procession inverts at one point as to allow you to acknowledge and applaud everybody else that is walking. It is an incredibly meaningful occassion, and above all else ties you into a very disperse-yet-strong community. For most of us seeing the head of the procession lead by what remains of the classes from the early 1900’s is an incredibly moving experience. Alumni are always welcome to participate in the procession, although it is only usually done when your class has a significant reunion anniversary. This year, despite the best of intentions, I did not walk. In its place I hauled to Middletown, CT to witness my younger sister participate in her commencement exercises. It was a beautiful and sympbolically appropriate way to wrap up the weekend to witness one of my family in exactly the same place I was five years ago: saying goodbye to a blissful world and expecting great things from the next, on the brink of a voyage to some unexplored continent. Reunions are for celebrating what was, and for that they are amazing and beautiful, but without starting something new from a weekend of reunion something is lost. Commencement is, after all, a beginning. For my sister, there definitely is a new beginning. And after 5 years of life out of college, perhaps there is one for me as well.
music: Studio One Rockers
Imagine a small country where there are no stoplights and no fast-food chains. You can take school buses all the way from one side of the country to the other for $3. Shoes are a rare occurrence (and shoes mostly mean flip-flops) and cell phones are even more rare. What’s more, this tiny country has an astounding array of natural beauty: tropical desert islands, atolls and a barrier reef, rainforests and jungles, mountains complete with waterfalls and rivers and swimming holes, and caves that need exploration. The people, while most likely considered poor by most Americans’ standards, live a life rich with the stuff that matters: long meals with family and friends, morning full of sunshine burning off a layer of fog, music that evokes island breezes, and the valuable understanding that very few people, in fact, are out to get you and what’s more are woth talking to.
Imagine not. Welcome to Belize.
December was miserable. December is usually terrible, but this year December was miserable for a bunch of reasons. But luckily Reuben found himself with a teacherly break in between Christmas and New Year’s, and he and I skipped town for a week in Belize, leaving his wife and our sorry excuses for lives behind. Both of us have been living, breathing, eating (barely) and sleeping (even less) for our students and were very much looking forward to a week of time in which we did stuff for ourselves- the last time we took an extended trip together was four days in Yosemite back in 2004, and before that was a road trip through Canada in 1998. So after some nice days hanging out with old friends in DC we hopped a very early morning plane for Belize City. We touched down in the tiny airport a little after noon, and scooted out to the cayes with a quickness. Thus began a week bookended by lazy days on”Caye Caulker.”:http://www.gocayecaulker.com/ In the middle of the trip we based ourselves out of San Ignacio, adventure town up in the hills. We took day trips to some amazing places: two caves in which some beautiful geology was occurring and in which Mayan rituals were performed, and a trip to Tikal, the capital of the Mayan Empire (and site of the rebel base on the fourth moon of the planet Yavin). It was a week packed full, but barely stressful. We did a lot, we saw a lot, but we didn’t feel drained from it in the least.
There are a lot of tales to tell, but I think it’s best to let the photos to do most of the talking. Suffice it to say that the trip and the time with my old friend gave me a very necessary respite from a life in Boston I’m now ready to admit is far from healthy or good. What struck me most, though, is that the perspective on people should live is so refreshingly different once you leave the US. And despite some amenities that Americans have grown soft over, in some ways the quality of life is better for those people I met in Belize. We here have things like efficient cars (and plenty of them), fast food delivery, a mighty military and well-protected borders, liability waivers, prestigous universitites, enormous leaders in industry, wireless internet, an overwhelming selection of food and drink, reliable plumbing and electricity even, but I can’t help but think that by my count, We The People are far less happy on a basic level than the folks I met in Belize. There is something to be said for simplicity and moderation and modesty. Belize and its people (a highly diverse bunch) manage to enjoy themselves, get along famously, and live fulfilled, happy lives despite not havng a lot of the stuff Americans find so valuable. I’m a week removed from my trip to Central America and am quickly losing that perspective at the hands of this Babylon System, but it’s something I’d like to hold onto as long as I can.
My life is once again governed by the obligations of Missa Toss. But like any period after significant travel, I am trying to find a balance point between the job I signed on for here and the ideals I discovered out on the road. Belize tourist traps are full of shirts and stickers that say stuff like “UnBelizeAble!” and “You Better Belize It! but the one I think summed it up was found on Caye Caulker, a gem of an island in which the main modes of transportation are bicycle, golf cart, and sailboat. As you exited the water taxi you walked over a mosaic with a simple message: Go Slow. Yes, I. Can’t think of a better way to usher in the new year than remembering that, the simplest but most potent lesson learned from a tiny beautiful country on the other side of the Carribean Sea. There is change on the wind, and 2006 will prove to be a year full of change. Here’s to an excellent start to the year, and here’s to making sure to make time for what really matters.
music: STS9- 5/1/04, New Orleans, LA
I went to Spike’s to pick up some lunch today and I was greeted by name as I walked in the door. I got some funny looks from the other people there and I didn’t quite know how to react, but I think this is a good thing. Rocked a Ranger and a Buffalo as per usual and made my way back to school realizing that I’d finally become that guy. At a hot dog joint. Which is a good thing, I think. I don’t even go there that much, probably once every two weeks these days. Maybe it was better when I was that guy at Murph’s, but I’ll take what I can get.
music: Professor Longhair- Anthology d.2
It is widely believed among the baseball nation that when the Boston Red Sox traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees in 1920, the Sox fell under a curse. Despite having some of the best teams in the game the Red Sox could not win a world series. Tonight, after 86 years, the curse was lifted. The Red Sox won game 4 of the World Series against the Cardinals and became world champions.
