MY AUNT KATHY

     Little Jackie Paper had Puff.  Puff was a magic dragon.  Obviously.  Big Bird had Snuffy.  Even

one of my daughters had Keeka Keek.  Keeka apparently hailed from North Dakota.  Her middle

name was Paula.  I assumed this middle name helped people differentiate between her first and

oddly similar last names.  Comfort.  Quiet comfort pulled from thin air.  As children, we are

often hesitant to own our actions.  Or words.  Or complicated emotions.  An imaginary friend

can sometimes make for a much softer landing onto new fertile terrain.  I never had an imaginary

friend.  And it wasn't for lack of imagination.  I was a thin, almost shadow-less figure that

easily moved between multiple worlds.  I just had no use for an imaginary friend.  I had my Aunt

Kathy.

     When I was five, my parents were young and struggling.  Overwhelmed, mostly.  They were

like so many Jack's and Diane's of their time.  Just two American kids doing the best that they can.

Sometimes though, the tensions and the screaming crept up to particularly dangerous levels.  And in

would swoop Aunt Kathy.  Just in time.  Always just in time.  I'm not sure if she sensed that she was

needed or not, but there she was with an adventure to be had.

     As least, they were adventures to me.  Aunt Kathy had the ability to turn any errand into the high

seas.  Going to the DMV for a 1970's old school car inspection was one.  Horned rimmed glasses

and silver tie clips.  The smell of hair tonic hanging in the air.  The unspoken scent and uniform of

middle management.  Dark, frowning faces.  It became a game.  We would stare back at the

serious DMV crew in an attempt to get someone to smile.  I furrowed my brow with as much

sincerity and seriousness that a five-year-old could muster, but to no avail.  Aunt Kathy and I

spent the afternoon giggling and having DMV-styled staring contests.

     "Hazards, please," I would say sternly.

     "Left blinker," Aunt Kathy would respond.

     Sometimes our adventures were sort of quasi-adventures.  The adventure wasn't necessarily the

activity.  The adventure was the vibe.  Me and her and other assorted quiet, rag-tag souls once spent

an afternoon at a nearly forgotten cemetery.  We had parchment paper and made pencil shaded

replicas of some of the oldest stones.  It was a gray October day.  The trees were bare.  Empty dirt,

mostly.  The occasional weed sprouting up between the stones.  We took turns spraying whipped

cream into each other's mouths, reading about the deaths of soldiers and young mothers from

decades long gone.  Many came close, but couldn't quite hold on to watch the old century change and

spawn up some new days.  It all felt so open, so quiet.  So free.  And now, I'm glad I have no photos

of this.  It makes a much richer memory than and staged picture could capture.  And that's how it

went.

     But just like Little Jackie Paper, we all grow up.  We move on.  And a kind and gently soul like

my Aunt Kathy?  The world just sort of swallowed her up.  Too often the world licks its lips and

feasts off the meek and their understated beauty.  Bad times.  Darker days.  Unrest.  And me?  I left

my childhood as far behind as I could and tried my hand at adult living.  Some successes.  Some

failures.  And there were days when I found myself daydreaming about DMV inspections and

discarded cemetery stones.  And with both feet so firmly planted in the adult world, those days began

to feel as it they were somehow just imagined.  It's strange sometimes how reality can just feel like

pure imagination as the years smooth out all the edges.  Years of what seem like disjointed memories

and moments begin to play back like perfectly written prose.  A narrative that you had planned to

write all along.  Maybe this is time's kindness to us all.

     After years apart, Aunt Kathy and I found each other again.  At a time when I needed a little

family, someone who knew me and the boy I once was, there she was.  She swooped right in.  And

just like all those years ago, I wasn't really sure if she sensed that she was needed or that she just had

uncanny timing.  No matter.  There she was.  Just how I remembered.  Quite comfort.  And so much

better than even  the best imaginary friend.



For more inspirational stories from Chris Bowen, just click here.  Happy Reading!

