Language as Fiction

In my life I've had four teachers whom have done an astounding job. They taught me far more than any objectives marked down and mailed to their superior. Oddly enough all of these teachers have a prevalent ailment. To an outsider, to a parent, and often to other teachers and faculty this ailment makes them unsuitable, or in the whitest of gossip, handicapped in their position.

My personal favorite, Mr. Brown, was for a very short time my religion seminar teacher. Now mind you this wasn't Catholicism, Catechism, or Biblical readings. No, instead we read Catholic literature. We read Merton. We read Percy. We read O'Connor. And it was from this man that I remembered why it was two years hence that I had wanted to become a writer.

That was before another teacher told me, "James, there is a lot of failed writers out there." He was a Jackass. What I'm sure Mr. Failure meant to say was that he himself was a resigned to his own fate.

Mr. Brown was twenty four years old at the time. He was short. He was geeky. Bespectacled. And he tried to force us to recite catholic verse at the beginning of class.

I fought this tooth and nail.

It stopped on the second week.

But enough of the bullshit about what he tried to make us to do, soon enough he began letting us do as we saw fit. He gave out the readings, conducted discussion, and required two pages of reflection on the text everyday. He read every word I've ever written. I know. I once wrote in between a fluent thought 'you won't read this'. "I've read every word James". And so he did. He even once told another student he thought I was genius. Two days later I threw everything I'd ever written away. In front of him. In his own trash can.

In a class of 24 peers who had all grown up together in the same exact classes for the past 4 years there was never a dull moment. Discussion was always heightened and their was always something to be said, or something being done;

One class, a student decided to relieve himself into a 7up bottle during discussion.

One class, I flipped off the student condemning me to hell (and not for the first time) sending her crying to the bathroom.

One class, Mr. Brown told us he had put in his resignation, and that at the end of the week-

But he never finished his statement before our principal came in and sat down on top of a table, interrupting what was a very solemn speech from a man to what had become his friends.

We all knew what was happening. We all knew it was wrong. Yet we were completely defenseless.

Empty space. One minute. Two Minutes. Three minutes.

"Am I holding up class Nick?"

"Yes, actually you are."

"Anything you need to say you can say in front of me."

"This is my time with my class."

Well time to go. I stand up. Grab My bag.

"Mr. Kushman, where do you think you're going?"

"it's 11:45. I have Physical Therapy."

"I'll walk you out." Sullivan says.

I fix my posture. stand up straight as possible. Walk around the U-formation of desks to where Mr. Brown is standing. I give him a hug. I say Thank You. I walk out, followed by Sullivan.

"You know why I had to do that right."

"Yes I know." steps. "I wish you hadn't."

"Tough times. We're living in tough times."

Awkward silence as we walk the hall towards the office.

"You know Kushman, I always thought you were faking it during football when you complained about your back. Then last spring you told me it was broken."

I look at him. He has the same blood shot eyes as me, though his are only at the moment.

More Awkward Silence.

"Well I'll see you tomorrow, Kushman."

I sign out at the front desk. The Secretary no longer looks into my eyes. None of them do anymore. When they did they could never hold, and I always watched them cringe as they turned away. They don't care that I've missed more days then weeks in the semester.

I get into my Jeep. It's cold. I see my breathe. I light my cigarette. I see my smoke. I pull away. From everything.

I did not have Physical Therapy.

Mr. Brown was not resigning.