Keep Fighting (Hey, it's Monday!)

Happy Monday night! I've been busy, and a bit lazy, but I wanted to post something for you to ponder before bed.

Pain is something we all deal with, though the form (and the amount, of course) may vary. We tend to waste our time thinking our painful situations over, reliving the climax of the hurt and searching for its source. I am guilty of this quite often, but time and time again I am shown what good can come for the man who makes the best of his situation.

My cousin and best friend has dealt with his fair share of pain. To begin, he is a tremendous athlete. Competetive. Mean. Built like a truck. In high school, he was diagnosed with Aortic Stenosis, which is a heart condition where blood passes too forcefully into your aortic valve, causing the walls of the valve to dilate. In several cases, the subject is never aware of the problem, and the aorta suddenly bursts, killing him or her instantly (this is my basic understanding). I learned a couple lessons from this terrible diagnosis:

1: Making the best out of your situation will lead to the best outcome, and will bring peace to those around you.
I remember arriving at the hospital, furious that this had happened to him. When I walked in the room, a group of people sat around my cousin, laughing at a joke he was telling. He hugged me and said "Calm down. I'm fine." He never lost his spirit, and his positivity became contagious. Two months after a successful surgery (four months before he was to be 'fully recovered') he was playing high school basketball--the closest thing to a miracle I've ever witnessed.

2: Don't waste time sulking, worrying, or searching for answers. Take control of your situation, lean on the people around you, and take steps to improve.
One thing that helps me maintain my faith in humanity is the unity that follows tragedy. People come together. My cousin had overwhelming support; people made him food, brought him gifts, donated money, and not once did he act like he deserved it. He stayed grateful and used his support to expedite his recovery.

Following his heart surgery, two years of college basketball, a torn ACL, surgery, recovery, and two years of college football, my cousin began to focus on his career.

His dream was to be a police officer, but the lack of money in our state's bank account meant a small hiring window for most departments. He would finish in the top ten on the hiring list of several departments, but eventually the list would expire without any officers being hired.

When he finally received a position (not as a police officer, but a good-paying job in the right direction), the company approached him upon completing his physical and said the hiring process may be put on hold--because of his heart.

I wrote the following poem after hearing this news. It is written more for a spoken performance, but it reminds me of my cousin's perserverance. I responded to the news by angrily writing a poem. My cousin responded by taking control of the situation, and, once again, shooting down the barriers in front of him, all while keeping a smile on his face. What did it get him?

Last month he was officially hired by the Aurora Police Department.

So, if you're having a bad start to the week, keep fighting!

Have a great night!
========================================================

Death to Aortic Stenosis

My cousin, burly in size,

was kept from his job because

it required him to lift 25 pounds multiple times

And the doctor wouldn’t sign;

He tells me this news as the bell rings,

so I shake it off and begin teaching Iambic pentameter

to a room of bobbing heads, lulling them to sleep with

da-DUH, da-DUH, da-DUHs;

I wish I could give them a stethoscope to place on the breast of the poem,

letting them hear each word beat to Shakespeare’s rhythm.

I ask for the fans of the art to show their hands.

None.

Besides the kid in row one

who is a fan of everything.

So I ask myself, out loud,

“Why do I like poetry?”

To perhaps prompt an answer from the crowd.

None.

Not even from the kid in row one

who has an answer for everything.

So I probe on.

“What if a poem meant something to you?

What if it had a pulse, like a heart,

that thumped so much the verses bulged from the page?

What if poetry had a beat, unnatural

yet still enough to bring the words to life?

What if poetry flowed like blood,

each line of a villanelle a vein to your body

that livens you, enlightens you, fills you

with so much passion and power that you want to explode?

And what if every ounce of that passion

pounded into the limits of your lines,

pushed you to the brink of bursting,

So the poetry doctor who monitored your poem

told you “no more” to everything you worked hard for?

Gone,

because the beat of your quatrain

Was one Iamb away,

One da-DUH too many,

and all you were left with was a dream,

Unfulfilled, sagging in your outstretched arms

Like a limp, lifeless body,

Fingertips still tingling with fading fire,

Your beat still beating the same rhythm,

Pounding,

     passion plenty

            But still one da-DUH too many.

Then what if you wrote about it?

Would you take a stethoscope

And press against the breast of that poem,

And feel the pain in each da?

Each DUH?

Would it mean something to you?

Would you like poetry then?

An introduction...

I am writing this under the assumption that eventually people will look at my blog, and of those viewers, one or two may care about what I have to say. I am a 25 year-old high school English teacher in the Chicago suburbs, and a few events prompted me to start this blog, the first being a moment of inspiration this past school year.

There are several perks to teaching (and of course, several reasons people look down on teachers), but perhaps the most beneficial aspect of my job is the rare encounter with a student who is so intelligent and ambitious that it rubs off on everyone in the room--including the teacher.

Last year, I watched one of my senior journalists survive the college carousel, the up-and-down routine of applying to colleges and tweaking admission essays that becomes so methodical it makes one dizzy. At the beginning of the year this student was undecided on his major, his school, and what life beyond high school would throw at him. I saw this as a 'teaching moment,' and offered him the best advice I could. When May arrived, this student had not only chosen a college, he had transformed into a confident young adult who convinced himself to pursue his dreams--and convinced me to pursue mine.

G.K. Chesterton once said that when we lose sight of what we stand for, "we must try to recover the candour and wonder of the child." This was proven true with my student, who, while young and ignorant to the world, possessed a child-like passion that would defy any limits in the way of his pursuit. He reminded me how much I loved to write, a love that began a long time ago, and urged me to share my work. He was the first unbiased person (meaning, first person unrelated or connected to me) who ever looked me in the eyes after reading something I wrote and said, "You can do this."

Now, maybe that 17 year-old kid's idea of 'good writing' is a bit skewed, but I don't much care about being a 'good writer'. I simply wish to write and share. I like to write. But the idea of sharing my thoughts with people outside my very tight circle seemed risky, at least until that kid inspired me to "recover the candour and wonder" of my childhood. I want to thank him, although he is completely unaware of his impact on me and I may never hear from him again (the life-long impact that can be gained through the briefest of moments is yet another perk to the teaching profession).He is a big reason this blog exists.

I will continue to post new poetry and thoughts as often as possible, unless feedback from you requests otherwise.

Thanks again for reading!

JN

Love, Life, and other Games Lost

I crafted the art of

Love in the Moment,

Knew just the way to grip her back

And make her feel like it was real,

Spoke whispers that sounded scripted because they were;

I had a way of making foreign sheets feel familiar

And convincing her into connections

That I held high, stretched until they stiffened

like a rope tugging too much weight,

then I would watch it snap and shatter

what hung below, splatter into

something for which I felt nothing

only because I wouldn’t let myself watch,

or listen.

            He told me in a tavern that night

That he had never been loved,

            And I laughed at his lament

Of such a silly thing,

            And he laughed at my taunting

pretending he agreed,

            And though his cries I did not hear,

this rope did not snap,

And I wish it had,

like every other thing that ever loved me,

When I saw him swaying from

The creaking rafters in the morning.