Norvel
I saw you today, Norvel.
Maybe I didn’t see you, but I knew you were there. I was walking back home on 18th Street this morning, and I saw a man sitting on the bench at the bus stop.
The man was dead.
At least, he appeared to be.
Among the suit-clad business men, the polo shirted, cardigan-wearing, high-heeled of middle-management, and the early-exercise set, there sat a stiff long-haired man wearing the tourist-trap Colorado flag tee and plaid flannel shirt of a “homeless by choice” type that permeates the LoDo area since weed became legalized.
Mike, my husband, calls these people “homeless with an iPhone.” You know the type, Norvel: white dudes that grew up in the ‘burbs that have dreadlocks. There is a drum circle that sits beneath our apartment window every night. You would laugh hysterically if you heard them.
Anyway, I was on the other side of 18th Street. The early morning golden sun didn’t seem rouse him. A polo and a cardigan shook his shoulder.
I watched.
No movement.
They shook again. No movement.
A construction laborer crept out of the shadows of one of the buildings. He became curious too. We both wondered.
“HEY! BUDDY!” the polo shouted as he shook him.
A moan and movement.
“You doin’ OK?” polo questioned as Ms. Cardigan looked concerned.
My fascination left me.
The sun was rising and, being a part of the early and get-it-over-with exercise bunch, I watched the crowds of people drifting warily from Union Station to the skyscrapers of downtown Denver. This is when I realized you were there.
I remembered the first time I saw a dead person, which was the last time I saw you.
You were in a coffin wearing a nice suit. I had never seen you so dressed-up. But, then, why would you wear a suit to school? We never had any semi-formal occasions.You grew up in the poor-side of town that I would’ve been afraid for my nieces and nephew to go to school.
Hell, I was scared to go there, and I worked there.
It wasn’t really you, though. The kid I saw looked so plasticized and mannequin-like.
I would see this look later when my grandparents would have their funerals some 17 years later. It surprises me that so many people choose open caskets when it never really looks like that person.
You were in my first class. It wasn't even a full-year of school. I took over for the lady who burned out and needed to reevaluate her career-choice.
I was young, bound and determined to teach, to make a difference. I wanted to prove that I could be the white lady from middle-class suburbia to walk into a classroom in North Tulsa and reach my students.
I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but you probably knew that.
Really, no one does when you think about it.
But you kept coming to class, Norvel. You had gotten into some fights. You weren’t mean. You just didn’t put up with anyone’s shit.
Yes, I know you never heard me use such poor language. It’s a teacher thing. You keep your mouth clean all day long, and, immediately, after the last child has left, you start swearing like a sailor.
I remember that summer how relieved I was to be out and to have a break. The week before the teachers returned to school was when I received the call. Mrs. Pembrooke, the assistant principal, left a message on my answering machine, so I called her back.
She said you had died, Norvel.
She said you had been riding your bike and you fell and someone hit you, Norvel.
Yes, I know that’s a run-on sentence, and I know that the English teacher ought to know better. I just get carried away with emotions sometimes. It would interrupt the flow of how I really felt at that moment. Cut me some slack, would you?
As I stood at your coffin, I touched your hand because I didn’t remember the last time I had given you a hug, a handshake, or high-five.
Again, I knew it was you, but this wasn’t you. You were only 10, maybe 11. You didn’t get to have what life offered. You didn’t get to make a mistake, laugh, or fight anymore.
I think you’d be about 30 years old today, which would’ve been 6 years older than I was when I taught you.
I think of that man being nudged awake. He looked like he was 30, too.
I get really angry about the whole thing, Norvel.
Yes, I know I don’t know his story, but the whole thought of the situation pisses me off.
You would have never had run away to “find yourself.” You wouldn't have had the opportunity. You would have grown up and gotten a job. You would have been a hard-working member of society. Maybe, if you had started taking your education seriously, you would have gotten a scholarship and gone to college.
I remember the pastor at your funeral said that when you fell off of your bicycle, you looked at the car and, then, looked toward the sky. He said that God was welcoming you because you knew.
He didn’t know that, for about three years, I felt you sitting behind me in my car. He didn’t know that, sometimes, a song would play and the sky would release a golden ray of sun from the clouds and I’d feel your presence. He didn’t know that, on occasion, I would be at the chalkboard, and I would feel someone standing behind me. I’d look each time, and no one was there.
AND I DON’T BELIEVE IN THAT STUFF, NORVEL.
The only person I had told about you was my dad. He said that I just missed you a lot, but I know that’s not it. Do you remember the time I cranked up that song in my old Cavalier and got a speeding ticket? I heard you laughing in the back seat. I know I did.
