Testament

I've often wondered what going to my own funeral would be like.
I always picture it as being outside, on a beautiful day (I like to think
that I'd be thoughtful enough to die in the summer, or early spring). There
are lots and lots of people -- some of whom I know well, some that I haven't
seen in years. They are sad, in my morbid little fantasy, and they take
turns saying things about me that are nicer than I probably deserve, things
I'll remember when, one by one, they return to their lives, and leave me
there alone.

I mention this because for the last week or so, I've felt like I've
been attending my own funeral. I told my high school students that I'd be
leaving at the end of the year to pursue a degree in creative writing. To
their credit, none of them began dancing around the aisles, singing "ding,
dong, the witch is dead." Some of them were upset. Some of them were
angry with me, saying I'd abandoned them. Some of them said or wrote things
that moved me, that made me feel as though maybe I'd accomplished something
with my life after all. It's been beautiful, and heartbreaking, and makes
me wonder whether I made the right decision in telling my students -- after
all, as a teacher, you're not supposed to be in the spotlight; you're
supposed to direct your students' attention either to the material you're
covering, or their own development as human beings.

Those who have considered attending their own funeral, by whatever
means, should know that it's full of surprises. You find that the actions
of your life have more and greater consequences than you ever imagined --
people remember the time you waved at them in the hallway, or the time you
listened to them under the stairs, even if you would have sworn they never
heard a word you said in all the time you knew them. You find that the
masks you wore through life, the ones you took such pains to create, never
worked as well as you thought they did. For years I convinced myself
that "Mr. Rogers" and "Rob" were separate persons, that I had a detached,
professional demeanor in the classroom, and that I kept my various quirks,
neuroses, and feelings hidden from all but a chosen few. Truth was, "Mr.
Rogers" never really existed: try as I might, I was never able to be anything
other than myself with my students, and they didn't seem to mind that much
after all.

It's comforting, your funeral, because it's not until you're
actually there that you realize how terrified you are of the place where
you're going. It's a good place -- it's where you want to be -- but there's
a big part of you that isn't sure you're good enough to be going there, and
you're looking for reassurance from the people you're leaving -- a sign
that you did something worthwhile while you were there, and that they'll
remember you after you're gone.

You find, as the funeral continues, that you want to say something
significant to everyone you see -- you want to take each one of them aside
and tell them how much they meant to you, how much you appreciated their
presence, their attention, their creativity, their influence in your life.
You can't, of course: even if you could speak, there are too many, and when
you try, the words never come out the way you want them to. The best
you can hope for is that some of them, at least, will find the words you
left behind and understand what you were trying to say.

It's likely, if you've read this far, that you're someone who is
important in my life -- maybe more important than you realize. These words
are for you. First, thank you. If I was your teacher, you may have thought
that I had come into your life to help you -- and I probably thought so, too
-- but the truth is, you helped me a great deal. You challenged me to be
creative, to be interesting; you gave me things to think about; you dazzled
me with your talent, your drive, your resilience, your faith. You made
me look forward to coming in to work (even if I hardly ever got there on
time). You pushed my buttons, and showed me where they were. You made me
laugh. You shared your life and your world with me. You were patient with
me. You were never, ever boring. I never thought you were stupid, or
annoying, or silly -- at least, I never thought you were any sillier than
I was. You made me want to talk about you to my friends: what you wrote
on a vocabulary quiz, what you did for the newspaper, how you'd changed for
the better -- and in time, some of you became my friends.

You believed in me, and I believe in you. Not one of you ever let
me down. You gave me your best, and you made me give you my best -- you
refused to accept anything less, which was fair enough, because I expected
the same from you. It's probably true that we never understood each other
as much as either of us would have liked, but it's also probably true that
I saw through your masks as accurately as you saw through mine, and I liked
what I saw better than I liked the mask. I wish you could see yourself the
way I see you, the way I will always see you, in memories, or when we see
each other again -- and we will. When we do, I will have so much to say to
you -- but I will wait to hear what you have to say, because I have always
loved listening to you, even if it seems I spent all of our time together
telling you to be quiet.

I don't have much to leave you. My CDs I'm taking with me, or else
I'm leaving them to Dave (which amounts to the same thing, as I can't
imagine going anywhere without him). My books go to Brad, and my movies
to Pete (most of them are his, anyway). Kate will know what to do with
my photographs; Trish will do the same with my letters, and Theora my
stories, except for Easily-Discovered Man, which belongs to Ryan. Sarah
gets the apartment. The rest of you get back all of the time you spent
waiting for me to arrive; all the places I saw when I was lost and refused
to ask for directions; the experience of bicycling on a fall afternoon;
the first tug on a fishing line; the war stories, love letters, and family
secrets I've had in safe keeping; beach sand between your toes; a fedora;
center seat, center row on opening night with leather armrests and THX
sound; my seat at the front of the boat coming into the harbor at sunset;
the smell of fresh cut grass and the satisfaction of having been the one
to cut it; the snug feeling of a warm sleeping bag on a cold night; the
clacking of the roller coaster at Lincoln Park; every embarrassing college
story I've ever told, or refused to tell; the adrenaline rush of speaking
into a microphone, hearing your voice on tape, and seeing your name in
print; my office in the woods, and all the Moxie you can drink.

As for my pirate's treasure -- dead men tell no tales, and in any
case, it wouldn't be much of a treasure if it were easy to find...