As you already know I’m a piss-poor journalist. This is not a habit for me. I’m trying to show up a couple times a month. Usually I litter this space with some poems because that’s what I spend the bulk of my time on, but today I thought I’d give you a report on a surprise visit I got this week from an old high school student of mine I hadn’t seen in decades.
We’ve kept in touch over the last fifteen years through short comments on the internet. Once Facebook blossomed in the early 2000s, we connected, reliving the high school stories from the past when I was her English teacher in the mid-eighties where she grew up and graduated in Augusta, Montana.
There was one story in particular that dwarfed all others and defined our relationship, and that was the “Tack Incident.” Most of you can probably guess what that’s all about because of the title, right? So, I had left the room before class started, my Sophomore English class, spring of my first year there. When I returned to my desk at the front of the classroom facing the students, I remember pausing at the animated looks on their faces, like I had missed out on a joke or some secret they’d all been talking about before I got there, and because some of their expressions were clearly having a giggle at my expense it seemed obvious the topic or the joke was about me. As I sat down at my desk and their faces grew more animated, I said, “Okay. What’s going . . “ and at that moment the tack they’d placed on my chair broke through my pants and lit-up my ass, launching me out of my chair as they erupted in laughter (though some of them looked nervous or away or guiltily trying to suppress their glee)! And it was hard for me not to embrace the perfectly executed joke as I paced and rubbed my ass, but there was the whole student-teacher thing, the respect for authority issue as a faculty member, all that shit. So, I made the effort to get to the “bottom” of it, let the guilty parties confess. Give the little shit-asses a chance to save face, turn the other cheek.
To be honest I don’t remember if Lisa fessed-up right then and there, but I think she did. And I don’t recall if she had an accomplice, though it was clear to me she had “immoral support” and an entertained audience. She proudly took the blame and claimed the idea was hers. And here again, I don’t recall narking her out to the Superintendent, but I remember having the conversation with him about it. I think he heard about it first from the other teachers who heard me scream.
That became “our story.” Of course there were many other memories of Lisa. I was her teacher and drama coach for three years. But it was the “tack” that headlined our relationship. And it was years later when I got the rest of the story on the aftermath of that prank when she got home. Her sister filled me in that Lisa’s dad “lost his shit” when he heard the story and gave her the “business” she hadn’t seen from him since she was a child (or maybe never). I’m sure he was mortified (as my mother would say) to hear second hand about the audacity of her action. He must have felt he needed to do something to let her know that she’d crossed a line that couldn’t be crossed in his household. Instinctively he reacted because he needed her to know that. The old “this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you” is true for parents. I think he was worried, and that this may be his last chance to show that. And to show her how much he was disappointed in her, her disrespectfulness. He did what he felt he needed to do, deliver a “wrath of god” whuppin’ to a grown daughter. In our generation’s day, respect for your elders, respect for your teachers, went without saying, that was a given, a line you never crossed in school (no matter how much you hated or loved your teacher).
For a short time after that incident, Lisa was a bit subdued. But a leopard doesn’t change its spots. After all, she was her mother’s daughter. Annie, Lisa’s mom, was a cook at the school. The first time I met her, I knew I liked her, felt like I already knew her. She was funny, foul-mouthed, and spoke with a Scottish accent. An immigrant! I fell in love. She was loud, rebellious, hilarious, and kind. What’s not to love? Her humor pushed the boundaries of appropriate behavior. Yes, we told dirty jokes in the kitchen. And her co-worker, Sharon, was a terrible influence. They were a delightfully disgusting duo! A comedy team. I’d sneak down there on my prep for coffee and treats: cookies and gossip. Annie would ask, “So how are the little shitheads today? The little darlings?” She was so much fun! And her daughter was a chip off the old block, cut from the same tartan cloth. That “game,” vivacious, and tough personality reminded me of my own Irish heritage where rebelliousness and humor ruled the day. Of course, we were the same breed of Celts, bastard step-children of the church and the bloody crown.
Given who she was and who I was, I wasn’t shocked by the “tack incident.” And sixteen is that perfect age to test the limits of your situation. What I love most about the “incident,” is how it incorporates so much of the important aspects of living our lives. I love the coming of age independence and rebellion of it. I love how it captures the personality, attitude and philosophy, of a community: the humor, the egalitarian communication, the reverence for respect, and an understanding of the importance of individuality. It’s a timeless story that shows how “community” works, a microcosm of the social order, and how we become individuals within a society.
So because it all played out the way it did, dealing with it, processing it, and moving on, we’ve cherished the story on all those levels, but the cherry on top of it is the humor! The surprise! The expressions, the laughter because of and in spite of the pain. How better to deal with pain, and ultimately death, than humor? What the Hell, we’re all in the same boat heading for the same waterfall, we might as well laugh about it till we get there.
