I Like You as a Person: The Many Faces of Rejection

You were an excellent candidate. We're sure you'll find the right fit very soon. 

After reviewing your submission, we have decided that it's not right for our upcoming  issue. 

I like you as a person. 

We like you as a person. 

We're posting your position. We need to find the best teacher we can for these students. Maybe that's you. You're welcome to reapply if you want. 

This just isn't working out. 

We can still be friends. 

Perhaps the most damning: silence. 

We've all faced rejection. We've seen it come in its various forms, taking on different tones and phrasings to meet its needs. It can be said with a smile, a half-grimace that looks just as uncomfortable to make as it is to hear. Maybe it comes in the form of a lost job or the dissolution of a relationship, a rejected manuscript; it can come face to face, through an email, a text, a phone call. Regardless of the wording or means of communication, the message is simple and painful, landing like a sharp slap across the face: someone, for some reason, has decided that you are not good enough. There are times when the news comes as no surprise; hints have been dropped to the extent that you'd actually be more surprised if the news never came. Other times it comes as a shock, no warning signs evidenced in the days, the weeks, the months leading up to it. 

I knew my first marriage was over long before my divorce was finalized. And I was glad when it was official, a statement of mutual rejection on the part of both parties forever etched in stone as a statement of something that had failed. Likewise, I knew it was very likely that I would lose my job at the end of the last school year. One of my bosses had dropped hints throughout most of the year, even telling me in a meeting that I may have to reinterview for my position over the summer. So it came as no surprise when, on the last day of school, I was called into the office and told I no longer had a job. In fact, I told them I'd have been more surprised had we not been having that conversation. And then one of the assistant principals smiled at me and said, "We like you as a person." And it felt as though a little piece of my soul withered and died. I was there as a teacher, a professional with a job to do. I'm glad they liked me as a person, but I needed them to like me as an educator.  

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When my exwife was fired from the doctors office where she worked during the first year or so of our marriage, a good friend of mine told me something that I've been turning over in my mind for the last several months. He had been let go from a management position nearly twenty years before, and as I sat in his office after telling him of Amanda's being fired, he said, "It's tough. Once a person loses a job, they're never the same." I didn't think much of it, having never been let go from a position. I couldn't relate to being in that situation. But I've found now that he's right. You begin to doubt, to question. You wonder if you truly aren't good enough. Whatever confidence you had is replaced by self doubt; you find that you question your abilities, wondering if maybe your passions truly are greater than your talents; and you begin to wonder what exactly it is you're supposed to be doing with your life. At least that's where I've found myself thee past few months. If I'm not a teacher, what am I?

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Shortly before my divorce was finalized, I had dinner with a friend who had also recently gone through a divorce. We talked about the direction our lives were going, and the topic of God's plan for our lives came up. She said that sometimes she will stop and call out, "God, was that your plan? Was that your plan and I fucked it up?" I've always heard that God has a plan for us, that everything happens for a reason. Somedays that's a comfort, a gentle reminder that everything will be okay; but more often than not, it provides little solace, as I watch my life take directions I would never have expected. I never expected to be an out-of-work divorced father. I never expected to be questioning if I truly wanted to be a teacher or if I was any good at teaching. I never expected losing a teaching job to hit me as hard as it has. 

When we are faced with rejection, those closest to us offer support in any way they can. Some will tell us with a smile to consider the source. "They told you you weren't good enough? Come on, they're not exactly doing great themselves," they'll say, an attempt to make us feel better, suggesting maybe we're just as good if not better than those who rejected us. It's a quiet comfort, but as the weeks stretch into months of bei unemployed, of being single, that comfort, as superficial as it can be, begins to wane. 

A friend of mine who taught high school for eight years had finally had enough last year. He suffered a nervousness breakdown and took a medical leave. He was written off until the end of the school year and refused to go back those year, officially quitting. He told me that the scrutiny and rejection were too much, and that he would never again work for people who weren't as smart as he was. When faced with rejection, that can be an easy attitude to adopt. It can mark you feel better, superior, but it can't be a healthy attitude to sustain, for it must be draining to keep up that pretense as a defense mechanism to deter future rejection and criticism. 

                             

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Rejection can be a learning experience. We can use it, learn from it, and be better the next time. But it takes quite a while and quite a determination to reach that point, where acceptance begins and then transforms into something beneficial, something to carry us into a brighter future. I have to admit I'm not there yet. I haven't accepted that my not being good enough can actually make me a better teacher. I know it's true, but acceptance and knowledge are two different albeit related things. For if I truly accept it, I'll have to let go of the bitterness that took root with the sting of rejection. I'll have to move on. Maybe to a new teaching position. Maybe to a new career. I don't know at this point, for as my friend suggested, I'm no longer the same. Always a doubtful, self conscious person, these feelings of inadequacy have increased exponentially since last May. It's easy for me to think I'm smarter than some teachers I know who still have jobs. Easy, but not healthy, for it gives me an air of superiority that will get me nowhere. Nowhere except depressed that they have jobs and I don't. 