As I walked through the tunnel of Union Station, I climbed the stairs and a stream of sun came pouring through.
It had been 15 years and three states since you had been near me, but you were there.
I heard two boys giggling and punching each other in the arm on the escalator. I turned my head and smiled. You are everywhere and nowhere.
I waved and walked home.
Maybe I didn’t see you, but I knew you were there. I was walking back home on 18th Street this morning, and I saw a man sitting on the bench at the bus stop.
The man was dead.
At least, he appeared to be.
Among the suit-clad business men, the polo shirted, cardigan-wearing, high-heeled of middle-management, and the early-exercise set, there sat a stiff long-haired man wearing the tourist-trap Colorado flag tee and plaid flannel shirt of a “homeless by choice” type that permeates the LoDo area since weed became legalized.
Mike, my husband, calls these people “homeless with an iPhone.” You know the type, Norvel: white dudes that grew up in the ‘burbs that have dreadlocks. There is a drum circle that sits beneath our apartment window every night. You would laugh hysterically if you heard them.
Anyway, I was on the other side of 18th Street. The early morning golden sun didn’t seem rouse him. A polo and a cardigan shook his shoulder.
I watched.
No movement.
They shook again. No movement.
A construction laborer crept out of the shadows of one of the buildings. He became curious too. We both wondered.
“HEY! BUDDY!” the polo shouted as he shook him.
A moan and movement.
“You doin’ OK?” polo questioned as Ms. Cardigan looked concerned.
My fascination left me.
The sun was rising and, being a part of the early and get-it-over-with exercise bunch, I watched the crowds of people drifting warily from Union Station to the skyscrapers of downtown Denver. This is when I realized you were there.
I remembered the first time I saw a dead person, which was the last time I saw you.
You were in a coffin wearing a nice suit. I had never seen you so dressed-up. But, then, why would you wear a suit to school? We never had any semi-formal occasions.You grew up in the poor-side of town that I would’ve been afraid for my nieces and nephew to go to school.
Hell, I was scared to go there, and I worked there.
It wasn’t really you, though. The kid I saw looked so plasticized and mannequin-like.
I would see this look later when my grandparents would have their funerals some 17 years later. It surprises me that so many people choose open caskets when it never really looks like that person.
You were in my first class. It wasn't even a full-year of school. I took over for the lady who burned out and needed to reevaluate her career-choice.
I was young, bound and determined to teach, to make a difference. I wanted to prove that I could be the white lady from middle-class suburbia to walk into a classroom in North Tulsa and reach my students.
I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but you probably knew that.
Really, no one does when you think about it.
But you kept coming to class, Norvel. You had gotten into some fights. You weren’t mean. You just didn’t put up with anyone’s shit.
Yes, I know you never heard me use such poor language. It’s a teacher thing. You keep your mouth clean all day long, and, immediately, after the last child has left, you start swearing like a sailor.
I remember that summer how relieved I was to be out and to have a break. The week before the teachers returned to school was when I received the call. Mrs. Pembrooke, the assistant principal, left a message on my answering machine, so I called her back.
She said you had died, Norvel.
She said you had been riding your bike and you fell and someone hit you, Norvel.
Yes, I know that’s a run-on sentence, and I know that the English teacher ought to know better. I just get carried away with emotions sometimes. It would interrupt the flow of how I really felt at that moment. Cut me some slack, would you?
As I stood at your coffin, I touched your hand because I didn’t remember the last time I had given you a hug, a handshake, or high-five.
Again, I knew it was you, but this wasn’t you. You were only 10, maybe 11. You didn’t get to have what life offered. You didn’t get to make a mistake, laugh, or fight anymore.
I think you’d be about 30 years old today, which would’ve been 6 years older than I was when I taught you.
I think of that man being nudged awake. He looked like he was 30, too.
I get really angry about the whole thing, Norvel.
Yes, I know I don’t know his story, but the whole thought of the situation pisses me off.
You would have never had run away to “find yourself.” You wouldn't have had the opportunity. You would have grown up and gotten a job. You would have been a hard-working member of society. Maybe, if you had started taking your education seriously, you would have gotten a scholarship and gone to college.
I remember the pastor at your funeral said that when you fell off of your bicycle, you looked at the car and, then, looked toward the sky. He said that God was welcoming you because you knew.
