Propped against my kitchen wall, my body trembled as the third round of tears in an hour raged out. It was late on a Friday night and the stress of the week reached the brim of my ability to handle it and was now overflowing. My hypothetical white flag was ready to fly, but I knew that I couldn't give up. Although it was a black blob with a white question mark, there was a reason to keep going and its existence alone was enough for me to pick myself up and go to bed.
The next day, I felt hung over from the devastation and disappointment and couldn't bring myself to think about the situation or answer a phone call that contained an update. My friend Melissa invited me to an event her organization was hosting that evening, and for a reason I can't pinpoint, I knew hope the I craved would be there. That’s the night I met Alex.
Part of the event included writing letters of encouragement to kids at-risk for dropping out of school. I plopped down at the cardboard table and scribbled out supporting statements to 5th, 6th and 7th graders. Alex sat next to me and grabbed a name from the list. My letters contained clichés and over used phrases, such as “follow your dreams” and “I believe in you” while Alex based his sentiments on his own experience of not giving up and graduating even though most of his family expected him to drop out.
Alex seemed to know most of the kids at the event and they him. Many of them came over to him during our letter writing to see what he was doing, as if they wanted to always know what he was doing. He’d joke with them, say something nice and then return to the letters. His demeanor with the staff and other kids pegged him as a regular at the center and one that seemed to value the people and life inside the florescent-lit building. He wore silver glass and facial hair that disrupted my guess at his age (over 18).
Having worked at a pool that was a refuge for children in troubled homes and a domestic abuse shelter, I’ve met kids like Alex before and easily assembled likely stories of his background. I wanted to know everything I could about Alex, but not wanting to scare him, I held off on the usual impromptu interview I cast on someone I think is interesting. So we kept writing and offering small interjections to each other between passages.
Daniel, one of the event’s organizers, joined our letter writing and informed me that Alex was quite the writer, and he promptly confirmed. “I can write a 15 page essay in 15 minutes.” He told me that he loved writing poetry and wanted to study some type of writing in college. I told him that I was also a writer, but a journalist and he should consider that field of study. Since we were in the letter-writing mood, he told me to write him a letter about journalism. Happily, I obliged.
Journalism, especially print, doesn’t have a great reputation these days, but I drew from all of my positive experiences to explain to Alex why a career in journalism is very gratifying and satisfying. I explained to him all the amazing things I’ve experienced through journalism: interviewing an NFL player a week before he won his team a Super Bowl; partaking in a buffalo hunt; learning to ski; covering one of the state’s most heated issues; helping create change; and meeting hundreds of fascinating, passionate people. I tried to forget about the profession’s downfalls and cynicism and relay why it’s truly an amazing career.
When I gave him the letter, he said thank you and that I’ve convinced him to consider journalism. That gave me the hope I so desperately needed. He inspired me to keep going, to keep swinging on the tough days.
I saw Alex again last night at another event. He brought his poems, hoping I would be there so he could share them with me. They were printed in various fonts on several sheets of white printer paper and stored on the right side of a blue binder covered in stickers. He handed the entire stack to me and I read through each one, struggling to keep back the tears. Most very short, the poems portrayed hope, disappointment, loneliness, devastation, anger, love, a cruel world and a beautiful world. A few of the sheets were marked with a pink ‘x’ in the left hand cover, which tagged the ones specific to Alex’s life, he explained.
Although not entirely elegant, these poems did the one thing poetry, or any good writing for that matter, should: evoke emotion. In eight or 10 lines, I saw a boy who’s lived a hard life but isn’t scarred from the unfairness. Despite letdowns, optimism reigns and the fire from his dreams and passion for writing can’t be extinguished.
Despite my best efforts, tears came. His poetry moved me, inspired me and, of course, instilled hope.
While I was reading his poetry, Alex made me a Valentine. In the Valentine to someone who he’s only met twice, he wrote “Thanks for inspiring me to do what I love the most.” He also showed me that on the left side of his binder, the one in which he kept his writing, was the letter I wrote him. He keeps it there and reads it often.
As he was telling me about the letter, I sent up a quick prayer, asking that Alex get everything that he wants and is entitled to in life. I’d make a deal with Devil to ensure success in his life; I want his hope to mean something more than I want my own hope to materialize.
Without even knowing him, Alex was the reason that I could pick myself off the floor that Friday evening and keep pushing through until all our issues were solved. When my days are hard, I think of Alex and his passion and I keep going. Alex is one of the many reasons I do what I do, and if I never see him again, I’ll continually think of him during the rough patches.
The kind of passion and hope Alex posses isn’t something you learn, it’s part of your DNA. It’s his burden and blessing. And it’s something the two of us will share till our deathbeds.
*For the purpose of this blog, Alex is a pseudo name.