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What to do when faced with rejection? The easy answer is to reflect on it, accept it, learn from it, and move on. But that, like so many things life, is much easier said than done. 

The Patience of a Spider

I was sitting on my front porch a few evenings ago when I noticed a spider spinning a web between a curve in my railing. It had only a single strand, and it was slowly making its way toward the top. In all the time I sat there, it made it only about half way.

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My wife and I married when I was in still in college, against her father's wishes that we wait until I had graduated. I was working two jobs and going to school full time; she had decided to quit school around the time we got engaged so that she could take a full-time position at a doctor's office, with both of us agreeing that she would return to school once I graduated. Instead, she went back during our first year of marriage and stayed until we had our son. During the course of that first year, we were met with familial problems and health issues for those we loved, and those issues, compounded with the typical difficulties of a new marriage, mainly learning to live with another person, someone new, made our first year of marriage more difficult than I had imagined. Part of me had hoped, maybe even expected, that it would be a blissful, romantic period, rather like something out of a movie, and sure, we had our moments, but it was in no way the bohemian, free-spirited, care-free life I had hoped for. And then we found out after only a few months of marriage that we were expecting our first (and only) child. The pressure mounted.

During our marriage, my wife often acted as the leader and voice of faith, telling me that we could do anything for a year. In a year, I'd finish school. In a year, I'd get a good job. In a year... One year stretched into two, two into three, three into four, until finally, a year ago this month, we decided for the first time to end our marriage. I suppose to say that it was the first time isn't entirely true, for we talked about divorce for three of the four years we were married, only officially splitting up for good last Christmas night. In our hearts and minds, both of us had played out the dissolution of our marriage, who would leave whom, how we'd do it, countless times, even after we reconciled briefly last August, but we never followed through with the decision for one reason or another. Until last winter. But over the course of those years, she'd constantly encourage me that it was only for a year, whatever it happened to be at the time. Financial struggles. Jobs we didn't like. She told me that we could tough out anything for a year. We just needed to be patient and diligent.

I graduated with a degree that I didn't really want, to do a job that I didn't really want to do. I wanted to teach college. I loved the atmosphere, the intellectual stimulation and discussions, the freedom. But I earned a degree to teach middle school students, a demographic I didn't believe I was truly destined to teach. So when I was offered a job adjuncting and running study sessions at a community college, I took it, no questions asked. It was closer to what I wanted to do, but the pay wasn't great. Better than bagging groceries, but not by much. So we struggled financially, our money problems only adding fuel to an already volatile situation. But we could do anything for a year. After that first year of adjuncting, I would get a full-time teaching job somewhere. Then one year turned into two. But during those two years, I made connections that eventually led to my first full-time position as a high school English teacher. I learned quickly, however, as I've mentioned in previous posts, that modern high school is remarkably different from what I had expected, and I found that I struggled and was often depressed from the environment in which I found myself. The fact that my landing a job that made me uncomfortable coincided with my wife leaving me for the first time only served to make the past 12 months the most difficult year of my life, a statement I don't make lightly. It was more difficult than the year that followed my mother's death; more difficult than the one that followed my father and stepmother's marriage,  a year of new people and new roles, of learning how to assimilate to a new environment, one marked by struggle and tension; for the events of this past year came at a time when I was in a position and of an age to more fully understand the effects of these events, a time when more variables were at play, and more lives were at stake concerning the actions made by those involved. And yet, as I sit here writing this, in the back of my mind, I hear, "We can do anything for a year." The past year is over, and I wonder where I go from here. I have an interview this week for two positions at a community college, either of which I  would love to get, and it seems that all of my efforts, all of my previous jobs, have led me to here, as if in preparation for either position. Wishful thinking? Maybe, but only time will tell. So I will wait and continue on, with patience and diligence. And regardless of the outcome, I'm far happier now than I've been in years.

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Yesterday morning at church, I watched an eighty-two year old man be baptized. His name is Charley, and I'd heard over dinner earlier in the week that he'd gotten saved. I recognized the name when I heard it, though I couldn't put a face to it. And then when I saw him yesterday morning as he made his way into the water, I immediately recognized him as a man I'd seen countless times at church over the years. He was a regular attendee, and had I not learned he'd only recently accepted Christ, I'd have been none the wiser that he hadn't been a Christian all along as he sat in the pews week after week for all those years. Our pastor talked of all the people who had prayed for this man, prayed that he'd come to know Christ before he died; prayers that had been offered up for years by the faithful. Prayers of people who had prayed, waiting patiently, diligently, for this man to come to know a Christ who had waited and called just as patiently and diligently for all those years. Prayers of a people who never gave up because they loved this man.