He didn’t know that, for about three years, I felt you sitting behind me in my car. He didn’t know that, sometimes, a song would play and the sky would release a golden ray of sun from the clouds and I’d feel your presence. He didn’t know that, on occasion, I would be at the chalkboard, and I would feel someone standing behind me. I’d look each time, and no one was there.
AND I DON’T BELIEVE IN THAT STUFF, NORVEL.
The only person I had told about you was my dad. He said that I just missed you a lot, but I know that’s not it. Do you remember the time I cranked up that song in my old Cavalier and got a speeding ticket? I heard you laughing in the back seat. I know I did.
As I walked through the tunnel of Union Station, I climbed the stairs and a stream of sun came pouring through.
It had been 15 years and three states since you had been near me, but you were there.
I heard two boys giggling and punching each other in the arm on the escalator. I turned my head and smiled. You are everywhere and nowhere.
I waved and walked home.
The Last Fourteener
I am standing on the mountain. I hate climbing mountains. I am alone. I told my husband and friends to walk ahead. I am ready to vomit. My stomach turns with each step forward. I agreed to this several weeks ago, and I never wanted to do it.
Let me preface this by saying that I have never liked it when people felt sorry for me. I don't like it when people try, in a saccharin way, to encourage me. Just shut up and let me do it. I don't respond well to negative criticism either. Tell me to get moving, and I will dig my heels in more. I'll decide to move when I want to move. If you want me to stop moving, just yell at me.
My husband, Mike, stops and yells.
"We can either go up straight, or we can go down this path. What do you want to do?"
"I don't care."
"Well, make up your mind."
"I said, 'I DON'T care! Just go ahead. You don't have to wait for me."
He moves on.
I begin to think. Why do I do things I don't want to do? Am I trying to impress someone? Am I trying to "wow" my husband with my athletic prowess? Does any of this really matter? You know, I really can't believe Deborah. Sixteen surgeries and she is hauling up this thing...and hello? I would be close to the summit too if I had my husband carry all of my crap for me.
I stop and take a sip of water. I look above towards the summit, and I see Mike and Chris. They are so far ahead of me. Even the dogs we brought with us are leaving me in the dust.
I take another sip.
Jeezalou, why do I do this? Mount Sherman: this is the last Fourteener. I am serious this time. No more. I'm 34. I've lived a good life. I don't have to prove anything to anyone.
As I step on the rocky brittle path of the boulder fields, my mind flashes to the 7th grade.
I am with my church youth group somewhere in a deep grove. We are on a typical middle school ropes course style trip where they try and make everyone work together and get along with each other. You know, where they teach teamwork, community, esprit de corps, all of that crap.
There are about 20 of us standing at the base of the ridge made of brittle shale. They say that they have never had a group where everyone hadn't made it to the top. I start to feel nauseous and my hands begin to sweat.
I stop and take another sip. I wonder where the guys are. For that matter, where the hell is Deborah? Shit, I've got a long way to go, and I just know that I am going to vomit at any moment. I reach the first false summit.
"Oh, hell no," I say aloud.
The man trudging along behind me begins to laugh.
"Is it much further?" he asks.
"Yes..." I whine.
I stop and take a sip.
I am back in rural Oklahoma standing at the ridge. Ryan and Jason started to climb and made it to the top. They reach down for Darbi's hand. Of course the two dumb boys make sure the blonde cheerleader is up he wall before any other female.
I stand at the bottom. I let Amy and Teri go ahead of me. I help push them up. I want to get to the top. I think this is stupid., but I don't want to be the only one that doesn't make it. They say, "Emily, you can do it! Here grab my hand!" My hands and feet to dig into the shale.
I am at the next false summit now. A nine year old boy passes me. My lungs hurt. My head hurts. And, this time, I mean it, I'm really going to vomit. As I groan and continue down the path, my mind goes back to the ridge.
My feet slip out from underneath me. All of the teamwork caused much of the loose rock to break off and the wall is smooth. My hands cannot reach the outstretched arms. I am not going to make it. My nose starts to drip. The leader of this nightmare wears a Stetson-style hat and looks like an extra from Urban Cowboy. "You are the only person that has never reached the top. You failed your team."
But I thought I had helped them. Sometimes someone must sacrifice themselves so others can meet their goals. Didn't this guy understand that? Isn't self-sacrifice for the betterment of the group what teamwork is all about? I didn't want to do this, but I tried. Isn't that what really matters?
I take another sip of water. I am almost at the summit. Ugh. I really might throw up this time.
I see Mike, Chris, and Deborah. They are coming back for me. My nose begins to run.
"Turn around!" I yell.
They are still coming.
" I said, 'Turn around!'"
