It would seem a tad dramatic to remark that I am here today (as opposed to being long-dead) because of one particular person, though it would at least in part be the truth. His name was Chris, and he was a classmate back in high school. He was a popular kid and I, well, I was not. He was young, blond-haired, handsome. I idolized him, in that perhaps unhealthy way that adoration of the concept of the person can lead to not really knowing the actual person. Chris wasn't perfect by any means, but then who is?
I should probably clarify something at this juncture: Chris isn't dead. Sometimes I write these missives and it is because someone I knew has died recently, or has been dead for some time, and I remembering them for some reason. So, no, Chris is very much alive. In fact, the impetus for writing about him here is that I saw his picture on social media recently. And, no, he isn't the person I was writing about in the last blog post.
High school can be a difficult time for many. Cliques develop, demands are often high, adulthood is in the offing, and some start working at a job for the first time. Navigating the social mores is especially difficult for some. I wasn't popular. I knew it, wasn't happy about it, but wasn't sure what to do (aside from a complete personality transplant) to change the situation. I was also grappling with issues of sexuality. Feelings of isolation were high, but light would occasionally shine through the cracks.
Chris was unlike Kyle. I was attracted to them both, but in different ways. Part of the appeal of Chris was that he -- I am fairly certain -- knew that I liked him, and seemed to treat that with a distanced respect. He certainly couldn't reciprocate the attraction, nor did we run in the same social circles. What he could do was be nice to me at school and, sometimes, allow me into his world, however briefly. Those gestures may not sound like much, and I'm not suggesting we pin a medal on him and call him a hero, but at the time it mattered. A lot.
One week, in Mr. Yanchus's English class, we had to write a paper where we dissected the lyrics of a particular song (one of our choosing), and then write what we thought the lyrics were attempting to say. It was a rather fascinating study in lyrical interpretation on a personal level, and of course I chose a Roy Orbison song. Mr. Yanchus liked my essay so much that he read it, anonymously, to the class. Several of the students groaned at the notion of the teacher singling-out one particular paper, and even more at my writing, so I felt a mixture of pride and embarrassment.
The following day, while waiting to place an order at a nearby Arby's for lunch, Chris was in the line next to mine. He was with friends, and I didn't want to bother him with my uncoolness. Then he stepped over to me and asked, "Hey, was that your paper that Mr. Yanchus read in class?" I clenched-up and slowly replied, "Yes," prepared for him to shatter my world with some sort of derisory comment. Instead he looked at me, his face open, and said, "I thought so. That was really good. Just wanted to let you know." With that, he nodded his head, then stepped back into his line and with his friends.
The one-two punch of confidence boosting that had come from Chris and Mr. Yanchus couldn't have arrived at a better time. Bullying had been rampant at school, and nights and weekends were fairly solitary. In truth, I'd thought several times of taking some pills -- any pills -- in an abundant quantity, and being enveloped by the ensuing void. Anything, even death, felt preferable to the emotional pain I felt. Of course, some of this was probably heightened teenage angst, though that didn't make it feel less real at the time.
Every so often, Chris would take me on a ride in his car, which he'd had the audio system augmented to great effect. These rides were always at night, and never for very long. One evening, we went cruising and he'd just acquired the soundtrack to the (pretty awful) movie Sliver. As the disc played, the car vibrated to the rhythm of Neneh Cherry's Move With Me, and I felt... comfortable? safe? I felt alive. I knew the sensations wouldn't last, not with Chris, but it made me realize that there were good people in the world (my small little world of high school), and it gave me hope. The pills would have to wait.
So, yes, I am here today -- alive and mostly well -- because of Chris. Not just him, of course. There's my mom. My poor, long-suffering mother who, while I was in high school, finished-up her Nursing degree and then went to work full-time to support us. My mom, who provided as much emotional support as she was able. And because of teachers like Mr. Yanchus, taking the time to provide positive reinforcement. My dean, Mrs. Storch, did her best to keep the bullying wolves at bay. But the adults could only do so much. Sometimes, ones peers can have the greatest immediate impact.
It was good to see that picture of Chris on social media the other day. He looks a little older, as we all do, with some extra lines in his face. But, pretty much the same. I hope life is treating him well.
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