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As I sat on my porch the next evening, I noticed that the spider had woven a beautiful web. Patiently, diligently, it had not only made its way up that single strand, but had turned that strand into something magnificent. Something intricate. Something beautiful. All it took was time, patience, and diligence.

Under the Influence

I had a conversation with someone about a year ago in which I accused her of being a bad influence on someone about whom I cared. It was not the ideal time to be having that conversation—middle of the night, tensions high. Neither was truly in the proper state of mind to have any sort of intellectual discussion, one because of anxiety and anger, perhaps other issues and impediments to logical discourse. And I don’t remember much of what was said, but I remember one rebuttal being issued, and it has stuck with me: “How can I be an influence on her? I’m younger than she is.” That struck a chord within me, made me consider how our actions influence those around us, and what responsibility we have to our fellow man. And I’m not talking about Christian influence here, though there is definitely some carryover between being a good Christian influence and being a good human influence. I’m merely talking about our ability to affect those around us.

A short time after that conversation, I was sitting in a counseling session, talking about my dissatisfaction with and anxiety concerning the path my life had taken, particularly the fact that I hadn’t yet begun to feel at ease in my job. It was in there, in that counseling session, that I vocalized that maybe I had missed my calling in life, had veered from the path my life was supposed to take. The counselor looked at me and said, “You don’t think you can be an influence there? All of those students you come into contact with on a daily basis. You don’t think you can be used there?” I’m paraphrasing, as I don’t recall precisely what he said, but the gist of his message was that I was in a prime position to positively influence future generations, to affect positive change. I knew that, deep down, but I was so focused on the negative aspects of my life, a life that seemed to spiraling out of control at the time, that I had ignored the fact that I could make a difference for those I encountered day after day.

 But that point, that I could be an influence in more areas than just reading and writing, was one that I was reminded of last evening. All of my former students, high school and college, have my Google Voice number, and one of my students texted me last night to ask my advice. He is going through some major life changes and wanted to know what I thought he should do. He said that he had always come to me for advice at school, that I was a “pretty cool guy” and always gave good, intelligent advice. I was honored that, even though I’m no longer his teacher and will never be again, he still trusted me enough to ask for advice. I gave him my best, most honest answer and wished him the best.

But the conversation, brief as it was, made me start thinking about influence, particularly how to be a good influence and whether or not I am. I try to be one. I try to keep my temper in check and see the world from others’ perspectives. I have to admit that a lot of this, this learning how to think in a manner that is less egotistical, to think in a manner that doesn’t put me at the center of some tiny universe around me, comes from my reading and teaching David Foster Wallace’s Kenyon College commencement speech every semester for the past three years(which you can find here: http://moreintelligentlife.com/story/david-foster-wallace-in-his-own-words). When someone cuts me off in traffic, I try to put myself in his/her shoes, wondering if perhaps, as Wallace mentions, it is I who happen to be in that person’s way, whereas once I’d have been far more apt to cuss and flip the person off. That’s not to say my tongue doesn’t sometimes get the best of me and I don’t sometimes allow my road rage to flare up. But I quickly try to control my thinking when this happens, for not only do I believe this is the right thing to do, but also because I never know who’s watching. And who knows, maybe this calm reaction in a seemingly mundane instance will be noticed.

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If someone had asked me when I was 18 or 19 where I would be by my mid-twenties, if I didn’t rattle of some pipedream of being Jack Kerouac, or being a musician, or owning my own café and bookstore, I’d have answered that I’d be a teacher. The last possible answer I would have even considered as a possibility would be a divorced single father whose attempts at teaching seemingly failed. But I know I was a positive influence, in some way, to my students over the past three years, perhaps more so to my college students, but at both levels I was able to affect some positive change in those I encountered. I had countless conversations with students during and after their time in my class in which they thanked me for caring, for being there for them, for helping them, for not giving up on them when so many others had. And now I’m left wondering what comes next. I’m unemployed, looking for a job where my talents, whatever they may be, can be put to use for good.

Which takes me back to the start. “How can I be an influence on her? I’m younger than she is.” Never underestimate your ability to be a positive influence on those around you. It may be a smile at a stranger, or a seemingly innocent “How are you?” or any of the other trivialities we go through, those seemingly banal activities that make up the everydayness of every day. But people are watching. And if you claim to be a Christian, it seems people watch a little more closely, for better or worse. But this isn’t about Christianity, it’s about being a good person. A good influence. Here’s to hoping I am.

