wynn. d7 fin
Sept 13, 2021 21:23:14 GMT -5
Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Sept 13, 2021 21:23:14 GMT -5
{ wynn }
Literature is something that I found myself resorting to on late nights. Something I could use as a way to spend time with Owen. Where in the hardest of torrential downpours, the heaviest of claps, the choking cold, we could escape to another place. His fears would be able to be pacified by the world we were thrown into with the stories I could read to him. Stories where we were on high mountaintops or the bottom of the ocean. I was able to make everything okay, turn the fortissimo of hailing our roof into a pianissimo. A quiet hum that buzzed Owen to sleep to most nights, where he was then in his own story. Maybe he'd tell it in the morning at breakfast, maybe he won't. Maybe it'll be about walking trees - one that he believed was true at one point - or about the dogs. I can only hope the fantasy world he's in now is better than the factual world.
I sometimes feel bad when I see him tucked in at night. Sleeping away, the slow rise and fall of his chest, knowing that I'm not his actual father. I feel guilty. Like I could've done anything about the fact that his father died in the Games. Of course, I can't do anything now, but I wonder if I'm a good step in. If I can fill in the role that Daniel would've actually been as a father. Would he also read stories at bedtime? Would he also eagerly watch on walks with the dogs, pretending that he also saw the trees moving? I don't know, and I'll never know. But I figure he would be a lot sadder than I tend to be at night. I figure he'd be hurting. Not that I'm not, but he would've been a survivor. I can't fathom what it's like to survive. I've only lived, and there's a difference.
Even before we officially took Owen in, I remember finding something charming inside what books provide. Something about how the words on a page can transform the world for you. Where the world, dark and howling like the cave housing Daniels' ghost, can transition into a field painted in sunlight, where every single damn flower you could want to pick could be there. I learned that there was magic in the way that books can speak to you, and I wanted to share that magic with people. Become a wizard of words. I became a teacher at one of the local schools. Young adolescents came to a classroom where I got to tell them the power that words can have. How they save people. How they saved me. Well, one of the things that saved me. I sleep next to my other savior nightly.
I remember being the age that my students were. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I remember the sadness that I felt during those years. Growing up in the larger family, replacement or not, made me desire one of my own as an adult. I thought it was impossible that I'd be able to have a family. I had convinced myself that because of who I am, I wouldn't be able to have a husband, let alone a child. There was a time when I thought I didn't belong. That for the rest of my life that I'd be single. I'd die single. That there'd be no legacy left to remember me by and my name would remain to be Sawdust, because I was a Sawdust much longer than I was a Capulet. The horror I felt when Tybalt died, knowing that my last direct relative was gone. There was a part of me that questioned my value in society as a teenager, because I could never see myself happy. Because I was gay, and in my experience, gay parents didn't exist. I never saw them.
I remember when I came out to Phoebe. She, followed by Terrance, was one of the first two people I remember telling about my sexuality. They accepted me, of course, but I remember the fear that I felt. That somehow it mattered that one of their (what felt like) millions of siblings happened to be gay. I feared the reaction. I feared that they'd give me looks at dinners or tell me that they didn't love me or accept me in their family. I feared that the family that did remain wouldn't want me a part of theirs anymore. It was easy for them to do so, because all I shared with them is the name. I feared that my story would die with me.
But upon finding Renly, I didn't only have a story, I had a legacy.
There's something comforting about waking up next to someone that you care for. That you love. The warmth, the embrace that makes the morning less like the groggy, icky feeling and more like the warm, happy, satisfied feeling. Like you're sitting in front of a campfire and warming your hands up, or eating a marshmallow sandwich. It's that warm feeling where you're happy with life. I feel that every morning, because my once distant dreams because a current reality. It gives me a story to tell, someone to tell my story to. Though Renly probably knows more about my story than he'd like to. It's okay, though. I make up for it in food.
Though there's other people who don't have that. I have students who I bet are filled with stories that they need told, but nobody that they can tell those stories to. I've learned in my time teaching that being able to tell your own story is powerful. It ensures that your voice, your individual voice, is heard. Nothing is more important than giving the voiceless a voice. And that's why I've been working on a project lately. Something that gives voices all over the country an opportunity to speak, and for those voices to be heard. A pen pal program.
The pen pal program is something I came up with over dinner with Renly. Owen was there too, of course, but he's only eight. We were talking over the meal, about our days, about things that we want to get gone or talking to Owen about what he did in classes today. I remember expressing this desire to give my students a place to talk about their issues. Sure, for a few of them I was their natural source of solace. (I swear, it's something about english teachers, man. I remember being 16-17 and still doing that type of stuff). But I wanted them to have a way to share their story, but I didn't know how to do it with a sense of comfort. It takes a lot to be vulnerable about some things. In the midst of my rambling, Renly spoke up.
"Why don't you do one of those letters?" He waved his fork around as he thought. "I can't remember what they're called." Thanks, Ren. That's really helpful. I raised an eyebrow at him while he tried to figure out his wording. "You send a letter to someone. They send one back. Repeat." What? "That's not really helpful. Isn't that what people do anyway?" I didn't know what he was talking about. That's what... writing letters is for? "No, what I mean," he swallowed his bite before continuing. "Pair 'em with someone in another district. Or somewhere else. They write to each other for however long they want. Until death, only one letter to and back. Whatever satisfies them." Taking a stab at another piece of the meal in front of us, Ren gave another quip. "I think I remember seeing something about that being popular a while ago." Huh. Well, that's a good idea. That's actually a really good idea. "I'll think about that, I really like that. Just sounds like a lot of government talk."
The more I thought about it, the more I found myself getting fascinated with the idea. And therefore, the more I tried. It took a lot of tugging with the local post office. Along with the government. It took a lot. It probably took at least three weeks to hear back at first. Their response was a straight up no at first, with nothing else on it. But I pressed on. This idea of these children having a confidant in a place that they'll likely never meet otherwise to tell their stories to was important to me. I sent out letters to other districts, other teachers. Not that I knew who the teachers were, but from a few friendly nomads, I was able to get names and places.
The teachers I contacted at first were hesitant. Doubtful. They weren't even sure if I was actually from Seven and if this was something I actually wanted to do. They didn't understand - which I understood. Why should my 14 year old fishers write to a bunch of 12 year old coal miners? What does it bring? I told them. It brings that. It gives people who would never meet in the hallways a place to talk. Provides a confessional for them to go to, because the letter would soon be folded up and sent right away to their partner.
Eventually, once one cracked, another did. And then another. And another. I didn't expect to get to every district (capitol included), but here I am. With all 12 acceptances, and a government providing their outline of what can be sent. Upon presenting the idea to the class, there wasn't overall excitement for the idea, but a lot of students coming up afterward with interest. We did our pairings. We did our stuff. And now it's up to fate. Hopefully they like their partners.
Hopefully, like me, the words they fall upon comfort them in their nights. I hope it brings them to a world with their writer, and that they will feel each other. That their voices and stories will be heard. Because now that my story has been heard, and has been told, it's time that I go onto creating the next novel. This one, the sequel to the paranoid, daydreaming boy who never thought he'd have a family.
This one, the proud father and husband, the story-teller, the listener.
The legacy maker, because god damn it, he finally had a legacy worth working for.