We were tuned in at Duncan and Amy’s house up in Arlington, but we still heard the roar. You could feel the entire metropolitan area of Boston rumble as the last out was made-a couple million fans screaming their heads off really does make things shake a little. Peet and I got on our bikes and shot down Mass Ave into Kenmore Square, Ground Zero for Red Sox celebrations. The only other thing I have seen like this celebration was New Year’s Eve 2000 at Big Cypress. There were fireworks. There were whistles and drums. There was lots and lots of horn honking. There were sirens, cops on bikes, cops in riot gear, choppers with huge spotlights. There were lots and lots of people. It’s now 2:00 AM. The city is still raging.
Three things struck me about this occasion. The first is that in the baseball world, this is truly historic. Never mind that the Sox staged one of the most impressive comebacks in sports history (winning the last four games against the Yankees after being down 3-0 and solidly sweeping the Cardinals), this victory goes much deeper than this single season. The Red Sox are the quintissential second best, and (until now) the most recognized underdogs in the game alongside the Chicago Cubs. That the Sox finally pulled out a World Series victory is a victory for the underdog. And don’t this city know it; the collection of fans here live and die by this baseball team, mostly die, and have suffered through four generations of disappointment. Although I grew up rooting for the Sox (behind the hometown Brewers, a real lost cause) I haven’t been invested in the team the way the locals and other fans have. Even this season-I was gone travelling for the bulk of the season. But given the history, given my experience (I remember watching Buckner’s imitation of a croquet wicket in 1986 and being near tears), and given this city’s relationship to their baseball team, this is a historic evening. I feel an entire city’s anger and frustration and disappointment evaporate, I honestly feel that a weight has been lifted from Boston, and albatross cut from our collective necks. The city is a little more buoyant. Not a lot, but noticably so.
The second is that sports are a powerful force in our society. Tonight I witnessed a very earnest and beautiful celebration, and it was one shared by people of all sorts. Sports is the great equilizer; it crosses age, class, and race lines. It is something two people from very different realities can share with one another, it is a common ground upon which to stand. Tonight people from all walks of life gathered in Boston’s streets to celebrate. Tonight I got high-5’s all the way from Arlington, through Somerville and Harvard, down to Kenmore. I’ve never seen as many Bostonites recognize and interact with each other as tonight. I am reminded that no matter how hard things may be, no matter where you are coming from and what you are doing with yourself, it is important to take time to share with your community and to be happy. That sports can provide this is very powerful.
The third is a sense of wonder, as in “what now?” Boston is a rough edged place, filled with people who are crass and brusque, people who seem to have a chip on their shoulder about something at any given time. It has been the norm here to bitch about things, and the Red Sox Curse has been the city symbol for how things just don’t seem to go our way. Now that the Sox have finally won a World Series, what will come of all the negativity? Will this city actually start being positive? Will people stop to acknowledge others’ existences on the street? Maybe I’m asking for too much. Probably. But I can’t imagine this will be bad for morale around here. There is a certain stoic nobility in the mentality of the underdog. Now that we are not the underdog any longer, I think things will change. I hope they will But now a new dilemma: are we that much different from our arch-rivals, the Yankees?
I suppose that none of that matters tonight. The Red Sox are World Series Champions, this city is celebrating in grand fashion, and the curse is lifted. This is great. This is enough. The real problem now is managing to get to work on time tomorrow.
Last night was also a lunar eclipse. Hey, whatever it takes.
music: Godspeed You Black Emperor!- Lift Your Skinny Fists like Antennas to Heaven (d.2)
Through some incredible miracle of the natural order, a set of atoms and molecules combine in such a way to yield an independently functioning entity. Life is spawned against all galactic odds. While the majority of these bundles of molecules and chemical interactions never achieve more than the most basic instinctual and involuntary functions, a very select elite amass enough of the right kinds of chemical interactions and structural complexity to be called sentient. We lucky few, we 6.33 billion sentient biengs on this watery ball of rock, have been blessed with perhaps the most potent and complicated of all gifts in the known catalog of matter: awareness of our own life. If we are lucky, the precarious combination of molecules sustains our corporeal shells for 70 or 80 years, although rarely is our machinery able to carry us past 90 years. Our lives are defined by this limit, by the very certain and unwavering truth that one day in the future those processes which sustain our bodies will stop working. All of us know this, yet most of us refuse to believe it. Especially when it threatens us, our loved ones, and those we know. But in the end, of course, there is no getting around death. In its finality and absoluteness, death is perhaps the only thing that can properly define life.