Mere(ly Nominative) Christianity

I was saved at a young age, around fifth or sixth grade. I had been raised in church my whole life—Sunday school, Sunday worship, Wednesday night prayer meeting, VBS, church camp. The list of the ways in which I was exposed to church in my life goes on and on. I had that gentle tugging of the Spirit deep down, and eventually I prayed the sinner’s prayer. But in truth, I had thought it and uttered many times prior to that because I never thought it felt real. Then one day it did. So at the onset of my adolescence, I became like so many of the people around me: saved. My developing mind thought it had an understanding of what this meant, but in the intervening years, I’ve wondered if I truly understand what commitment I had made. From what had I been saved? Stealing a fellow student’s pencil at school when he wasn’t looking? Telling a white lie every now and then? I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I cussed rather infrequently, if at all. And thoughts of sex had only just begun to creep into my mind. But I was saved, of that much I was sure. But I really suppose I had no idea from what. And this is a theme that has become a constant in my fiction since I’ve begun to take writing seriously. I often find myself reflecting on those early years of my faith and my infantile understanding of what I was professing.

I suppose at that early age, I had a very legalistic view of Christianity: don’t drink, don’t smoke, and don’t have sex outside of marriage. Oh, and don’t be gay. And don’t support those who are. Those were the strongest messages that I seemed to hear most often in the churches of my youth, and they continue to be the ones I hear quite often. But it was around my freshman year of high school that my already questioning mind began to consider the beliefs I professed, the stances I took, and what they meant for me, especially in a developing world that was shaping around me: exposure to new ideas, new beliefs, foundations so different from mine. And this questioning would extend into college, where I was exposed to different worldviews, different religions and the beliefs thereof, to elements of history that had been sugarcoated or just ignored in high school and church to that point in my life. I attended secular postsecondary schools, and I delved into the humanities with much enthusiasm. Always an avid reader, I truly began to become the intellectual that I am today in humanities courses in my early twenties. By the time I reached nineteen, my thinking was more developed than it had been ten years before, obviously, but as my thinking developed, matured, and evolved, it began to resemble the thoughts of my early faith less and less. More and more, I began to see myself as different from the Christians around me: I was more freethinking, more liberal, more open to other religions. I began to feel as though church wasn’t necessarily the place for me, particularly after certain situations over legalistic views came to a head and I found myself engaged in debates I had never truly expected with those who stood behind the pulpit each week. I considered myself a Christian, but I didn’t fit into a neat little mold of Christianity, the image I so often heard about and saw around me.

I was sitting in a Sunday school class when I was about twenty and I heard a statement that shocked me. The question about the extent to which Christians should be tolerant of other religions was posed, a seemingly decent question to generate discussion. An answer was issued and the general acceptance of the answer shocked me: Christians should only tolerate the religious views of others to the extent needed to win them to Christ. I’m open to religious discussions and debates because I have an interest in the ways others live. I couldn’t imagine looking at a friend of another religion and tolerating him/her only so that I could convince him/her that he/she was wrong. True discussion should have far more room for listening than for talking. If I enter into a conversation only with the purpose of changing the other person’s views—the person’s foundation and life—how much listening am I actually doing? I believe we can learn from each other, and we should be tolerant of other views for the sake of being humanitarian and respectful.

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Someone in my family once proposed that maybe I would be a great preacher. I don’t know what led her to make that proclamation, what she had seen in me at an early age that would lead to such a determination. But I’ve always had that idea wedged in the back of my mind. Maybe I could have been a preacher. Maybe a youth minister. The idea resurfaced when my wife and I were in marriage counseling for the second time. I had just begun teaching high school, and something during the counseling sessions led me to begin thinking about it again. It was an idea that had been tucked away, springing up only in my fiction, as characters struggle with missed callings and wondering how life would’ve been different had they answered what they believed to have been God’s calling. The idea comes and goes. I’ve often joked about it. What sort of pastor would I be? I drink. I cuss. Major no-no’s in most Christian circles.

