Please Tell Me Why

It's funny what you remember about things like your earliest pieces of writing. For instance, I know one of the earliest pieces I ever wrote was a poem. It may not have been my first, but it was one of the most impactful. But the impact didn't come from the writing or the content itself, but from the lessons I would learn from the reaction to it.

I don't remember what grade I was in. I know that it was earlier than fourth grade because I went to a different school in fourth grade. I know it was later than first grade because the poem would make its way to the school principal, and I know that it was not Mr. Taylor--the beloved, gregarious principal who'd retired after my first year in elementary school--but Mr. Dunn--a younger man whose words felt more measured (looking back), whose actions felt pre-configured (in retrospect)--who would praise the poem and make unrealized promises to its starry-eyed author.

So, at some point during the formative years of second or third grade, I explored the one question that seemed to be ravaging my thoughts in a poem aptly named, "Why?" It was written in that simple ABAB scheme that children hear so often and pick up so easily. It was made up of several stanzas, each line challenging the ways of mostly workaday things: the linking of chains, the singing of birds, the falling of rain, the pull of celestial bodies. I only remember verbatim the last line of each stanza, a simple request:

"I'd like to know. Please tell me why."

I don't remember if it was an assignment or just something I did for fun. Regardless, it got the attention of my teacher and the teacher brought it to the attention of my principal, Mr. Dunn.

The way I remember it, both my mom and I were summoned to the principal's office at the end of a school day. One or more of my teachers were there, I'm pretty sure. And I know he lauded the poem, fawned over it. They all did.

What I also remember is the weight with which Mr. Dunn made what seemed to be a heavy decision. One that warranted praise, gratitude, high regard. "You know what," I remember him saying. I remember a long pause, a gradual nodding of his head. "I'm going to send this to the county paper, and I'm going to make sure they publish this."

I don't remember how I reacted in the moment. I don't remember how my mom reacted, but to this day, I can't shake the sense that her reaction was as measured as Mr. Dunn's words seemed to be. If I recreate the scene in my mind, I'm almost certain I can pick up on something unspoken in a look between Mr. Dunn and my mom. Not something communicated, but the exact opposite. A miscommunication. She was telling him one thing, but he was only receiving what he wanted to hear. What he expected to hear.

What he thought he deserved to hear.

I don't remember what I said in the car as I buckled my seat belt. I was surely excited. My poem was going to be in the paper! It was good enough to be in the paper!

Mom didn't share in my excitement. I don't remember the tone. I don't remember the words. Just the cautiousness with which she spoke when she essentially told me not to get my hopes up.

"But he said..." I do remember challenging. And I remember her continued skepticism.

Maybe she imparted some wisdom, explained why she was skeptical.

I'd like to know.

Maybe she was afraid to. Afraid that it would dampen my excitement. Afraid I would misinterpret her cynicism as doubt of my skills, my abilities.

Please tell me why.

And that was the last of the poem I remember being spoken, as it never was published in the paper.

Maybe Mr. Dunn never submitted it. Maybe the paper just didn't publish it. I don't remember ever being offered an explanation. I don't remember asking for one.

I don't remember asking why.

I don't know if I learned at that moment, or if the memory would later return as further evidence that sometimes, you have to take at face value what certain people say. What they promise. That some words don't carry as much weight as they make them out to carry.

But I do get the feeling that the awkward sense of miscommunication I see as I recall us sitting there in Mr. Dunn's office was exactly that. My mom making it clear that she knew what he was saying, how reliable his words were, and Mr. Dunn missing the message completely. Closed off to any incoming messages. Too busy sending his own.

But, memories...oh, how manufactured and misleading memories can be.

Maybe everyone had good intentions.

Maybe it simply slipped everyone's mind.

Maybe the poem wasn't even that good.

Maybe I'm remembering it all wrong.

I'd like to know.

But it's irrelevant, really.