TO FLIP OR NOT TO FLIP THE BURGER

 Now Available at Amazon

     He just laughed at me.  And, to be fair, it wasn’t the sort of arrogant laughter you get from young teens.  He wasn’t looking for the best way to tear me down.  No false bravado to save face.  It was honest laughter.  He genuinely thought my question was funny.  He even apologizes.

     “I’m sorry, man.  I’m not trying to disrespect you.  It’s just I haven’t read a book since the third grade.  The girl’s name in the book was Julie something and she had a funny way of saying things.”  Junie B. Jones.  That’s the girl.  Junie B. Junes is the star of a series of great books geared towards second graders.  He stands close to six foot, I’m guessing.  Looks like he’ll start shaving before the school year is out and the last book he read was about fifty pages long, complete with some drawings, and a vocabulary set for an eight-year-old.  He’s not alone.  I am standing in a remedial reading class for eighth graders.  About twenty-five of them, all on the cusp of those changes that make us women and men.

     “Don’t you find that sad?” I ask.

     “Nope.  It hasn’t changed my life.  I read no books and I always make it to the next grade.  Every time.”

  Scattered nods around the room empathize with him.  A young girl speaks up.

     “And because of the budget, they don’t even have real summer school no more.  So they gonna move you on no matter what.”  This elicits a few high-fives.  The system is clearly being played.

     “Who else remembers the last book they read?”  I ask the room.  For a room full of kids that have officially retired from reading, they seem to enjoy talking about their last books.  The answers coming from a room full of thirteen and fourteen years olds are staggering.

     “Oh, what is it called?  You know, the one with the elephant that hears the little people inside the flower.”  For those of you keeping score at home, that would be the Dr. Seuss picture book, “Horton Hears a Who.” 

     “What’s the one about the greedy little boy that keeps taking from the tree?”

     “Giving Tree!”  Somebody shouts.  Now, “The Giving Tree” is on my short list of all-time favorite books, too.  And, technically, it was the last book I read.  Of course, I read it to my five-year-old at bed time.  And we spent some time talking about giving and sacrifice and being kind to others.  As a reader, a writer, and a lover of knowledge and eternal questions that drive us all, it’s a bit gut wrenching.  I’m getting angry and my anxiety level is rising.  I start to feel like a college professor on the run form a totalitarian regime.  In my frustration, I pathetically go full cliché on them.

     “So, do you guys want to flip burgers for the rest of your lives?  It’s fine at sixteen, but it’s a tough way to make a living at forty.”  Many have heard this routine before.  Nothing but sighs and eye rolls.

     “Why do adults say that?  We don’t have to flip burgers.  We could work at the mall.  It is air conditioned.  You dress nice.  You get good discounts.  You can make commissions.”  Yes.  The mall.  Ask not what your local mall can do for you, but rather what you can do for your local mall.  A generation answers the courageous call of retail.  I am not knocking retail.  I’m definitely not knocking any work.  All work has honor.  But it was a bitter pill to swallow to hear a room shrug off education and choose the mall as a safe haven against books and learning.  Statistics are on my side.  College grads make over a million dollars more over the course of their lifetimes than someone with only a high school diploma.  College grads have lower unemployment numbers typically, and often enjoy greater job security.  Thomas Jefferson was one of the biggest advocates of an informed and educated electorate.  Sadly, Jefferson cannot help me with this one.  I needed to enter the heart of darkness.  I needed to entrench myself in the belly of the beast.  I needed to go to the mall.

     Two days later, David from JC Penney is standing in front of my classroom.  Intrigue has filled my students who usually view the school day as a nuisance.  No one is quite sure how to read him, so we have a small window of silence from which to work.  David passes out job applications to students.

     “You have fifteen minutes to fill out your applications.”  The kids are bewildered.  I finally speak up.