It’s been hard for me to shake the legalistic views I saw while growing up. I began to see everything as a sin, everything from smoking a cigar to going to a bar to see a band play. I saw Christianity as a list of rules that shouldn’t be broken. My reading the work of Donald Miller helped combat this view (if you haven’t read his work on Christian Spirituality, I recommend you do so.) But some days this view still lingers at the back of my mind. My mother once told me, though I don’t remember why or in what context, that there were men in our church would go get drunk. I’m fine with drinking—drunkenness, no; that is one point on which I will agree with fundamentalist Christians. Over ten years later, though, I still find myself wondering about whom she was talking. Not that it matters—I wish the best for those struggling with alcoholism. Or any form of addiction. And one of the most beautiful sentiments I’ve heard from the pulpit came from one of my ex-wife’s friends, a local youth pastor. He talked about the perception some people have of church and those who attend it. “Oh, but that guy’s an alcoholic,” he said, mimicking those who would caste a negative light on certain groups who may attempt to worship during a service. “Oh, yeah? Great, he can sit next to me. I’m a liar.” And it was beautiful, and it was all about love.  

Dress was another issue. Sandals were okay for women if they were dressy sandals. Guys—well, you’d better be wearing shoes. Shorts? Forget about it! Khakis with worn and frayed hems? Not a chance. I saw women turned away from singing in church for wearing pants. All of these views bothered me. I thought Jesus was far more concerned with my heart and how I helped others than with the fact that I may be wearing a Ramones t-shirt and jeans to church.

And all of this is not to make a blanket statement about Christianity, which I would have once used it for. I merely want to relay my understanding and views and how my beliefs and ideas have been shaped. Some of the best Christians I know are also some of the best people I know. Others of the best people are of no religious affiliation. Or they are Pagan. Atheist. Agnostic. And these are people who once I would have looked at mainly in the light of being non-Christian.

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When my wife left me the second time, I called someone in her family to meet me to talk. He is one of the best Christians I know, answered the call to preach, has led house churches, and once called just to pray with me. We met at Starbucks for coffee, and over the course of a couple hours, we talked about everything from God, to my faltering marriage, to music and film. And one point of the conversation that stuck in mind was what he said when I told him I felt as though there were people in my life who were offering too many opinions on the state of my marriage. I understand now that they were only trying to help; but I suppose I wasn’t really looking for help as much as I was looking for sounding boards. I told him this and his response surprised me: “Man, you’ve to tell them to just move the fuck out of the way. This is your relationship.” I was stunned, for he wasn’t one I’d have expected to use the F-Word (as it is so often called in polite, conservative circles). But I have to admit that his doing so made him seem more human. He then proceeded to pull his Bible out of his backpack and lead me in a quick devotion and prayer.

There were other areas of my life that didn’t (and perhaps still don’t) really seem to mesh with my Christianity. Although I was technically a virgin when I married, most pastors would debate my using that term to describe myself. I don’t pray as often as I should. I rarely read my Bible, and I’ve been known to read the Bible looking for bits that I’ve never heard read in church, wondering about the social and cultural context in which they were written. I am a strong proponent of gay rights: gay marriage, gay adoption.  I drink in public. I go to R-rated movies and read books about other religions and views not so I can find the errors of their ways but because I find them interesting. All of which I have heard preached against at one time or another.

But somewhere along the way, I began to see Christianity far less as rules to follow and more about helping others. The legalism began to fade, though remnants still linger, and I began to see it as more about missional living, about helping those around us—the poor, the needy, the downtrodden. For a while, I wanted to find a church that practiced missional living, for I felt that that was where I needed to be. I didn’t really see that at my church, but that’s because I was convinced it wasn’t there without really looking. After a crisis of faith, I tried different churches, each of which had its merits. But for now, I’m home, where I spent so much of my time questioning. Are all of my questions answered? No, of course not. I don’t agree with everything that I hear preached, especially in a socio-political context. I’m a strong liberal, socially and fiscally. But it’s home, with Godly people, who love God and who love each other. And who have a concern for those in society who need help.

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I used to scoff at the idea of Christian music and the idea that it is so strongly represented on local radio. We have no jazz station, no true oldies station, no indie rock station, but there are three or four Christian stations. I’ve always had a love for gospel music, a love that I’ll not discuss to thoroughly here for I’ve written an essay about it that I’m trying to get published. But I have to admit that I’d have not gotten through several months in the last year without KLOVE and WALKFM, stations that, cliché as their commercials sound, truly are encouraging and uplifting.

These days, I find myself reading and listening more to people like Derek Webb, Donald Miller, and Rich Mullins. And I suppose I’ll end this with one of my favorite Rich Mullin’s Quotes:
 “I had a professor one time... He said, 'Class, you will forget almost everything I will teach you in here, so please remember this: that God spoke to Balaam through his ass, and He has been speaking through asses ever since. So, if God should choose to speak through you, you need not think too highly of yourself. And, if on meeting someone, right away you recognize what they are, listen to them anyway'.” 