Our consciousness is a blessing and a curse; we know from the beginning of our own self-awareness that we are working against a carefully veiled clock. That ultimately, no matter how important we are in life, how highly we measure on the human scale of greatness, we will end up worm food. Existentialism 101. I can remember one autumn night 20 or so years ago when the conditions of my own mortality hit me, I can remember crying and crying and mom asking what was wrong and me saying “i’m gonna die” and her growing worried thinking it was something that was to happen much much sooner than i was picturing. I, as well as the majority of humanity I’d imagine, doesn’t think in such severe terms all the time. Which is great. It helps us get on with our daily business, it allows us to pretend that we are somehow excused from the cycle of life on Planet Earth, that we serve a greater purpose. But as the lucky recipients of such a wonderous combination of chemicals and matter, we forget that we as humans are just passing through. On the times that we are confronted with death, things snap back into a more objectively proper perspective for a minute or two. If we are fortunate enough to have experienced that inexplicable series of chemical reactions we call love with regard to the departed, then things get painful on top of being unbearable.
My grandmother died on Saturday. She was 82. Her time was up, her clock had run down to zero. The time she borrowed on this material plane was full of experience, and me being her grandson much of this experience informed my own. But the natural order is a cruel master in its consistency; grandsons and grandmothers do not trump the cycling of nature. Her molecules were called to disband, serve a new purpose. She got 82 years, and in that time got her money’s worth. She was old, she was sick. It was her time. I can not complain, nor can I argue, but on this very real human level, it still hurts.
I made the trip to Milwaukee for Grandma’s funeral service and came back on Monday. The service itself was a modest one, simple and without frills. Appropriately. A roomful of Grandma’s family members, friends, and acquaintances gathered to pay respects and to share memories with each other. There was little fanfare, little broadcasting, little superflousness to the arrangement. Mom gave an incredible testimonial to Grandma’s life, one that I could only hope to approach had I that kind of time with Grandma, there was hugging, hand-shaking, and “i’m sorry-ing.” Even fewer went to Grandma’s apartment, the small corner of the universe she quietly occupied for over 30 years, and spent time. The scene was, in truth, odd and unsettling- for a gathering at Grandma’s apartment everything was askew. The table was facing the wrong direction; chairs were lined up in rows. Tables were set out on the driveway. Paper cups and paper plates. Strange food. Relatives I’d never met. The place was full of people, most familiar, most related, but things were not ok. The guest of honor, the social linchpin to the entire gathering, was missing. Her things were still there just as she left them-her perfume, her stacks of bills, refridgerator full of leftovers. Being in some version of Grandma’s apartment, having her presence gone but not fully vacated, was perhaps the hardest part. I had a day full of crying. I was glad to spend time with my family, my aunts and cousins, but that our last gathering in Grandma’s apartment was this one did not fit.
I am still shocked by the permanence of it all, the scope of finality surrounding death. I would like to think that although the physical vessel of Grandma has given out and been broken, some intact and pure essence of the lady floats somewhere, unencumbered by such faulty designs as the human body. As a matter of faith, though, I’m not sure I believe in such lofty things. What I do believe is that I, along with a handful of other souls, carry pieces of Grandma with us. I will always hear that voice ringing in my ears: “David, you have been given a great mind and it is your obligation to use it!” No small task, but this was no small lady. In the end of Grandma’s life, I reaffirm all those lessons and make them my own. And strangely, but not so strangely, my own life comes into sharper focus. I have been living closer to my own skin for the past couple of days, fully and vitally aware of my own human condition, that despite frequent tune-ups and oil changes I am not built to operate for more than 60 more years, and that although on even the planetary scale our singlular lives do not amount to much, on the human scale this synergy of molecules and reactions we call life is the most precious thing in the universe.
music: Phish- The White Tape
Twenty-some years ago, four college kids got together to play some music with each other, and in doing so became friends. What that friendship and that music grew into in subsequent years was most likely beyond the scope what any of those four college kids could dream up back when the four of them jammed late into the night in the early 1980’s. Their music was quirky, intricate. But for some reason it took root in the ears of their friends and grew. And grew. And grew. Twenty years after college ended these four friends were still making music, although the circumstances were quite different. By the early 2000’s, these four friends had effectively built nothing short of a cultural institution, a quirky and intricate empire of which they were the reluctant figureheads. And this past weekend, the four musicians known as Phish closed the door to the empire they had built over the past twenty years and handed back the keys.
Phish’s final concert was held in Coventry, VT, a location that bore heavy personal significance to the band in their evolution in the earlier years. As soon as the band announced that this end-of-the-summer festival would be their last performance as Phish, the concert became an event of epic symbolic scale. Those who had at any point in their lives found a personal affinity for the Phish phenomenon scrambled to be a part of this last concert, to revel and dance one last time, and to pay their respects. Expectations were high. The Phish Nation would congregate to celebrate (and/or mourn) the music that in many ways gave them an identity and a sense of affiliation.