     “Look, you guys mentioned working at the mall the other day.  David is here to give you a few tips, maybe some insider secrets.  I may not be the one able to help you, but maybe I can find people who can.”  They seem to like this idea.  “And, for the sake of this lesson, you may put down that you are all high school graduates.  Congratulations and sorry I wasn’t able to attend the ceremony.”  They seem to like this new mock status even better.  You can hear the pencils scratching at the pages.  It’s the most focus I’ve seen all year with this particular group.  Most are done with time to spare.  David collects papers, studies the first application, and begins.

     “This one would never get an interview.  C-U-Z is not a word and I don’t want you saying CUZ to my customers.  David then lets it fall into the trashcan I have placed to his left.  He continues.

     “This one would never get an interview either.  This sentence contains a double negative and again, I don’t want a person who will represent the store poorly.”  Filed again in the trash.  Then David chuckles.  “My goodness. This one reads like the person hasn’t read a book in years.”  No lie.  Those were his exact words.

     The trashcan is pretty full by the end, but he does have a few he would consider.  The few.  The proud.  The mall bound.  He hands those students a booklet.  They grab at it as if it is some sort of prize.  Their faces sour as they flip through it.

     “What is this?”

     “A basic aptitude test.”

     “Grammar questions?” A girl moans.

     “I get a ton of applications so I can afford to be choosy.”  Kids sigh.  There is a sense of surrender in the room.  You can feel it in the silence.  And then, for an encore, David holds up a paper.  He is not quite done.

     “Even if you do well on the aptitude test, one of these will surely eliminate you.”

     “What is it?”

     “It’s an application from a stay at home mom.”  The kids are curious.  “See, she went to college.  She has real world business experience.  She’s been at home raising kids, but now the kids are in school or grown and she’s looking for something part time.  I already know she has a good work ethic.  She is college educated and will represent my store well.  She wins.  Hands down.”

      “And she don’t even need no job,” one student laments.

     “And she doesn’t even need a job,” David corrects.

     I thank David and the kids say their muffled goodbyes.  It is a dejected room.  Was it cruel?  Maybe.  Was it valuable?  I believe so.  I believe it would have been far crueler to never make the point.  Will they forget it?  Doubtful.

     I call David that night.  David isn’t really David.  He’s a retired teacher from another district.  He chose JC Penney because it was the only retail name tag we could find.

     “And the line about the application seeming as if the person hadn’t read a book in years?”

     “Brilliant,” I say.  He is quite proud of his performance.  “Correcting that kid’s grammar right at the end was probably my favorite part.”  We share a laugh.

     “It might not work,” he adds.

     “It just needs to work for one kid,” I say.  “That would be success.”

     “True.”  He seems to agree.

     Later that week, a few more kids are actually reading.  Not all.  Not a majority.  But more.  At the end of class, I’m collecting some papers.

     “That book is pretty good so far,” a kid tells me.

     “I’m glad you like it.”

     “Hey, it beats flippin’ burgers, right?”

     “Exactly,” I beam.

Now Available at Amazon

MY RUSTY ANGEL

                                                              Now Available at Amazon

     “I don’t know,” I said, trying to find the right words.  “He’s like some sort of rusty angel.”  And that’s exactly what he was.  That’s about as near as I was going to get to explaining him to someone.  He was a burly guy.  Big belly with taut suspenders circling over its bottom rung.  Fat, but definitely not feeble or week in any sense.  I’m pretty sure the old guy had enough muscle memory and “ornery” in him to still kick somebody’s ass if necessary.  He often alternated between cigarettes and coffee as if maintaining some sort of critical chemical balance.  I was fairly certain his teeth were not his own.

     I found myself in his kitchen about three afternoons a week, playing guitar to his daughter.   The school district provides home schooling if a child will be out of the classroom for more than six weeks.  The district also had a hospital school for kids that required more serious medical attention during the day.  Desiree was too sick, really too weak, to attend even our hospital school.  She was only able to sit upright a few hours a day.  My rusty angel would wheel her into the kitchen three times a week and I would teach her.  Problem is, Desiree is mostly unresponsive.  She cannot speak, or grip, or eat, or take care of herself in any way.  Many would argue that Desiree is not aware, but I strongly disagree.  I am well over the thousand mark in terms of the number of kids I have taught so far, and I have had no greater emotional connection to a child than the one I had with Desiree.