Love in the Beginning

Attraction at some point likely blends into love, and love in the beginning is usually easy to spot, even stereotypically so. There are tell-tale sings we’ve come to associate with it, molding it into a stock character we can easily identify: holding hands; sitting close together, two young lovers crowded into the same side of a booth; silly texts that elicit a smile from the receiving party; walking down the street, arms around each other; and even in a crowded room, the two in love can look for all the world as though they are the only ones who exist. When it appears, we know it and what it is going to do and be. There are giddy feelings of euphoria for those involved, those in love, and these feelings are often manifested through expressions: a silly smile at random times, a dreamy look of longing and contentment. And I don’t intend to make light of these feelings and outward manifestations of something we all (at least most) of us can relate to. In fact, that is part of my reason for mentioning them here—these are feelings almost everyone can appreciate, for nearly everyone, at some time in his/her life, has been in situations where these feelings were prevalent. But what I want to consider is what comes next. What happens when this honeymoon feeling passes, when real life settles in? For surely it will.

The length of this honeymoon feeling, of course, differs for each relationship, but if we are going to be adults about love and our interactions with each other, we must accept that, at some point, the giddy feeling we so enjoy is going to diminish. It may not totally end, but that high we get from another person will begin to wane. So what happens when it does? I’ve come to find that what happens next is dependent upon the maturity of those involved. This is in no way to suggest that any set answer is intrinsically linked to a particular achieved level of maturity, though perhaps love would be so much simpler if that were the case; but it wouldn’t be quite the learning experience, now would it? Some people reach the point in a relationship where they determine it is time to marry; others reach a point where they determine it is in their best interest to break up and go their separate ways. And when I was younger, these were the only two options presented to me. I was always told that every relationship reaches the point where those involved must decide to either marry or break up. It was, as I understood it, the natural order of things. I’m sure there is some truth to this, but the third option that was never presented as a viable option to me, for it was deemed sinful and wrong, is that two consenting adults could choose to live together outside of marriage. This idea was always presented as one that was riddled with shame, those who conducted themselves in this manner subject to gossip behind covered mouths between the pews one morning per week (at least in my experience).

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve begun to see that life isn’t always so black and white. There are shades of gray that are subject to personal views and feelings, personal convictions that determine individual’s actions. And it’s the shades of gray that I find so interesting in relationships, for the shades of gray are, I believe, what determine the actions of those in a relationship after the newness and giddiness of love have worn off, replaced by what comes next: real love. Some get wrapped up in that giddy feeling and try to make it last long after it has faded; some allow this giddy feeling to lead them down the aisle, and then a predicament truly arises once the feeling has faded: they’ve married a feeling with a person attached, and once that feeling is gone, all that is left is the person once attached to it. Others go their separate ways once the feeling is gone, long before any trip down the aisle. Still others differentiate between the feeling of love and loving someone, the latter of which is determined by a choice, a choice to stick by the person whom you love even after the feeling is gone. To stick with that person when he/she is sick. To stick with that person through affairs and through reconciliations.

None of this is to say that there is any one set answer, of course, or that a particular maturity level really dictates actions in an explicit way. Here’s an example: I’ve a friend who has been with his boyfriend for nearly 18 years, better than four times the length of my first marriage. He, my friend, is quite well read, an academic, a writer. His boyfriend is not. He will be the first to suggest that they don’t seem to be a likely couple. The boyfriend (I’m trying to keep names out of this) has had at least two affairs over the years, left, but always come back. And my friend has taken him back each time. Why? Because he loves him. They’re beyond just that euphoric feeling of newness, beyond the telltale signs of love in the beginning, and they’ve settled into a life for themselves.

It’s cute and, I believe important, to tell the one whom we’re with that he/she make us happy and that we hope to always make him/her smile.  But maybe we can’t always make that person happy, and perhaps it’s unrealistic to believe we can. But we try to do so every day. We send texts in the morning to tell the person about whom we care to have a good day; throughout the day when we think about him/her; again at night to wish sweet dreams. But that feeling will fade in time. So what happens when attraction blends to love in the beginning and then morphs into love in the mundane? When seeing someone every day becomes the everyday? I can’t say I truly know what lies in the gray. I wish I did. I wish I knew what path my love life is going to take over the next several years. But since I don’t, I suppose I’ll just sit back and enjoy it. For I’ve been reminded of something lately that I had forgotten: relationships are supposed to be fun. What a pleasant surprise.

We drink. We smoke. We teach.

When I was 17 I decided that I wanted to be a high school English teacher (actually, I wanted to be Jack Kerouac, hitchhiking across the country, hopping freight trains, and writing; but I decided teaching English would be a more viable option.) I love literature and the realization that I could spend my day, every day, talking about literature and the ideas about society and humanity, was enlightening and amazing. I couldn’t wait for my future to come.

