December 22, 2024: "Lucky Bastards," Clarence Odbody, Successful Suicide

My favorite Christmas movie of all time is It's a Wonderful Life.  Some people say it's not a Christmas movie because most of the film's action takes place outside of the holiday season.  I disagree.  It's a film that screams Christmas to me.

At the conclusion of the movie, Clarence Odbody, the angel sent to save George Bailey's/Jimmy Stewart's life, inscribes a book to George thusly:  "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends."  George's friends literally save the day (and his life).

Billy Collins learns about the primacy of friendship . . . 

Lucky Bastards

by: Billy Collins

From the deck of the swimming pool

you could see the planes taking off from LAX

and whenever my father visited his friend there,

the two of them would sit in the sun with their drinks

and kill the time between golf and dinner

by betting on whether the next plane would break

left or right, and if you picked the long shot--

one continuing straight over the ocean--you got double.

The time I was there with them, I watched

the singles and fives changing hands

as they laughed "You lucky bastard!"

and I learned again the linkage between friendship and money

and the sweet primacy of one over the other,

which is not to say that Sandburg's six-volume

biography of Lincoln or the writings of Lao Tzu

are not also excellent teachers, each in its own way.

I'm a pretty lucky bastard.  

My life is crowded people who love me.  I'm still not quite sure what I've done to deserve all this kindness and affection.  Since I've been writing about my mental health struggles these last 30 or so days, I've received lots of encouragement from my loyal disciples and friends.

I'm not gonna lie.  A couple times this past month, I've been standing on the bridge with George, staring down at the roiling black waters.  Don't worry.  I'm not going to jump.  I got past the moment, and I will get past it again if it recurs.  I've personally seen the aftermath of loved one's of a "successful" suicide.  (Such a weird juxtaposition of words--"successful" plus "suicide.")  I would never put my family through that.

This evening, I led a Zoom poetry workshop.  Only three people showed up--one really good poet friend, my wife, and myself--but it was a great time.  The theme of the workshop was Christmas.  We wrote about cards, ornaments, places, and people.  We laughed a lot.  Got a little teary, too.  At the end, we wished each other safe, peaceful, happy holidays.

I know I'm not a failure.  I have friends.  A lot of them.  Poets.  Musicians.  Teachers.  Librarians.  Artists.

They rescue Saint Marty from the bridge every day.

June 26: Round-About Way, Teachers, Graduation in Pandemic

How William Blake changed Thomas Merton's life . . .

The priests that he [William Blake] saw going their rounds in black gowns--he knew no Catholics at the time, and had probably never even seen a Catholic priest--were symbols, in his mind, of the weak, compromising, pharisaic piety of those whose god was nothing but an objectification of their own narrow and conventional desires and hypocritical fears.

He did not distinguish any particular religion or sect as the objects of his disdain:  he simply could not stand false piety and religiosity, in which the love of God was stamped out of the souls of men by formalism and conventions, without any charity, without the light and life of a faith that brings man face to face with God.  If on one page of Blake these priests in black gowns were frightening and hostile figures, on another, the "Grey Monk of Charlemaine" was a saint and a hero of charity and of faith, fighting for the peace of the true God with all the ardent love that was the only reality Blake lived for.  Towards the end of his life, Blake told his friend Samuel Palmer that the Catholic Church was the only one that taught the love of God.

I am not, of course, recommending the study of William Blake to all minds as a perfect way to faith and to God.  Blake is really extraordinarily difficult and obscure and there is, in him, some of the confusion of almost all the heterodox and heretical mystical systems that ever flourished in the west--and that is saying a lot.  And yet, by the grace of God, at least in my opinion, he was kept very much uncontaminated by all his crazy symbols precisely because he was such a good and holy man, and because his faith was so real and his love for God so mighty and so sincere.

The Providence of God was eventually to use Blake to awaken something of faith and love in my own soul--in spite of all the misleading notions, and all the almost infinite possibilities of error that underlie his weird and violent figures.  I do not, therefore, want to seem to canonize him.  But I have to acknowledge my own debt to him, and the truth which may appear curious to some, although it is really not so:  that through Blake I would one day come, in a round-about way, to the only true Church, and to the One Living God, through His Son, Jesus Christ.