     Obviously, fractions and phonics and earth science were well out of her reach.  About a week in, I stumbled onto music.  Desiree’s eyes go wide and she makes a passionate noise that suggests that she is singing along.  You try to meet every kid where they need you, and I met Desiree at music armed with my woefully inadequate guitar playing and singing.  My rusty angel would sort of half listen in.  Of course, he was pretty busy most of the time.

     My rusty angel and his wife, were foster parents.  They had been foster parents for decades.  Their adult daughter once explained to me that they were a family that social services could call on in the middle of the night if they needed to immediately remove a child from a dangerous situation.  Often times, there was somebody new at the breakfast table when they woke up.

     “Kept me grateful.  Made me a better kid.  If anybody’s got an arrogant teenager or a brat, there’s no need for harsh discipline.  Become a foster parent.  Show them a broader view of the world and it will straighten them right up.” 

     And they had a tendency to take the forgotten and neglected among us.  In the home, Desiree shared a medically equipped bedroom with a similar child.  In an upstairs room two sisters stayed, both suffering from a rare skin condition that made their skin extremely tender and easy to cut.  Some days one of them was bandaged up and down both arms. 

     “How did you wind up taking these sorts of kids?” I asked one afternoon.  He sighed his way through a long drag off his Marlboro. 

     “Simple answer I guess is that even people nobody wants need a place to go.”  Instantly, I was humbled by his words.  By his deeds.  By his principles. 

     By about the sixth month, Desiree had become a quiet critic.  When she does not seem to appreciate my rendition of some classic rock tune, she will show absolutely no response.  A quiet and blank stare into nowhere special. 

     “Aw, come on,” I protest.  “I just took a rocking classic and reduced it to three chords and a half decent vocal.”  Desiree makes no movement, no response of any kind.  It is just the sound of her labored breathing.  I sigh.  And then? There it is.  A smirk.   Make no mistake, this allegedly unresponsive kid is totally playing me.  It’s a game, and a dance, and something akin to art. To connect without the usual ease and benefit of words is an act of beauty. And love. 

     “Can you play Folsom Prison Blues?” he asks me.  “I heard you do a pretty good Ring of Fire the other day.”

     “Desiree didn’t seem to like it,” I chuckle.

     “Well clearly the girl has no musical taste,” he scoffs.  “Just like every other teenager today.”

     “I know it, but I don’t think I can do it justice.”

     “Nah, the songs too good and you ain’t bad enough to break it.”  I give it my best attempt.  Right away, Desiree is playing me again. But my angel nods and gives me some applause.  It’s too much for Desiree to bear and she breaks her stoic manner and howls a bit.

     And for about the fiftieth time that day, Charlie zooms through the kitchen, cackling about something.  Charlie is the latest member of the ensemble.  He’s about four and has a fairly severe deformity along his jaw. It makes talking a difficult task, so his speech is a bit delayed. 

     “How did you wind up with Charlie?”  He swigs is coffee, keeping the caffeine and nicotine carefully balanced.

     “Well, I retired officially just a few months ago.  Got a good pension and some more time these days, so I took in Charlie here.  He keeps me on my toes for sure.”  I watch Charlie run across the room again.

     “Most people take up golf,” I say.  He nods.

     “I know.  Isn’t that a shame?” he asks me.  Instantly, I go hollow inside.  Humbled.  And all of my mundane problems seem silly to me.  Meaningless.  All at once, all of my grumbling, all of my first world problems and barriers are grist for the mill.  At best.