The getting there proved to be the most difficult part for some. Because of the heavy rains, Coventry, VT was turned into a colossal mud pit. Thousands waited in traffic for over 30 hours, and when word came down that no other cars would be allowed in the venue, thousands abandoned their cars on I-91 and walked up to 20 miles in order to be a part of the show. I too joined the final pilgrimage with my friends, although we had a fairly painless time getting into the festival grounds as compared with most others. Other than a reunion with this group of people, I did not really know what to expect from the weekend, from this band. But ultimately, this weekend was not about me. Nor was it about any of the 70,000 other individuals who were in attendance. The final Phish concert was not for us; it was for the four members of Phish.
Never before has the band seemed so human to me as they were this past weekend. Whereas before they took the stage, played, and left without a word to the audience, this weekend the band spoke directly to us so informally and sometimes awkwardly it could do nothing but take them down from some exhalted place and humanize them to us. We got stories about origins of songs, we got glimpses into the inner workings of a band rehearsing, we got personal narratives, we met friends and family members, we heard tearful expressions of thanks. They stopped songs in the middle only to restart them in a different key, to deliver anecdotes, to somehow try to include all 75,000 of us in their world of inside jokes that we thought we knew so well. The concert, as a result, felt less like a professionally packaged entertainment event, and more like a backyard barbecue and family reunion.
It quickly became apparrent that the weekend was not about the quality of music. I personally did not go to Coventry to hear Phish give a recital of the body of their work, and I think that those who did go for this reason were fairly disappointed. Those of us who cared about Phish at any point did not need to hear them play difinitive versions of any of their songs. We had heard them do that before. This weekend was more about witnessing how the four members of Phish would reconcile their own experience, how they would walk away from the thing that they had created and built over the past 20 years. We were to be flies on the wall of a final jam session between these four people whose music we soaked up for so long. And as it turned out, the jamming was what Coventry was all about. Compositions were flubbed throughout the weekend, entrances were missed, notes were struck sour, but when the band pushed away from song structure and began to play with each other, and more importantly for each other, the music’s quality appropriately matched the epic scope of the weekend.
The first day and the first set of the second day were precursors to the pith of the experience: the last two sets of the festival. On paper they looked fairly unremarkable:
Phish, 8/15/04, Coventry, VT
Set 2: Down With Disease -> Wading in the Velvet Sea, Glide, [band speech], Split Open and Melt -> jam -> Ghost
Set 3: Fast Enough for You, Seven Below -> Simple -> Piper -> Bruno ->Dickie Scotland -> Wilson -> Slave to the Traffic Light
[fireworks]
Encore: The Curtain With
As Down With Disease began the second set, the band began to feel the gravity of the situation. This song is typically reserved for watershed moments (it was the first song after Auld Lang Syne on NYE 2000), and its rousing chorus “Waiting for the time when I can finally say / This has all been wonderful but now I’m on my way” has obvious relevance. The jam to ensue simmered to a tender piano solo, and as Velvet Sea started, Page broke. It was an unbelievably touching moment, one that, to me, outweighed the mud and the traffic and the flubs and the botched musicianship. Music is nothing if it does not move the spirit, and the tears that flowed during Velvet Sea reminded me of just this.. At that point, Glide marked time, delayed the inevitable outpouring. The band speeches, replete with tears from Trey and Page, and the hour of music to follow was truly inspired, an improvisatory magnum opus that at once expressed the tangle of emotions surrounding that particular moment in time. I am tempted to listen to this hour or so again, to revisit the intensity of such a musical conversation, but part of me is insistent that I never listen to Coventry on tape. The second set, like the weekend, was a lot to deal with, but was why I was there.
The third set was more premeditated: a lyrically poignant song to open, then some jamming and silliness. It wouldn’t be Phish with out some silliness. In Trey’s own words, the whole thing was meant to be a big overblown cartoon, and to the end they were as goofy as college kids in a dorm room. At the same time, though, the band needed some time to give serious thought to such a complex ending. They needed to acknowledge the arc of their careers, the places at which they found themselves, and choose to say this complex goodbye with maturity. The Slave to end, in retrospect, was the perfect choice. While people were expecting the band to end their career with some of the centerpiece songs such as YEM, Divided Sky, or Harry Hood, songs that they commonly would use at moments of signifigance, Slave to the Traffic Light was for the most part overlooked to fill this slot. It is in many ways a quiet little brother to YEM or Antelope, but it is also a grand, sweeping composition incorporating quiet, reflective moments as well as exhalted ones. It was more sparsely played than other larger tunes, which rendered it that much more precious. And as the band transitioned into Slave out of the reckless fun of Wilson (“You still can have fun!” Trey yells), the full weight of this decision became clear to me: Slave to the Traffic Light was the first song Phish ever wrote and played. The last song of the last set was the first song the band ever wrote. They had indeed come full circle. Slave’s execution and delivery was transcendental and as perfect a moment as these four humans could produce. The stage fell silent, the four stepped to the lip of the stage, held hands, and bowed deeply. Then they walked off. That was that.