And then sometime during my sophomore year of college, I decided that I wanted to teach college English, prompted in part by a couple courses I took that changed the way I thought about literature, writing, and education, and how the three meld together in academic discourse. At that point, my metamorphosis from mere reader to academic intellectual was beginning. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time; all I knew was that I wanted to teach college. So, of course, I did the most logical thing I could: I got a degree in middle grades education, with certifications to teach English and social studies, knowing that I had no desire to teach in most of the grades in which I would be certified, 5-9. Ninth grade? Sure. Anything lower than that? Not a chance, especially after my student teaching experience, wherein I spent 16 weeks teaching 7^th graders how to write poetry and about the society of Ancient Rome. That experience taught me much about the world of education, but it primarily served to exacerbate any underlying concerns I had about teaching anything lower than high school. But I convinced myself that my BA in education would serve as a springboard to getting an MA in English, thus allowing me to teach college.

After college graduation, I would spend two years as an adjunct teaching developmental writing and ACT preparatory courses at a local community college. And then, through a twist of fate and providence, I wound up back where I’d wanted to when I was 17: I got a job teaching freshman and sophomore English at a local high school. To say I was nervous as my first day of my new job approached would be an obvious understatement. I was petrified, especially as in the month leading up to the first day, as I spent time planning and prepping, I learned that the high school experience I had left just eight years previous was remarkably different from the world I was entering as an educator. Nearly totally gone was the discussion of literature that I had loved as a student, replaced by a focus on informational texts. No longer did we read the entirety of novels, instead focusing on individual parts that met various standards. In fact, I was told that I may be wise to choose my standards to teach prior to selecting a work; that way I would ensure I was meeting the different standards. And, perhaps best of all, it seemed, I may not even have to teach the entirety of the work to meet the standards! If I could teach the theme of Of Mice and Men by reading just a few scenes, why waste time reading all of it? In the place of reading whole novels in class came Accelerated Reader, a program I had last seen as a middle school student. I quickly came to the conclusion that nothing in my past—not my time as a high school student, not my education courses, not even my time teaching developmental writing—had prepared me for teaching high school.

And I found the amount of paperwork and documentation, to say nothing of the grading, as certain assignments were mandated, staggering. Overwhelming at times. There were days during the first few months of teaching high school that I went home on the verge of tears, questioning whether I was truly supposed to be teaching high school, if maybe I had missed my calling somewhere and had totally screwed up the path my life was supposed to take. The newness of my teaching experience coupled with the tumultuous twists and terms of my personal life during the course of the year left me stressed, overwhelmed, and often unbearable to those around me, a fact of which I’m not proud. But I’ve learned a lot this year—about teaching, about the world of high school, about the nature of learning and what it means to learn—and I hope to carry all that I’ve learned this year into the next; and I believe I will be a better teacher for what I’ve learned and done this year.

And one thing I’ve learned is that many of us who teach are medicated; some self-medicated, some actually medicated. Lexapro. Prozac. Zoloft. You name it, we’re on it. Enough of us in education are on some sort of anti-anxiety medication and/or antidepressant that we could moonlight as apothecaries. We stand in the hallways between classes, talking about how we can’t wait to “tie one on” that evening, how we plan to wreck our livers over the weekend, all to cope with the stress of teaching. Just to get up and do it again the next day, the next week. The next year. Many of us sneak off on planning periods and lunch breaks to smoke out of the sight of our students, anything to calm our nerves before the bell rings. We vent and complain, bounce ideas off each other; we lament the way it used to be, the way it was when we started teaching, how it was when we were students. We wonder where society and education went wrong and what we can do to fix it. We have ideas and plans, grand schemes to save the public education system and our students, to better prepare them for college and the real world they will enter after graduation. We have the best of intentions, ways to get our students engaged in the arts, in the world around them, to make them more well-rounded individuals and citizens. And we do this, every day, in some form or fashion. Yet we always lament that we could do more but don’t, for one reason or another. Perhaps it’s a lack of resources, of funding, or maybe it’s simply a lack of time to accomplish all we would like to. Time is our greatest commodity, and it is so fleeting. The day ends and we stare at the paperwork on our desks, just waiting for us to get back to it the next day. We spend evenings and weekends grading and planning for the next week, documenting student successes and failures, parent contacts.

And then the year ends, and we’re tired. Some of us check out in the last few weeks, following our students down a path of apathy once survival mode sets in. We welcome summer with open arms, ready for the months-long break that awaits us. And I know we’re not that unique. Most people find their jobs overbearing and difficult; most people have down days and reach survival mode long before the weekend offers a brief respite. But I suppose I write this because I’m surprised: surprised by the difficulties of teaching in a world where the standards of education are in flux ; surprised by the level of stress associated with my chosen career; surprised by the number of us who love our jobs but get through them primarily with the help of medication.