     It’s been years since I have seen my rusty angel, but his words come back to me often.  They are like some kind of karmic whisper pushing me to do the right thing again and again.  They are words and ideals I will never live up to, but they do tend to lead me a little closer to what is good in myself.  My inner demons allow my better angels the spotlight a few more times along the way.  Sometimes I think that maybe it isn’t Karma or the universe at all.  Maybe it’s him.  Maybe he was truly an angel, making his presence known when I need it most.  And, we all could use an angel now and again.  Even a rusty one.  

Now Available at Amazon

SAY GOODNIGHT, GRACIE

For anyone peering out into the graduation season, this one's for you...

     So it’s about fifteen years ago and the two of us are circling the ice rink with short, choppy steps.  Not a lot of elegance between us.  But, like a Rocky movie, we are still standing.  My preschooler does not seem to appreciate my great lack of ice skating skill or how badly my feet and lower back hurt, but she knows that I once ice skated on actual frozen ponds in New Jersey as a kid and that seems to be enough to impress.  To her, I might as well have grown up in Oz.  I was from some sort of elsewhere and rode an alien-style pod, landing it behind some dry desert brush here in Southern California and now I walk amongst the natives undetected.

     “Tell me about periods,” she says, each word represented by a tiny puff of cold air.  I’m impressed.  I look up at the hockey scoreboard and nod, knowing that the word “period” is clearly not on a usual preschool word list. 

     “Well, in hockey they have three periods.  It’s a little different---“ she cuts me off, annoyed.

     “No, tell me about the period with the blood.”  I can’t help but notice that she seems to give a slight emphasis on the word “blood,” like a serial killer back from a busy evening.  Not quite what I had in mind. 

     “Well, I have never had a period.  You should probably ask your mother.”  Surely, my ignorance gets me off the hook.

     “But, I don’t want to know her answer.  I want to know your answer.”  I’ll spare you my botched dissertation on the menstrual cycle.  Honestly, I thought we were heading into hockey. 

    Around the same time, we use to listen to old radio shows on some satellite channel while she took a bath.  “Burns and Allen” came up. 

     “Hey!  Her name is Gracie!  Why haven’t you told me about this Gracie?  I’m the only Gracie I know.”

     “Isn’t there a Gracie at daycare?”

     “No, I make the kids call her Other Gracie, so I’m still the only Gracie,” she explains with absolutely no shame.  “And this is a famous Gracie!”  She listens intently, very pleased each time Gracie Allen gets a laugh. 

     “Do you know about this Gracie?”  My mother was a huge fan, so luckily I do know more than the average guy.  That night at bedtime we end the day with the show’s closing catchphrase.

     “Say Goodnight, Gracie.”

     “Goodnight Gracie,” she says, giggling at the joke.   And for the next few days all she wants to know about are old shows from radio and television.  Naturally, I steer her towards The Three Stooges.  Not the best choice for someone who hasn’t broken into kindergarten yet, but I felt it was worth the risk.  I’ve got all kinds of information for her.  Of course I do.  I’m the answer man.

    And this is how it has gone.  I’m the answer man.  For better or worse.  I think my love of telling stories and having stockpiled away years of useless information gave Gracie the impression that I knew far more than I did.  No matter.  I savored the role.  Probably a bit more Cliff Clavin from Cheers than actual master of knowledge.

     “What’s the economy?”

     “Why don’t airplanes just fall out of the sky?”

     “Why doesn’t Grandma believe in evolution?”

     And to my credit, I have tried not to say what I did not know.  My credibility seemed to grow by saying, “I don’t know.  Let’s find out.” 

     Like I said, I have truly loved being the guy for answers.  It has been a good run.  But, I must prepare for the next phase.  As Gracie heads off to college, I can’t be the answer man anymore.  My college experiences?  They were all pre internet.  Can’t be the answer guy for a lot of that.  And soon, I won’t understand the current job market.  It won’t be my job market.  It will be hers.  Retirement is still a bit down the road, but it has become a tangible entity, perched in the distance.

