Cannonball

I recently learned my high school creative writing teacher drank himself to death. The man responsible for setting me on this long remarkable path of writing, became a victim of the ugliness. Reflecting on the past, I realize now he was battling those demons for a great many years. When I was 14 I didn’t know his bright red bloated nose was a screaming indication of disease. I’m having flashbacks to those times I went to see him after school and he seemed distressed, sad. But like so many teenagers, I wasn’t equipped with compassion for anyone outside of my circle of friends, especially not for a teacher. I can recall his exuberant highs (he was animated and inspiring) and frightening lows (he became dark, indignant… unnerving). These vicious mood swings took place during class and I just chalked it up to him trying to get through to a bunch of snot nosed know-it-alls. There was a story playing out right in front of me and I couldn’t see it.

A few years back, at my sister’s wedding reception, the Dad of one of her friends was there and he just so happened to be a former teacher of mine. He was good friends with my creative writing teacher and when I asked how he was doing his eyes dropped and in a bare whisper he said, “Not well”. I was told of his many years of drowning himself in alcohol, failed personal life and the feeling he had about his teaching career – he felt he hadn’t been an inspiration to anyone and no one would remember him. It broke my heart, smashed it actually because there are not too many days when I sit down to write that I don’t think about him. He is the gasoline to the flame that flickers inside me – my fire starter.

Mr. K – I won’t let you down. I swear.