Nanowrimo #3

To Whom It May Concern:

            My name is Howard and I am writing this on account of the days I have remaining. There are still so many things I would like to remember and perhaps it is best if they are on paper. For memories are like a tape we constantly rewind, imperceptibly wearing them down each time we do. In my case, the tape is already worn to a thin thread and I do not believe I can remind it many times more.

            That presumes our pasts are linear which most likely they are not. I’m tempted to say they are like waves subsuming us in their sinusoidal waves. We take paths with trajectories that are uncertain, yet, it is the same line—the same function—all the way through. Unless there is a discontinuity we are witness to from time to time. Some functions are rational. Some are irrational, forever producing a tale of infinite jest. In a sense, the point of this wave function continues until it ends.

            What is the point? What is the point of going on as such, forever confined to a single function, never able to escape the fourth dimension of time? If our present is simply our continuous past, are we not all living in the past? Which is known, but not necessarily acknowledged daily. The point is that our past is not just something we roll back to see but that it is in front of us, around us. It is us. How rational or irrational our lives may be is also a function of the present, which is constantly shifting.

            But back to me. It is true that my own mind-function is failing in ways I cannot predict. I am no longer in complete charge of shaping my present, and consequently my past.

            I was born Howard Francis Tumner in 1954. I was born in Philadelphia, which was then an industrial city with good-paying union jobs. By the time I was a child, however, the city had declined considerably in stature as the jobs moved westward and out of the country. But, in general, it was a city where hard-hats were the norm and a game of horseshoes accompanied church barbeques.

            I still remember the blueness of the Schuylkill as the rafts and boats would cruise down the length of that never-ending river. I remember the nippy air on my face as I ran down to the water-ice shop by the fountains in the summer. Those were the days when not every house had air conditioning. Ladies in white dresses would be fanning themselves in the hot humidity as men in sweat-stained arm sleeves tried to catch some fresh air on their bikes.

            I am and was a teacher for many years. I taught middle and high school English and taught remedial writing classes at community college for several summers. My particular begins at such a junior college, when I was discussing the syllabus on the first day:

            “I require all students in this class to own a style guide. Many of you may groan but the fact is grammar and punctuation are as important as the titles of powerpoint presentations. Yes, you could write ‘untitled’ or ‘presentation’ as the title, but who’s going to read it? How will they know you know what you’re talking about?”

            And while you are in this class, your focus and undivided attention will be on our class discussions. If you pay attention, I guarantee that you will learn to write better and more fluently. You will be able to use language not only to communicate, but also to share valuable experiences.

            I know. Writing is difficult. Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t and don’t be fooled when you get stuck. But seek help. From me. From your classmates, if they are willing. You are not alone.”

            It’s something that resonates with me to this day though it is doubtful everyone internalized my full advice. We are fallible. We want to figure it out by ourselves, no matter the cost to our sanity.

            I am of that generation which considered authority to be something to be denounced. It wasn’t just fashion to be against the war, it was fashion to be against everything else. I was born a year after the war on the Korean peninsula ended and when the Cold War was just beginning. It was the period of the G.I. Bill and the military was the American family, if not a progenitor of it.

            We thought of ourselves first and ourselves second. For what was productivity without revolution? What was college without protest? Was it ever in doubt whether some of us enjoyed the cancellation of classes during sit-ins?

            Drugs were one expression of a kind of discontent which could translate into moments of happiness. Lawns of rolling couples were a common sight at colleges. Poetry could be appreciated for its own sake. We loved each other like family—partly because we had forsaken our own.