After some fireworks, a few words from Trey, and an encore of The Curtain With, an obscure and very rare tune from the catalog, the lights came up and we were left to reconcile the final notes of Phish for ourselves. The Curtain With, to me, was an afterthought, a postscript. I was done after Slave ended, and judging by the way they performed Slave, so was the band. They made the decision that is ultimately the most important one in an artists’s life: knowing when to stop. Now that the four friends have moved their narrative to the stuff of history, their body of work can be examined as a whole, complete piece. The spontanaiety that made them famous will be gone, but we fans are not without countless hours of their music to listen to. And I am thankful. For their own sake, I hope that Phish never plays another concert.
(This from my little notebook at the conclusion of the second set:)
Revisit this, dissect it. This is really Phish’s final statement. LOTS of stuff here.They are not interested in playing their tunes - a recital - they really just want to play with each other and for each other. At the end, when there is nothing else on the horizon, that’s what it came back to - four friends making music with each other. At the realization that their shared vision has reached its conclusion, they payed all their attention to each other. When Phish is parsed, dissected, boiled down, and distilled, there are four people, four real human beings, who have built and shared something for 21 years more intimite nad complicated and honest and HUMAN than I could ever imagine. Never before has this band seemed so human. It’s the music, yes, but as a fine art, music is the expression and creation of a human being. It’s not about the scene, the party: it’s about people, individuals, human lives. Four specific human lives, in this case, whose story I followed and entwined with my own for the past eight years.
But ultimately this is not about me. I’m on the outside looking in this weekend. I’m getting to watch these four people talk to each other for a while, publically speak with each other for the last time. To have it out with one another, to love one another, to have some fun with each other. It is sloppy, disorganized, and not always well executed, but it is honest, it is human, it is very much Phish.
I hope that Trey, Mike, Page, and Jon will keep making music together if only for themselves. I hope that they all will meet at someone’s house on some cold autumn weekend and after a fine homecooked dinner, they four retreat to the basement to jam for a little. That is, after all, where they started 20-some years ago: college kids jamming in the basement of some dorm or apartment. I hope that it will come back to this, and I hope that they never record any of it.
music: O Brother Where Art Thou? Soundtrack
Graduation was yesterday. I am now formally a Master of Education, pronounced competent and prepared to engage in the work of education, and admitted to “a fellowship of learned men and women.” A substantial honor, by most measures. The ceremony itself was replete with pagentry and ancient tradition. I donned traditional costume: black gown, mortarboard and tassle, and an academic hood reminiscient (to me at least) of the rags I received at Minikani. We graduates were made to feel important and grand. My family descended to share in celebration. We were given our diplomas. And yet, something about the whole production was empty of meaning to me.
There is no question that I worked hard in graduate school. I have gained much from the experience and consider it an important step in my life’s path, the attainment of a goal I’ve had for quite some time. But this program was such that there was little affinity for the academy. This program was a practical one, based in community involvement and carried a focus that placed poorly-recourced urban communities at the center of our consciousness. I spent the majority of my time in grad school away from the university, among teenagers who are struggling to pass high school. Strange that at the end we were brought back to the University for an upper-class, world-renound ritual and celebration. I walked past throngs of high school students on a detour route as I was on my way to the ceremony. This juxtaposition, I think, made me a bit uncomfortable. That, and the simple fact that it only took one full year to complete this Master’s degree. A trying and difficult year, to be sure, but only one year. My bachelor’s degree carried much more weight and meaning perhaps only because it took me four years to complete.
The ceremony itself was a bit brusque and impersonal. We were marched into the venue with 10,000 other graduates and 20,000 spectators, we were asked to stand, we were conferred degrees, and we were marched out. We then went to the School of Education and were promptly marched around the venue as our names were called. While it was not completely anonymous, the ceremony itself was overly-hyped. However, I found the rituals surrounding to be quite meaningful. I was especially fascinated by the tradition of the academic hood, it symbolilzing previous academic accomplishments. My hood was brown and red, the colors of my alma mater, and also the colors of the rags whose challenges are accepting opportunities for service and a sacrifice of time, talent, and effort. Both challenges I have accepted, and both will be integral parts of the work that I am about to start. The hood, conceptualized as such, is another piece of cloth tied around my neck, an outward symbol of an inward goal, a material reminder of the life of service that I have chosen. The ritual of marking the official acceptance of such a challenge was what made commencement worthwhile.
Today I attended the graduation exercises of the high school in which I worked this year. I was moved far more by this high school graduation than my own fancy Master’s degree ceremony. For one, the kids who graduated today valued their diplomas and celebrated their accomplishments so much more than I could. It was not by any means a certainty that these kids would graduate, but they did with all odds stacked against them. My own graduation was a foregone conclusion. Whereas I could pretty much count on graduating according to a schedule set before I even enrolled in my own school, the teenagers (and their families) who whooped and hollered today as they received their diplomas did not enjoy such a position. They not take any of it for granted; they couldn’t. And their achievements today meant so much more than the formality of me receiving my own degree. Besides, part of the challenge I have accepted in earning my degree in education is to work towards making sure these teenagers make it to their own high school graduation, even when the odds are stacked against them. They are my priority. I am secondary.
