There’s this kid who, through all of elementary and middle and high school, has real issues with male authority. He is angry at his dad, but he doesn’t know it yet. For now, he just antagonizes whatever other men cross his path.
One exception, though, is a high school teacher named Jeff.
Jeff teaches humanities class, a blend of English and history, and he smiles ferociously and speaks passionately about ideas, any and all of them: supply and demand, Heart of Darkness, the Russian Revolution. Jeff makes the world seem so big, and the kid admires that.
Jeff is also the varsity soccer coach, and in this kid’s junior year, before the state playoff game, Jeff takes a moment after warm-ups to pull him and one other player aside and look them in the eye and own a disappointing message: this is a tough opponent, he explains, and you might not take the field tonight, but you are as much a part of this team as anyone else. After the win, Jeff makes these two boys feel extra welcome on the bus ride home. When they pull into Burgermaster, Jeff asks them what flavor milkshakes they want and waves off their money. As he slurps down his shake and looks out the window, the kid stops to think: Jeff didn’t have to do that. He’s had other coaches who would have just not said anything.
One more thing about Jeff: the cafeteria at school is three city blocks up from the main building, and as he walks there for lunch, Jeff has a habit of bending over and picking up trash from the sidewalk and out of the flower beds. The kid watches Jeff throw away empty Coke cans and Reece’s wrappers before grabbing his plate of food.
Almost 20 years later, the kid is now a man, with a wife and a mortgage and life insurance. When his wife gets home in the afternoons, they walk their two dogs together. She takes the small one and he takes the big one.
The big dog dies one day, and the man has no dog to walk. He carries the leash as an homage, a way to tell the dog’s spirit: You do not need to be with us in the flesh in order to be with us.
Still, his hands feel idle.
And so he finds something for them to do:
At the start of each walk, just before they lock the door and head out, he grabs a plastic bag.
As they make their way down the street, he picks up as much trash as he can.
My Writing Groups
I host writing groups called You Have a Story, where the focus is on writing creatively in a welcoming, nurturing, and affirming community. It’s a fun time, as these reviews will tell you.
I haven’t quite nailed down the late summer/early fall schedules yet, but if you’re at all interested, voicing that interest here is the best way to stay in the loop.
Absolutely lovely.
JB!