     Now, this is where people my age become cranky and cantankerous.  We do not embrace our new roles.  Sometimes we insist we know more because we have more years.  But, many of those experiences have expired.  They are no longer a source of vital information.  My role, our roles, are changing.  Embrace it.  We may have fewer and fewer immediate answers, but we will have something better.  We will have wisdom.  Our front porches and our favorite chairs will become our mountain tops and if we have raised them right, they will return for our wisdom.

     How to handle heartache and pain and loss?  Those answers don’t seem to expire and never seem to change.  Which battles to choose and when to hold tightly to your principles?  Where else will they go for that?  We will become the keepers of wisdom.  And that’s good work if you can get it.  Who knows every single person they had to be in order to become the person they are right now?  Who knows all of their layers?  That would be you.  And your wisdom.  And who will be the keeper of their childhoods while they charge into adulthood?  Again.  You.  You and your full, swollen heart.

     I get a bit of a reprieve this summer.  We will be working together at the local community college.  I will get to be the answer man for eight extra weeks.  What a gift.  And when the summer ends, the shift will begin.  So Gracie if you find yourself reading this, know that your childhood was one of the absolute greatest gifts life has given me.  I can never thank you enough.  As you roll into adulthood, know that I will be right where you left me.  And, I will be happily waiting for my new role in your life.  Obviously, this isn’t a goodbye.  It’s just a sunset of sorts.  Maybe more of a goodnight.  So?  Say goodnight, Gracie.

 

New Memoir, Jersey Boy, now available

New Release from Chris Bowen  

If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.

DAVID BOWIE'S SECRET PORTAL

This conversation happened about two weeks before Bowie's death.  It's been sitting in my notebook for a few months.  Here you have it...

     I’ve never truly attempted to get my fourteen year old to abandon her music; the collective music pulsating its way through a generation.  Trust me, as an old vinyl hoarder that once scoffed and shunned the woeful lack of authenticity that the cassette offered up, I deeply appreciate how these three and four minute vignettes will forever mark your life and take you to a place where you were once eighteen and invincible.  Forever young.  Forever fearless.  Forever the best version of yourself.  Truth be told, it was never the best you, but sentimentality cradles these versions in some false esteem.

     Sadly, to cling only to the music of your youth is awful.  We too easily assume that this music represents us.  Not really.  I mean, I don’t smile when I hear Culture Club at the dentist’s office because Boy George was a musical genius.  I smile because it takes me back to a Saturday car ride to Wildwood New Jersey, tanked on testosterone and hope and youth.  It  was a great day.  So thank you Culture Club for bookmarking the moment for me, but it takes a certain depth to appreciate art, literature, and music that was never directly marketed to you and your peers.  As much as you love the music of your day, it’s less about you and more about them…and then.  This other stuff we pick up on our own?  These strange sounds and words from generations before?  This is the stuff that truly pulls you in.  This is the stuff that is much more uniquely you.  Those low, lonely tones of a Sinatra ballad?  The first time I heard Nina Simone sigh about being “In the Dark?”  And the epiphany that came with hearing Dylan snarl about being a Rolling Stone?  Those are me.  Hall and Oates are fun, but just the soundtrack to a great run years ago.

     All this brings me to the car radio wars.  On a longer car ride, there is only so much Drake I can listen to before I find myself angry.  And this Drake fellow seems like a reasonably nice guy as far as celebrities go, but a handful of today’s hits and I feel the need to punch someone.  When we talk about road rage, it is very possible that a high percentage of road rage has to do with middle-aged men being subjected to the musical trends of the day.  I’m pretty certain that when two guys get out of their cars and throw it down, much like listening to a shell closely, you can hear Drake and Nicki’s names muttered in the fray.  To be fair, it is possible that many teens practically jump out of the car about a half mile from the school because they really don’t care about The Beatles vs. The Stones.  So there you have it.  The mind-numbing paradox of the radio wars.  Until this.