So whenever we came into some kind of texting contact, I was able to refer to her as “my biggest pain in the ass!” I don’t think anything binds us better than humor. It’s an expression of love we are able to laugh about together. Laughter or tears. How else do we express love?
So when we finally met face to face for coffee after decades, I wasn’t surprised to hear her tell me how much she loved the time she’d spent in Ireland. Since I had just been there, she told me of hers and her Irish husband’s visit there a few years back. We both agreed there was something magical about Ireland. Both felt an intensely emotional connection to the place. We agreed that more than anything, it was the people we met. They were friendly, funny, smart, kind, spiritual, rowdy, and rebellious, full of life, outgoing and engaging, always putting great value on human interactions, conversations, never seeming to be worried about the clock. They lived to enjoy the day. What a way to live your life! We agreed we’d love to spend more time there.
Funny (as in odd or interesting) to visit with someone you haven’t seen in half-a- lifetime and finding such joy in that simple act. I know life is about change. We’re constantly experiencing new things, but from our perspective inside this body we’ve always been in, it feels the same. I feel like the same person I was when I first remember being me looking out at the world. I believe our consciousness, who we are at our core, doesn’t change. We obviously change, we choose and do different things all the time, but we, the choosers/doers, are the same. We are who we are, and that’s our life. Overall it’s fun, risky and rewarding to share ourselves with others, to try and make that connection like we’ve been trying to do all our lives. It’s easier with some folks, those like us who are trying to make the same connection. And when we feel like we’ve done it, like we’ve really connected with another person, that’s what I believe we call “love,” our word for that feeling, when for even the briefest time we don’t feel alone. When we can feel closer to being connected to all things and more at peace with the molecular unknown, that end or beginning or return, when we achieve that fusion we’re all heading toward, that’s “love” according to Mark. You’re welcome.
Peace
Fusion Another turn, another time, Leaving the Atlantic gray behind, Flying over snow-capped Nova Scotia as Chick Corea plays for Me that jazz fusion, a landscape Collage, reflection of my aural mind. An update from the window seat Reports: rocks, lakes, and clouds below, Canada could be Ireland from up here, The way Beaverhead County, rocky Open country, could be the Maam or Inagh Valleys grazed by sheep and Cows. Another tune, another time, There my grandfather wanted more, To stake his claim on quartz veins Of ore, something that would pay Better than mucker's wages or a sheep Herder's cut. My grandmother didn't Believe what she couldn't see or Spend (outside of her religion). Those Red-dry washer-woman's hands Paid for more than his blistered Palms after his bar tab was settled. The only pie in the sky she ate Was her faith in the afterlife. Still Married, she walked away from her Vows to him. Divorcing the sacred Fusion was out of the question. They separated instead, never spoke To one another again. Catholics Abided hypocrisy, complicity— God saw what he wanted to see. Another time, another truth. One Only needed to follow the rules, Confess to play, pass the collection Plate, pray there'd be enough eggs And potatoes to last. At thirteen My father escaped the church priest, Never returned till he buried his dad. That was my first Catholic funeral in Full Latin regalia, the whole ceremonial Circus. I was blown away by it all: The stained glass, those stations Of the cross, the costumes and incense, The choir overhead, the parade of People eating the cracker-body Of Christ, drinking his blood, getting up And down over and over again (not Understanding a goddamn thing) the Call and response in a foreign tongue. 1965, I was eleven that year My dad began his slide into a bottle Of “I don't-give-a-fuck.” The way his death Leveled me thirty years later, how we Can die inside our fathers or disappear Up in the middle of the air mid-to-late poem On our lifelong attempts to fly home. Another turn, another tune by Chick Corea that experimental jazz genius who lets It all in, forming another style or blend, Sort of the way Kerouac played jazz with Words. His prose felt like poetry, a freedom Of sound and sense, typewriter keys Clacking and dinging a percussive line Of verbal production, his jazz vibes Riding the reefer and Benzedrine Ringing in his head, propelling Ginsberg, Kesey, so many others, and me To find sense in nonsense, the courage To surf that sea of wild possibility, Maybe read At Swim Two Birds or Ulysses, the dreamy Irish dilly-dally Tales, those wacky-new-old yarns, Knowns and unknowns, the realities of Making and breaking your own rules Like my Grandpa did in '16, that pivotal Year in Ireland when the whole world went To war, that bloody skirmish in the trenches They said would end all wars but turned Out to be a crock of shit. The 20th Century Got used to it—the industry of war. Another crime, another time. We'd say: Make the best of it; write a protest song- Poem like Give peace a chance. March in the street. Fight for peace. The Irony was not lost on us, so what were we Supposed to do? Lost as Adam in this Fusion of love and hate. It seems a fate We can't escape. Oh, the humanity of us All! The myths apply. We live to die. While we breathe, we whistle and sing, Work, watch, ride the stream, maybe dance If we get the chance—smile, laugh, love. Mark Gibbons