If nothing else, these graduations mark the end of my work this year as a trainee and intern, that ultimately correct oxymoron: “student teacher.” I can finally relax and take some time for myself. I can start to prepare for my two month trip this summer, a free-wheeling, open-ended, impulsive and spontaneous counterpoint to the world of discipline and rigor from which I came. I’ll return to increased responsibility and work, but now my formal training has reached its completion. My students have themselves commenced in a far more significant way than I. And most importantly, I have rededicated myself to the goals and values that will guide me through the next leg of this single life.
music: Phish- 4/5/98, Providence, RI
“I can’t possibly accomplish all that I want to achieve…”
That is how the final piece to my TEP portfolio started. It speaks volumes, and on many levels: I want to do it all, but I know that if I’m both lucky and good, I still won’t come close to doing it all. But I will still try. I wrote the above line in reference to my becoming a teacher, but it could very well apply to most things in my life, including this weblog, but for the past couple of days I have been considering the notion with relation to the ideas generated and the training I received in beoming a teacher. I have finished my graduate program; I am now for all intents and purposes a ‘Master of Education’ and a ‘Harvard graduate.’ Both seem fairly meaningless from where I stand right now, but whatever social capital they carry will most likely become useful one day in accomplishing my goals. On that most shallow of levels, I hope I can be considered by the world-at-large properly credentialed to know what I am talking about. To some extent.
This has been a very intense and emotional week. I have been confronted with numerous goodbyes to people whose presence I have taken for granted this past year and who I do treasure immesurably. This week has been more about expressing my appreciation for these people and achieving some sort of closure with them than synthesizing what I have learned in class and in practicum. About 10 of us went out to Walden Pond today after a game of football on Cambridge Common, and in that trip, I was confronted with one of those essential facts of life: what is important is the people you meet. We have done a good job of celebrating each other this week with multiple nights out, a talent show last night, and extended nights out. It is tough to think that I am saying goodbye to so many of these people, but it is heartening to know that we are to spread out and do some of the most important work our society has.
This has been a week riddled with ritual and ceremony. I liken this entire voyage to my LTIII summer at camp, a position of training, yet one of incredible responsibility. I can not easily pin down a list of things that I have learned this year, but I can say that I am quite different now than when I started. I shared my thoughts regarding education, and urban education in particular to members of my cohort this past week, and in doing so reinforced my own beliefs and rededicated myself to the goals and values I have set for myself. It was, in many ways, like taking an academic rag. The formal year ended with some degree of ceremony, both at HGSE and at my school site, and we, apparently, are now set on our ways to live out what we have learned. I have refocused and distilled my vision for education’s role in society over the past couple weeks and while I have something to show for that work, I don’t think that it is complete. I think I have a blog entry about my vision of the Revolution in the making and will let things simmer a little longer before i dive into that.
Perhaps I am too close to the event still. Perhaps I have not made the mental break with grad school and student teaching because I will continue to teach until the end of the school year and still have to plan lessons and grade homework. Perhaps I am presently too tired to really dig into what this past year’s training and learning meant for me. Perhaps all three, and then some. Whatever the case may be, I have completed this mini-journey, and in the final analysis am better for it. I can not possibly hope to accomplish all that I want to achieve, but I can push towards it hard enough to make some sort of positive impact.
I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never” -
“YOU LIE!” he cried,
and ran on.
-Stephen Crane
music: Peter Gabriel- Secret World Live d.1
Today was the final day of the HGSE teacher education program. It was quite emotional, moreso than I originally thought it would be. It’s been quite a long day and I have to teach tomorrow at 8 AM. More on the matter later, when I have some time. And have gotten some sleep.
music: master recordings from Wabeno, WI- 12/29/03 — 1/1/04
2004 has arrived and my time in the midwest is rapidly coming to a close. It’s been time enough here. There are things that need my attention (and lots of it) out East, and although I’m staring down a series of very demanding weeks, I’m anxious to be getting back to my current and chosen reality. Milwaukee was a nice respite from my obligations in Boston, but it is definitely time to dig back in. So I grit my teeth, and set myself, and prepare for the onslaught of full time teaching, final exams, and everything else my life out East demands of me.
The trip home was productive on several fronts. I spent some time with family members and friends who I haven’t seen in a long time. I made some headway on school work, although not nearly as much as I would have liked. But perhaps most importantly, I made some music.
I found myself in a cabin in Wabeno, WI with some friends from camp to ring in the new year. AJM, The Doctor, and I used a good deal of time in the back room of that cabin to record some music. The conditions were less than optimal: three guys, three acoustic guitars, and a less-than-professional microphone, but it came together better than I thought it would. When all was said and done, we committed about two and a half hours’ worth of our music to hard drive space. Included in that archive were several original works, which represented an important step for me in my own creative process.