     My fourteen year old and I decide to play a game.  Using Apple Music, we take turns.  One song from her Apple Music.  One from mine.  And you have to explain why you like the song.  A little like Show-And-Tell.  I know she would love to visit New York, so I start with Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind.”  I get to tell about my small, but eternal moment of buying bagels at dawn while walking through Greenwich Village coming home from a party.  And this song came over a tiny transistor radio dangling from the top of an all-night newsstand.  She asks questions about 9/11.  We talk a little politics, middle-east policy, and where I was when I heard about the towers falling. 

     Her turn.  I listen to a Lana Del Rey song.  Voice is a bit haunting.  Not bad at all.

     “I like how the mellow beat goes against the lyrics,” she tells me.

     Back to me.  I go with Paul Simon’s “Loves Me Like a Rock.”  She laughs.

     “Why a rock?  Is his mom stupid?”  I talk about the rock as a metaphor for strength, rather than stupidity.  I turn a bit biblical and discuss the Rock of Gibraltar.  So far, we’ve discussed politics, history, and the Bible, but it doesn’t feel like it to her.  We’re just listening to some tunes.

     Her turn.  “Have you ever heard this guy?  It’s pretty old.”  The car is flooded with the opening sax from Bowie’s “Young American.”

     “I owned this album!” I squeal.  And yes, it was literally a squeal.  She returns my squeal.

     “Oh My God! I love this guy,” she says, a bit excited.  We very quickly agree that “Rebel, Rebel” is the best song to sing into a mirror.  Anybody is immediately a rock star when you sing that one.  The game sort of ends and we just let her Bowie collection play.  “Modern Love?”  She concludes that the catch phrase is ironic.  The love in the song is really about a great lack of love and connection with other people. 

     We start to turn off the freeway.  It’s one of the few times I wish there had been more traffic.  We both belt out “Heroes.”  I’m pretty sure I’m off key, but I get credit for passion.  I’m all in.  So is she.  Pulling into the driveway, there is so much more to talk about.  Bowie has opened up a portal to Kerouac, Miles Davis, Iggy Pop, angst, and all the rest.  But it will just have to wait.  It’s okay, though.  The portal is open.  And for now, for us two Young Americans, that’s enough.

 

New Memoir, Jersey Boy, now available

New Release from Chris Bowen  

If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.

MORE POWERFUL THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE

Here is the perfect gift for your child's teacher.  Trust me, they don't need another coffee mug. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.

     Is he going to touch my face?  General rules of personal space probably aren’t applicable at the moment.  It’s the grey in my beard.  Like jingling car keys or blinking holiday lights, the beard has seized his attention.

     “Obi Wan,” he whispers as if he has been searching the galaxy and has finally found me.  And yes, he is lightly touching my face.  True, the original Obi Wan was three decades older than myself so the comparison stings a bit.  But, I mean it is Obi Freaking Wan Kenobi.  A true bad-ass of the universe teaming with understated wisdom and some set of Uber ninja skills.  It’s a fair trade to be seen as a man pushing eighty. 

     This is Enrique.  Big man on campus.  Large and likable.  Infectious crooked smile and big belly laugh.  He is a special needs student, perhaps more gifted than lacking however there is clearly a large disconnect between him and the rigors of reading and writing.  But Enrique has much more to offer.  There is an instant and natural joy you get by being around him.  Joy is its own art form and if you can give it away like penny candy to the masses, that is a skill set not to take lightly or dismiss.  What the world needs now, am I right?

     And for Enrique, for the unique in general, the campus has a Statue-of-Liberty-vibe to it.  Old school Statue of Liberty, not the new one with all the unspoken addendums and asterisks added to it.   If you’re different, if you’re quirky, if you’re sitting out on the fringes a bit, enough kids here will have your back.  Enrique strides through the halls, flag fully flying.

     So now, our keeper of the joy has granted me with a new nickname.  Obi Wan.  I’ve been called far worse by people who were far less, so I will own this one for sure.  But Enrique wants me to earn it.  And a new pattern has taken hold.  He is a man most at ease in the comfort of a reliable pattern.  So, he feels entitled to kill me with the force at least twice a day.  One death in the morning, and one at lunch.  I saw him once after school and he waved.

