Five Days Before the Dawn

On the first day, I had hoped it was all a mistake. I liked to read; so why did they take my books? I didn't like to raise my voice or laugh hysterically but I did like sharing stories and jokes. Why then were all the jokes about me? I didn't understand what I did wrong.

I got home to my parents, hoping to get some advice. My mother gave me a hug and told me to just ignore their words. My father offered some 'comebacks' and wondered why my wit is not as quick as his. I would not find out until day four that they never realized how bad that day was. So I started thinking I was too soft. Too weak.

I rode the bus and started up my CD player. A brief respite from the hell that awaited me. I told myself I needed to be stronger. To wait patiently in every class until I came back home. They will tell me tomorrow that I was an amazing student. That I worked hard. But they never once questioned why all my 'friends' were always too busy to celebrate my birthday. I told them I didn't mind since my family was enough. It made them smile.

I went to my room and put my new CD into my player. I hear a scream, then a guitar that pulls at my heart and drums that move my soul. He shouts a melody that rocks me to sleep. I smiled through my tears knowing tomorrow will be better.

Day two was better. It was closer to a purgatory than a hell, which was a win in my book after the last day I had. I sat at my bus stop, listening to my CD player. I smiled to myself thinking about the classes I'd have. My classmates were better than the ones I had the day before. They were so concerned with themselves that they didn't have time to bother with me. It was quieter that day and that was okay with me.

The classes themselves were starting to drag though. I felt their weight on my shoulders. I did make some friends but spending time with them was hard. I had to try harder to keep up with them. I'd do twice as many practice sheets to get half as many points. I liked my friends, but I was jealous of them too. I think something in me broke that day.

I met a girl that made me rethink my sense of inferiority. I considered that perhaps I hadn't been playing the school game the right way. My parents didn't raise a thoughtless fool, so I left her a thank you note. I wondered if I should have said more. Maybe I said too much. I didn't expect anything to come of it, but she replied in the afternoon. My heart fluttered. I had never felt so at odds with myself before.

I 'borrowed' one of my dad's CDs and popped it into my player as I waited for the bus. An angel's voice joined with delicate strums from a guitar, and I knew that I'd discovered something amazing. I sang along, alone at the bus stop knowing that I'd be singing it again when I got home.

I woke up the third day in a hospital. Just a few hours into my day and I had already felt lost and behind my peers. They called me a miracle. A one-in-eighteen survivor. I thought of myself as a fool for allowing work to impact my well-being. There I was, thinking I had actually grown up a bit. I look in the mirror next to my bed and saw the same face from two days ago. I wondered if things would ever change. If I would ever change.

They discharged me by late morning, and I decided to walk a different path. Same university, just a different track. I stayed in touch with my friends, but I knew they'd all leave sooner than me. I shrugged and decided to make new friends. Meet more people. Older folks and younger ones. I didn't have to try and force my smiles now.

In the evening I looked around at those around me. They weren't what I expected, but they were better for me than I felt I deserved. We sat together at a cramped booth making plans for tomorrow. I glanced up at the graffiti covered mirror on the wall and saw what the day could have been. A table full of different faces, a loner sipping on a beer and a plot of dirt wet with tears and rain.

My friends made fun of my goofy grin and wondered what'd gotten me all giddy. I said it was nothing and silently made plans to stay in touch until it was my time. I pulled out my MP3 player on my way home and felt my body sway to the crazy notes. The piano guiding my steps as I walked the path home with a confidence I didn't know I had.

Day four was admittedly, not all that I had hoped it would be. I stayed in touch with the friends from the day before and even reached out to my mentors from time to time. But it was hard. I worked alongside new mentors and met with over six-hundred students twice a week. Some of them needed extra help and my heart never considered turning them away.