We keep trekking towards each other.
I yell, "I didn't walk this far to not get to the summit."
"But you're there," Mike says.
I look around in all directions. It is one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. Golden sun stretching over dozens of mountain tops with clear lakes and green parks below.
I think of that 12 year old standing alone.
"I don't care, " I stammer. "I want to sit where everyone else sits and to sign the register."
So we walk ahead.
I don't fail. I don't dig in my heels and refuse to move. I keep hiking until I am there.
I sit and breathe in the cold air.
I never get sick.
Let me preface this by saying that I have never liked it when people felt sorry for me. I don't like it when people try, in a saccharin way, to encourage me. Just shut up and let me do it. I don't respond well to negative criticism either. Tell me to get moving, and I will dig my heels in more. I'll decide to move when I want to move. If you want me to stop moving, just yell at me.
My husband, Mike, stops and yells.
"We can either go up straight, or we can go down this path. What do you want to do?"
"I don't care."
"Well, make up your mind."
"I said, 'I DON'T care! Just go ahead. You don't have to wait for me."
He moves on.
I begin to think. Why do I do things I don't want to do? Am I trying to impress someone? Am I trying to "wow" my husband with my athletic prowess? Does any of this really matter? You know, I really can't believe Deborah. Sixteen surgeries and she is hauling up this thing...and hello? I would be close to the summit too if I had my husband carry all of my crap for me.
I stop and take a sip of water. I look above towards the summit, and I see Mike and Chris. They are so far ahead of me. Even the dogs we brought with us are leaving me in the dust.
I take another sip.
Jeezalou, why do I do this? Mount Sherman: this is the last Fourteener. I am serious this time. No more. I'm 34. I've lived a good life. I don't have to prove anything to anyone.
As I step on the rocky brittle path of the boulder fields, my mind flashes to the 7th grade.
I am with my church youth group somewhere in a deep grove. We are on a typical middle school ropes course style trip where they try and make everyone work together and get along with each other. You know, where they teach teamwork, community, esprit de corps, all of that crap.
There are about 20 of us standing at the base of the ridge made of brittle shale. They say that they have never had a group where everyone hadn't made it to the top. I start to feel nauseous and my hands begin to sweat.
I stop and take another sip. I wonder where the guys are. For that matter, where the hell is Deborah? Shit, I've got a long way to go, and I just know that I am going to vomit at any moment. I reach the first false summit.
"Oh, hell no," I say aloud.
The man trudging along behind me begins to laugh.
"Is it much further?" he asks.
"Yes..." I whine.
I stop and take a sip.
I am back in rural Oklahoma standing at the ridge. Ryan and Jason started to climb and made it to the top. They reach down for Darbi's hand. Of course the two dumb boys make sure the blonde cheerleader is up he wall before any other female.
I stand at the bottom. I let Amy and Teri go ahead of me. I help push them up. I want to get to the top. I think this is stupid., but I don't want to be the only one that doesn't make it. They say, "Emily, you can do it! Here grab my hand!" My hands and feet to dig into the shale.
I am at the next false summit now. A nine year old boy passes me. My lungs hurt. My head hurts. And, this time, I mean it, I'm really going to vomit. As I groan and continue down the path, my mind goes back to the ridge.
My feet slip out from underneath me. All of the teamwork caused much of the loose rock to break off and the wall is smooth. My hands cannot reach the outstretched arms. I am not going to make it. My nose starts to drip. The leader of this nightmare wears a Stetson-style hat and looks like an extra from Urban Cowboy. "You are the only person that has never reached the top. You failed your team."
But I thought I had helped them. Sometimes someone must sacrifice themselves so others can meet their goals. Didn't this guy understand that? Isn't self-sacrifice for the betterment of the group what teamwork is all about? I didn't want to do this, but I tried. Isn't that what really matters?
I take another sip of water. I am almost at the summit. Ugh. I really might throw up this time.
I see Mike, Chris, and Deborah. They are coming back for me. My nose begins to run.
"Turn around!" I yell.
They are still coming.
" I said, 'Turn around!'"
We keep trekking towards each other.
I yell, "I didn't walk this far to not get to the summit."
"But you're there," Mike says.
I look around in all directions. It is one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. Golden sun stretching over dozens of mountain tops with clear lakes and green parks below.
I think of that 12 year old standing alone.
"I don't care, " I stammer. "I want to sit where everyone else sits and to sign the register."
So we walk ahead.
I don't fail. I don't dig in my heels and refuse to move. I keep hiking until I am there.
I sit and breathe in the cold air.
I never get sick.