We all have that one teacher who makes a difference in our lives.  The one who fundamentally changes you in some way and sends your life spinning off in a new direction.  For Merton, it was William Blake.  Blake showed Merton the path to his future.  I've been lucky enough to have a few such influences in my long educational career, from middle school on up.  Mrs. Kantola, seventh grade.  Mrs. Luoma, eighth grade.  Ms. DeCaire and Mrs. Jones, high school.  Phil Legler, Beverly Matherne, Diane Sautter, Ray Ventre, John Vandezande, Ron Johnson, and John Smolens--college.  All fantastic teachers who were somehow able to make me learn something new about myself and who I wanted to be.

Tonight, I "attended" a high school graduation ceremony.  It had been postponed and rescheduled several times due to the pandemic.  There had already been parades of graduates in cars.  Videos on the school district's Facebook page.  All very moving and exciting and culminating tonight, on the school's football field, with the Class of 2020 sitting in folding chairs, distanced six feet apart.  My daughter's boyfriend was sitting in one of the those chairs.  And my wife and I were parked outside the stadium, watching from the fence line, listening on the radio to the speeches and addresses.

My daughter's boyfriend is an amazing young man, who overcame a lot of obstacles in his educational career.  My daughter has been dating him for going on four years now.  That's a long time for teenagers, who seem to change partners about as often as they change socks.  I've watched him grow and mature, struggle and overcome.  I'm sure he's had some mentors in his life--people he's looked up to.  Maybe they've changed him with a kind word or a valuable life lesson.  Or maybe they kicked him in the ass when his ass needed kicking.  Whoever those individuals are, they can be pretty proud of him.  I certainly am.

So, I present to you the miracle of graduation.  Of seeing bright, shining young people taking their first steps into the future.  It is always, in my experience, a wondrous thing to behold.  The pandemic may have delayed this moment.  It may have set up barriers that needed to be hurdled.  It may have even made graduation seem impossible.  Yet, the impossible happened tonight.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

March 12: Hunters of Whales, Contingent Faculty, Summers Off

As Queequeg and I are now fairly embarked in this business of whaling; and as this business of whaling has somehow come to be regarded among landsmen as a rather unpoetical and disreputable pursuit; therefore, I am all anxiety to convince ye, ye landsmen, of the injustice hereby done to us hunters of whales.

In the first place, it may be deemed almost superfluous to establish the fact, that among people at large, the business of whaling is not accounted on a level with what are called the liberal professions. If a stranger were introduced into any miscellaneous metropolitan society, it would but slightly advance the general opinion of his merits, were he presented to the company as a harpooneer, say; and if in emulation of the naval officers he should append the initials S.W.F. (Sperm Whale Fishery) to his visting card, such a procedure would be deemed preeminently presuming and ridiculous.

Doubtless one leading reason why the world declines honoring us whalemen, is this: they think that, at best, our vocation amounts to a butchering sort of business; and that when actively engaged therein, we are surrounded by all manner of defilements. Butchers we are, that is true. But butchers, also, and butchers of the bloodiest badge have been all Martial Commanders whom the world invariably delights to honor. And as for the matter of the alleged uncleanliness of our business, ye shall soon be initiated into certain facts hitherto pretty generally unknown, and which, upon the whole, will triumphantly plant the sperm whale-ship at least among the cleanliest things of this tidy earth. But even granting the charge in question to be true; what disordered slippery decks of a whale-ship are comparable to the unspeakable carrion of those battle-fields from which so many soldiers return to drink in all ladies' plaudits? And if the idea of peril so much enhances the popular conceit of the soldier's profession; let me assure ye that many a veteran who has freely marched up to a battery, would quickly recoil at the apparition of the sperm whale's vast tail, fanning into eddies the air over his head. For what are the comprehensible terrors of man compared with the interlinked terrors and wonders of God!

And here is the start of Ishmael's defense of the occupation of whaling.  Now, these days, whaling is pretty much an extinct profession, unnecessary even.  The human race has found replacements for the commodities that used to be supplied by whaling ships.  Thus, whaling in the modern world is viewed as bloody, barbaric, and harmful--a viewpoint that Ishmael is trying to dispel.