But I’m also surprised by how rewarding it can be. Every once in a while, I’ll see the progress a student has made, or a student will thank me for making a difference in his life, or for being the first English teacher in ten years of school to teach her anything about English. And even on the darkest days, that brief thank you is bright enough for a silver lining. 

What to Know Before You Sleep with a Writer

“You should know that I’m a writer. Anything you say can and will be stored away or written down, edited, revised, and manipulated over the course of the next several years, before ultimately winding up in a short story, novel, or play.” I actually said that to a friend of mine over dinner one night. We decided that if any story or dialogue I stole from her side of the conversation wound up in a prize-winning work, I’d give her co-author credit for Pulitzer purposes. That dinner has since become the basis for a scene in my play.  It was a few weeks later that she and I went to dinner again. We had decided that it would be a good idea for me to meet new people now that I’m divorced, so after she and I went to dinner, we met up with her boyfriend and several of her friends from medical school at what I soon learned was a college bar in Huntington. It was the second bar she and I had been to in as many months, and I quickly came to realize that this one was quite different. The first had been dark and moderately quiet, had unique décor, and had been filled with well-dressed people who could easily have passed for stereotypical yuppies and intellectuals. My kind of place. This one, however, was bright and loud, with sports on the TV, people crammed all around the bar in skimpy clothes and t-shirts, everyone trying to hook up with anyone and anything that was awake and breathing. And I’m starting to think the lack of the last qualifications would’ve by no means been a deal breaker for some. I ordered a Courvoisier, my favorite cognac. The bartender looked at me as though I had two heads and then wandered off to find the other bartender, who ultimately affirmed the first’s belief that either she or I had no idea what the hell we were talking about. “We don’t serve that,” she said suspiciously upon returning. So I ordered a Hennessy. Nope. No cognac of any kind.

I was out of place and I knew it as I sipped my Maker’s Mark. (At least they had bourbon.) I was surrounded by strangers, friends of a friend, most of whom I will likely never see again, all of whom were lost in varying degrees of drunkenness. I tried to engage some in conversation—a fellow divorcee who was more than happy to give me drunken advice on the ills of marriage was also all too happy to talk about his new-found freedom—but mostly I did what I do best: I listened. In most situations, it seems that’s what I do best. I walked away from that night more sure of who I was (and was not) as a person (ideas best kept for another entry) but more than that, I walked away with stories. Several stories taken from drunken conversation about hang-ups, hookups, one night stands, love, and loss. I was amazed at the stories people would willingly tell over drinks with a stranger. And I warned them that I was a writer working on a play and a novel, that anything they said may well be used against them in fiction. They kept talking. I walked away from the bar typing notes into my phone and leaving myself voice memos in which I ran dialogue with myself as if I were rehearsing.

I’ve always been interested in where stories come from, where we get the ideas that formulate our plots and subplots, how our characters and their words are based in elements of reality, and how much truth—personal truth—goes into fiction writing. It is not uncommon, now, for me to grab my phone mid-conversation and start typing out a gist of what the other person is saying. Those who also write get it; they understand what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I suppose that makes my seeming rudeness forgivable: it’s in the name of art.

A writer friend and I were at a pizza place a few weeks ago and our waitress was rather funny. At one point, she started to launch into a story, but I stopped her. “I should warn you,” I said, motioning to my friend across the table, “we’re both writers. There’s a chance anything you say will wind up in print.” She laughed and then launched into a story that one of her customers told her when asked if he wanted a straw. “I don’t drink from a straw,” he had said. “It looks like I’m drinking from a penis!” We chuckled at her story, but all the while, I couldn’t help but wonder what had prompted the man to say it in the first place. I’m intrigued by the conversations we have in public. What is it that drives us to tell things to complete strangers, things we likely shouldn’t? Or to have private conversations in the most public of forums: restaurants?

I don’t have an answer. I don’t even really know that I want one. If I figured out what it was about us as a people that drove us to do that, I don’t know that I would find the idea so interesting. So in the meantime, I’ll keep listening to those around me. Keep lifting parts of text messages and manipulating them. Writing down the conversations I have.

So what should you know before you sleep with, live with, or marry a writer: we write, and we don’t just make everything up from scratch. So be careful what you say and know that we really are listening, just maybe not in the way you think. Maybe we’re tweaking your words to make them sound just a little bit better, or imagining what your speech would sound like in an Irish accent. Maybe with a few more or less swear words. Or maybe we’re wondering if you’ll recognize yourself ten years down the road when you wind up in our work.