     “Not now, Obi Wan,” he said to me in earnest.  The next morning though, he whips his big hand into the air as if he about to palm my face.  It is his outpouring of the force.  I reel back on my heels a bit, then slump forward.  The first time this goes down, he looks annoyed.

     “What’s the matter, Enrique?”

     “You do it all wrong,” he said almost embarrassed for me.  “Kill me and I’ll show you.”   So, I thrust my palm into the air and Enrique flails his arms.  He shakes like a cartoon character being electrocuted.  Then, exhausted, he lets his upper body dangle down slightly swaying from the volt.  I make some mental notes and motion for Enrique to force me again.  This time I throw myself into the role.  I let my upper body dangle an extra second or two making it a great shot for the close-up.  Enrique beams.  Clearly, I’ve nailed it.  And it builds.

     And Enrique has worked his joy-mojo on me.  I claim to do this for him, but I am clearly all in.  I notice that I scout him out in the morning rush.  I go on Youtube and look up Kenobi’s classic last line when Vader takes him out.  After a few run-throughs, I use it one morning.

     “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.”  Enrique is thrilled.  Sure, it’s off script, but I think he finds my acting choices bold.

     Joy.  It gives him immense pleasure, and it does about the same for me.  It’s all just an excuse to express some joy.  And it takes precedence over all other conversations.  In mid conversation with other teachers I stop, deliver my line, die, and return to the conversation.  Some ask.  Some don’t.

     The mad genius that is Enrique.  It can be found deep down along the soft underbelly of it all, where the knowledge is kept about how all of our acts are just symbols.  Symbols of joy.  Symbols of love.  Symbols of fear.  We just move through our symbols.  Enrique knows it so well, he has no idea that this is something that is not to be known by most.  The kid just may be the sound of one hand clapping.  No joke.

     About a month or so into it, he walks in to my room to collect the bottles to be recycled.  When he realizes it is my room and sees me standing at the front, he whispers in glee.

      “Obi Wan.”

     “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.”  The force rocks me back on my heels, the upper body dangles.  He smiles, waves, then leaves.  I get back to the lesson at hand.  Most kids are baffled.

     “What was that?” a kid asks.  After a full explanation, a grand plan is hatched.  Everyone wants in.  The class rehearses a few times during the week.  Many of the kids are not nailing the Alec Guiness accent, and it’s a little frustrating.  Next Friday comes, Enrique walks in.  Smiles don’t get much better than his.

     “Obi Wan” he whispers.  In unison, the class delivers the line.

     “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.”  Enrique is mesmerized.  He briefly jumps up and down.  This is just too good.  He hurls what can best be described as a super-sized version of the force at the room.  His arm quivers.  If he held it any longer, he would have surely broken out in a sweat.  A room of thirty-two feel the force suck the very life from their eternal souls and they collapse.  It is a little like a flash mob, I guess.

     And the boy, who somehow dwells in the sweetest of spots, somewhere between toddler simplicity and old-sage-wisdom, conforming to no one’s expectations ever, goes full toddler.  He giggles and hops up and down.

     Any effort to define the force by a person with only some cursory knowledge of the movies, would be nothing short of blasphemy.  But still, must-attempt-I.  Just maybe Enrique’s obsession is really about all he knows but cannot say.  The ability to instantly stream joy into a greying world.  The sweetest of smiles dipped with audacity into the infinite gloom.  The true force.  Who knows?  But Enrique has a special gift that cannot be denied.  And it can invisibly grab hold of you from clear across a room, with more power than you could possibly imagine.

 

New Memoir, Jersey Boy, now available

New Release from Chris Bowen  

If you're enjoying the blog, here's a book I recommend. "Our Kids: Building Relationships in the Classroom," is available at Amazon.