I missed out on monthly meet-ups and struggled with stacks of gradeless papers. I asked my parents for guidance but all I got are cryptic proverbs and vague wise words of wisdom about my friends understanding if they really cared. They didn't seem to understand what I was asking for. No one I asked seemed to have the answers I was looking for. I looked into the puddle at my feet and realized that this was the loop that ensnares us. The new players burn themselves out trying to juggle everything while the veterans settle in with their various means of coping. I didn't want that for my students.

I had a meeting at noon with a student that went missing for a month. He was failing. Miserably. He'd gotten all of his late assignments, documents and papers hoping that just this once I would bend the rules for his sake. He was clearly shaken, and his mind was elsewhere. I asked him to set the papers aside and tell me where he'd been. He fought tears as he pulled out his phone and brought up an obituary. For his mother.

His education was paid for by the military, so they needed records of everything, especially notes for 'excused absences.' He didn't need to show me. I believed him. He said that other professors had not, so he took pictures of all the paperwork to prove he was out of the country to bury his mother back home. I felt sick at the idea that a student's integrity would be questioned when it came to the deaths of their own parents, but as a teaching assistant I understood where the skepticism came from.

I felt hopeless. The class should never have mattered more than being at that funeral but that was exactly what the system demanded. And then I had to explain to my student that he was going to fail the course. I went over every assignment and exam to make sure he understood every concept. I told him what books to focus on and which PowerPoints to review. And then I said I could do no more. He thanked me for 'treating him like a real person' before leaving with a smile on his face, confident that he could pass the class next time. I envied that glow.

I went home and poured myself a shot of tequila. Then another. I was about to down another when one of my friends called. We met up to eat but I couldn't hide how awful I felt. Rather than ask for details, he just asked me why I cared about it. After mulling it over, I realized that what I cared about was wanting every student to do well. All six hundred and sixty-four of them. And that I had somehow failed those that did not. My friend punched my arm, said it wasn't my fault and suggested I add something to "that book I was working on."

When I got home this time, I went to my computer and put on a new playlist. Music always helped me imagine scenes as I wrote them. I started writing the day before but never thought about taking it seriously. But now I had something I wanted to share. A story I cared about. Autoplay started a new song and I stopped to listen to the guitar. Then I heard the haunting voice spread goosebumps over my arms and I saw the scene play out in my mind. The more I heard, the more I saw. As the final note faded, I noticed I had stopped breathing. After writing the outline for one of my favorite story beats, I threw myself on the bed with the song repeat.

I woke up today to find the world just as messy as the day before except we had an outbreak we couldn't control. Sure, why not. Work didn't change much aside from mask mandates, but I was always more comfortable wearing one around the folks that came in. Why do customers insist on getting in your face when they are contagious?

By noon, I came to accept certain truths about the world we live in. For example, 'common sense is not so common.' Not an uncommon nugget of wisdom but not nearly taken to heart as often as it should be.

Another one I feel resonates with the day is that 'I cannot control how people will react, but I can choose how I will respond to them.' There will always be folks that disagree with you but that doesn't mean they despise your existence. I've only ever learned new things by speaking with people that have differing opinions about a subject so why should I villainize them if they are providing me with a new perspective?

Even the man I met this morning, saying he was going to get his engineering license to be able to write off his bunker as 'up to code' for the underground lizard invasion, has a valid perspective. Despite me completely disagreeing with him. The lizard men will come from space, obviously, but that's no reason to hate the man. Especially when he provides me with such incredible storytelling material. And who knows, maybe he's right.

The last truth I'll share is that we are all on the same roller coaster called 'life' and no amount of kicking, screaming or whining will change that. We might as well learn how to get along if we have to share the same ride, right?

I sit here with my wireless earbuds, scrolling through hundreds if not thousands of musical masterworks before I find what I am looking for. The perfect layer of pop rocks to top this bittersweet tiramisu. (I know what I just said, and I mean it.) I press play and let the music wash over me. The vocals offer a prayer for the future generations, and I'm amazed at how valid the lyrics are today as they were when my parents were kids. The guitar riffs pull my face into a smile, and I go back to writing my own 'prayer' for tomorrow.