I’ve fiddled around with snippets of musical ideas for some time, but haven’t really had the wherewithall to produce a song. I think that the collaboration with friends Up North this weekend really spurred the songwriter in me. As I sit here, a night after returning, I am still energized with possibility and creativity. I think a lot of it had to do with the reinforcement my friends provided. So much of the music I make falls on my bedroom walls, and there is nobody there to add their own voice, but this week two of my friends were there to contribue their voices and visions to the product.
I learned “Gato Negro” this weekend, a tune that AJM wrote with The Doctor last year, and I am really impressed with it. So much so that its existence somehow proves to me that this songwriting endeavour is possible, that producing quality original work is absolutely within my reach. It is something that I need in order to carry forth; it is something I am listening to right now.
The music itself is rough and isn’t mixed too well (to be fair, it is pretty good considering what we had to work with), but it represents something greater. After making music with my friends this week and having it to listen to now, the production of my own song(s) seems that much more within reach. I’ve stuggled with the producer/consumer dichotomy for the past couple of year, wishing to fall more on the producer side of things, and after the recording sessions this past week I finally feel like I’m taking a step in the right direction. The real challenge will be keeping up the momentum in Boston, where I will be far away from my New Year’s collaborators and more likely than not working in isolation. Yet another challenge to add to the long list for when I return. But this is important; making music is one of the best uses of my time and energy that I can imagine. A certain threshold has been crossed, and I aim to use this inertia to push my practice in the months to come. As AJM might say: “Forward.”
music: mix tape I made in middle school and found today
Today is my birthday. Today I turn 25 years old.
I used to very much look forward to the 24th of December; I used to wake up earlier than I ever would otherwise. I used to feel like the king of the world on my birthday, that I could do no wrong, that I was the center of the universe. Now not so much.
I spent the day very much by myself, fixing myself some breakfast, working a little bit on my book research on solitude, and experiencing the solitary life on top of that. As this is some sort of temporal marker, I thought it appropriate to take some time to indulge in some cerebral exploration and reflection on some aspects of the past 25 years I have spent on the planet.
I found myself spending the majority of the day (a good 10 hours) going through all my remaining material possessions stored in various corners of the house, saving some of the most important or representative documents and artifacts, but throwing out most. A quarter-century is a good amount of time to do a little purging and tidying up. This was my project for the day: unpacking, sorting, disposing, reorganizing, and repacking what remained. There isn’t much left-just enough to fill four big tupperwares and three clothes drawers. It feels good to get rid of all this stuff that has been sitting there. Granted, what remains will just sit there, but it will take up less room. This is a second major downsizing of my worldly possessions. The first was largely involuntary: my room in the basement flooded about two years ago and mom was forced to dismantle my room and in doing so threw out a lot of my stuff. Today I finished what she started, and now I’m happy to say that the majority of my material possessions are in Boston. Which amounts to just over two carloads-not a bad figure as far as my anti-consumer personal goals are concerned.
Mom invited my grandma and aunt and uncle over for dinner tonight for a “party,” but she came down with a fever and had to call it off, which was fine by me. I was happy to be left to myself for the majority of the day and surround myself with piles and piles of artifacts from my past. We had a normal family dinner, i got a generous check from my mom and grandma (the latter via mail), and then my sisters went off to party with their friends, the ‘rents went to bed, and I did the dishes. It didn’t even feel like a birthday, which is, i guess, what I was aiming for.
I don’t know when I started to dislike my birthday so much, although I think it was around 14. Around that point, I think it registered on some abstract level that time was moving in one direction and that I was only getting older. Moreover, that I would never have back the time that had already come. The future will inevitably come, I reasoned, why celebrate it? At the same time, the past is growing larger and larger and I am slipping farther and farther away from childhood. This isn’t something I really want to celebrate. I wouldn’t mind getting older if it didn’t mean that I would be less young, if it didn’t mean that I was inching closer to death. My life is most likely about than 1/3 over, if I’m lucky, and the (arguably) most exciting times are behind me. That’s not something to celebrate. Will there be good in the future? Of course. But it is to come, and I don’t think I have to celebrate that.
Rather, I find myself feeling sad that the past is growing larger. Every birthday I have I try to wrap my head around the previous year and I end up with more regrets than I originally thought I might have. I should have taken that impulsive midnight drive to the middle of nowhere. I should not have slept so much. I should have splurged and gone to that concert. I should have kissed the girl at the end of the night. And the like. But, of course, nothing can be done about it now. 24 is done, and the best I can do is try to follow through during 25. For tonight, though, I sift through these tangible reminders of who I’ve been and what I’ve done for the past quarter-century, and am reminded of where I have to go. And this time ‘round, where I have to go is back into the stacks of books waiting for me upstairs. This time ‘round, my task is to find some intellecutual solace in the concept of solitude.