It doesn't help that so many whales have been hunted to the point of near extinction.  The sperm whale itself, while on the endangered species list, is one of the more abundant whales on the planet.  Estimates range from two hundred thousand to 1.5 million living sperm whales in the world's oceans.  That's a lot of blubber.  But I would venture a guess that if I went to a party, and Ishmael walked in and started waxing eloquent on the whaling profession, he would probably be laughed at, shunned, or attacked.

I frequently face the same problem when I mention that I teach at a university.  Never mind that I'm contingent faculty.  The prevailing belief is that, if you teach on the college level, you are wealthy and have a great deal of leisure time to write and travel and stock your wine cellar (because all university professors are into wines).  Of course, nothing could be farther from the truth in my case.

Thanks to the current powers-that-be in Washington, D. C., public school teachers somehow fall under this same false umbrella of privileged suspicion.  I can't tell you how many times I've been a part of a conversation that goes something like this:

"So what does Tom do for a living?"

"Oh, he teaches seventh grade science."

"Well, he's all set then."

"No, he really underpaid."

"Yeah, but he gets his summers off."

Teachers have to do continuing education.  It's a requirement to maintain their teaching credentials.  They usually do this during the summer months.  There's new curriculum to plan.  Classrooms to organize.  Training to participate in.  If I don't teach in the summer, I'm preparing for the classes I will teach come August.  Selecting textbooks.  Writing syllabuses.  Creating Web content.  I'm always teaching, even when I'm not.

So, don't ever think that teachers have it easy.  They're not in it for the money.  Or prestige.  Or summer vacation.  Teachers are dedicated public servants who deserve respect and thanks.  More money wouldn't be bad, either.

Saint Marty is thankful for all the teachers he's ever known in his life.

January 2: Shot in Dresden, iPhone 7 Plus, Kurt Vonnegut

All this happened, more or less.  The war parts, anyway, are pretty much true. One guy I knew really was shot in Dresden for taking a teapot that wasn't his.  Another guy I knew really did threaten to have his personal enemies killed by hired gunmen after the war.  And so on.  I've changed all the names.

This is the first paragraph of Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five.  At the beginning of the book, Vonnegut talks about how difficult it has been for him to write about his war experiences.  More specifically, his difficulties with writing about the firebombing of the city of Dresden while he was a prisoner of war there.  When reality becomes like fiction, Vonnegut turns science fiction into reality.

I have spent the day becoming part of the 21st century.  Translation:  I now am the proud owner of an iPhone 7 Plus.  My daughter helped me set up a Snapchat account.  I have sent a "snap" to a friend.  (Or is that supposed to be "I snapped a friend"?)  I'm not sure.  I have always been a little bit of a Luddite.  Distrustful of technology.  That's why, until about a week-and-a-half ago, I was not on Facebook.

There is something about a constantly mediated reality that I distrust.  Even though I write this blog, I don't share everything.  I still have difficulty with some aspects of my life.  Things that are too painful or embarrassing to approach right now.  Sort of like Vonnegut struggling with his wartime past.  I may write about these experiences eventually, like Vonnegut.

I once met Kurt Vonnegut.  Really.  He came to the university where I teach.  It was a few years before he died, and age had diminished him a little bit physically.  He walked unsteadily, and his voice had the rumble of a lifelong smoker.  However, his intellect was intact.  He spoke of the importance of teachers, and the nobility of the classroom.  It was really inspiring. 

As I sat in the audience, I imagined Vonnegut in a zoo on the planet Tralfamdore with the main character of Slaughterhouse, Billy Pilgrim.  Vonnegut as a prisoner in Dresden as the bombs began to fall.  Vonnegut as a Vietnam War protestor, marching and raising hell.  I imagined all of the Vonnegut realities.

So, my reality has expanded today.  I'm still a little distrustful of things like Facebook and Twitter, but it's a healthy distrust.  I will still write things in my daily planner.  I will still carry around a journal and fountain pen, in which I will record thoughts and inspirations.  I have to keep in mind that iPhones and blogs and journals and Facebook are all tools.  Ways to approach reality.

I think that Vonnegut, if he were alive today, would own the latest iPhone.  He would be tweeting (or poo-tee-weeting).  He would be writing on a tablet, and taking pictures and posting them on his timeline.  In short, he would be the King of all Media. 

Saint Marty hopes that, some day, he will be a really cool old guy like Kurt Vonnegut, talking/tweeting/blogging/Snapchatting about peace and love and sex and extraterrestrial life.