Towards the end of the night I got a surprise happy birthday call from M., vacationing with her extended family in Florida, and on her way with her family to midnight mass, no less. It was my only birthday call besides my grandparents. She is a sweetheart.
K., a dear friend, wrote out a poem for me for one of my birthdays-my 15th or 16th. That was 10 years ago, it occurs to me. She is an important figure in my own history: my first real crush, my first kiss, all that. I was not sure what she was aiming for by giving me this poem, but today, as I unearthed the tattered half-sheet from piles upon piles of personal history, I realized that she was trying to tell me something about myself that I somehow didn’t grasp back then. At the time it was about me in relation to her, but it can be generalized. I might have only fully grasped the lesson recently. But the poem (and K.’s intentions in giving it to me way back when) seemed to align themselves neatly with today’s predicament: turning a quarter-century old and not liking it, and reconciling solitude with personal experience. Happy birthday to me.
“The Snow King”
by Rita Dove
In a far far land where men are men
and women are sun and sky
The Snow King paces. And light throws
a gold patina on the white spaces
where sparrows lie frozen in hallways.
And he weeps for the sparrows, their clumped feathers:
Where is the summer that lasts forever,
with night as soft as antelope eyes?
The Snow King roams the lime-filled spaces
his cracked heart a slow fire, a garnet.
music: Nickel Creek- Nickel Creek
Real friendship is a remarkable thing. This weekend was a celebration of friendship of the highest order. Reuben and Mara were married this weekend; they have been best friends since ninth grade. Theirs is a friendship that has held strong across distance and time, has transcended the various phases of life through which each has passed, and has culminated in them becoming family. Gathered this weekend were their family, as well as friends from present and past (we friends being a family of sorts in our own right), to celebrate this remarkable friendship that has become a marriage.
A union between two people from the same place in the world and with so much common history is a special thing for the community to which they belong. The world seems a little more welcome and full, a little more familiar and comfortable. The fact that the wedding was held in Milwaukee was an important piece of the picture, and I was glad to come back here and reconnect with that part of me which grew here alongside Reuben, Mara, and the others with whom I shared my childhood. It would not really be held anywhere else, of cousre, but the city in which we grew up together provided that context appropriate to us gathering and celebrating something that started right here so many years back. There is a sense of deep history in this place for a lot of us who were gathered this weekend. Milwaukee itself lended meaning to the celebration through the ties that we all have to this place. It is easy to forget where one comes from if one no longer lives there and is not surrounded with people from there. It is easy to lose track of my own history and to have a chance to come back to Milwaukee this weekend and reunite with so many friends and celebrate the next chapter in this community was a necessary.
One of the perks of having one of your oldest friends get married to his high school sweetheart is that our group of friends would reunite in order to celebrate the occasion. As time has gone on and we have spread out around the country, we have had less and less opportunity to see each other. Sometimes we would meet up in smaller numbers, more frequently we would continue the back-and-forth that started in high school electronically. Rare is the occasion that we all find ourselves in the same place at the same time, and thanks to an occasion such as the one this weekend, we all had an opportunity to spend some good time with each other and celebrate our own friendships which are still very much alive, even after significant time spent apart. I feel especially blessed to know these people and be a part of such a wonderful group of friends, which has expanded over the years to include people I have only met through my friends from grade school and high school. There were Reuben’s friends from camp (Mara being one of them, now that I think about it) that did not go to high school with me, but still have become my friends. There are friends that Reuben made in college that have become my friends. And, of course, there are the friends I made in grade school and high school that I don’t have the opportunity to see all that often. That we all could come together this weekend to celebrate one of our friends’ most potent and wonderful rites of passage was a special thing, something I cherish.
There is something to be said for my relationship with these people here that is fundamentally different from the relationships with people I’ve met and value as friends since moving from Milwaukee. While my friends here are just as valued as my friends elsewhere, I feel a certain affinity for people with whom I grew up, whose families I know, with whom I have shared a much more deep sampling of my life. I spent some quality time talking with some people this weekend that I haven’t seen since high school, and haven’t talked to in even longer, but nevertheless found a certian level of comfort and familiarity that can only come from growing up together. Coupled with that was the task of bridging the past several years, realizing where we have been respectively since then, and relating on how we’ve grown and changed. And that there is still much of that same person that I knew and who knew me when we were kids. In this sense, the wedding was a re-union with many aspects of many of our shared past that have morphed and developed into something that is completely viable here and now, in the present.
This last point might be the centerpiece of Reuben and Mara’s marriage. As we grew up with them, they grew up with each other, and as such have a deep and strong history. I know that the roots they they share will serve as the foundation for a strong and lasting union and the basis from which they will spend the rest of their lives together, perpetuating this community of friendship and love well into the future.
This weekend of connection and re-union with so many good people from long-neglected corners of my life is a shift from my recent life’s practices and activities. I have been living somewhat of a monastic life in Boston as of late, occupied with the intellectual and the institutional. It is supremely ironic that I will be researching and writing a paper on solitude for that world for the rest of the week.
