Survival of the Fittest

"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves." - Shakespeare

For as long as I can remember, I've been a huge believer of fate. I'd sit back and let the world decide what's best for me, in every sense of the word.

The thing is, I always saw the world as a great caretaker. After all, I have the best family, good friends, my health, and a job that I love. I truly believed that it was fate that lead me to the schools I've attended, the jobs I've held and the people that are currently in my life. In turn, I also believed that it was fate that caused me to choose one major over the other, to leave one career to start another, and made people come and go over the last thirty-one years.

Now I've come to realize that maybe it wasn't fate - it's the choices I've made. Wasn't it me that chose to stay home and not attend an out-of-state college? To pursue teaching? To maintain or let go of certain relationships?

Upon this realization, I wonder if this makes me less of an optimist. Less of a romantic. Less of a believer of something beyond myself. I wonder if this waiting around of something to just happen caused me to lose the last decade or so of my life. I often find myself complaining that nothing has really changed since I was a child. Not my environment, the people in my life, or the person that I am. It's not that these are all necessarily bad, but I do think that change is necessary to grow - to finally become an adult. To realize that life is more about learning to make decisions rather than depending on something - or someone else - to make you happy.

The truth of the matter is, I think I'll always be an eternal optimist, a romantic, and a firm believer that something or someone up there is in control of the world around me, in some way or another. The problem is the waiting around part. The wondering. The simply not doing.

Maybe it's finding a balance between the two. We're given opportunities, and it's ours for the taking...or not. We're given challenges, and we can either run from them, or face them head on. I think I'll choose the latter.

Simplify

Here I am at 2:30AM, the first few hours of September. I just finished reading a friend's blog, and suddenly realized how I've forgotten one of life's most precious gifts: the art of FUN. Not that I don't have fun, but I've seemingly forgotten how to BE fun most of the time. I think most adults have this problem. We're so busy fearing and dealing with the complications of life, that enjoying its simplicities easily slips our minds.

Yesterday, I sought out my brother for some advice, as usual. After a few minutes of conversation, he simply said, "You know, it's easy. If you need to know what do in this situation, just ask a kid."

Now that I think about it, children have the best solutions to any problem. They make decisions quickly: "Where do you want to go?" "The park!" Have a sense of self-preservation: "He doesn't want to play with me, so I'm not going to play with him!" And never hesitate to ask for help: "Can you hold my hand?" Children are also never afraid to laugh out loud, be honest, play with reckless abandon, and just do what they feel. They live in the moment, despite what us boring adults think. In short, they know how to simplify.

If I could give advice to the child I was years ago, it would be to continue having fun - you are wiser than you think.

Live. Love. Hope.

For the past five months, I've been constantly thinking about a possible transition from my last post. The truth is, while my student's death shook me, I couldn't really comprehend what happened, or what was to come.

We don't get to choose the people that come into our lives. I have to say that I've truly been blessed with the greatest family that God could have provided. My father, for instance, is a strong person. I grew up watching him do everything from replace the light bulb in my bedroom to repairing whole car engines. He has the best sense of humor, even taught me certain aspects of cooking, and, to this day, provides the simplest solution to any problem that I have. I don't think there's a person in this world that is like my father, can compare to the emotional strength of my mother, or has the genuine heart of my brother.

However, in my thirty-plus years on this planet, there are people who have come in and out of my life that have taught me lessons along the way as well.

Since I could remember, Sid was my father's best friend. As a child, I never appreciated his wisdom, sense of humor, or zest for life. I didn't realize the friendship that he and my father shared - or the fact that they were showing my brother and I what real friendship was. Sid would go on month-long vacations and call my Dad as soon as he returned. Every project that my father had, Sid was there and vice versa. Summers were spent in our garage or Sid's house.

The thing was, to us, Sid and my father seemed so opposite. For one, Sid was over six feet tall, while my father stands at 5'6". Moreover, Sid loved to travel abroad and try new things. For the past 33 years, my father has the same haircut. And with the exception of two or three states, has never left Queens. However, despite their differences, Sid and my father were simply there for each other - as true friends were.

It was only in my 20's did I see the person that Sid was. When I started painting, I remember how impressed he was with a simple sketch that I had on display in our tiny basement. As soon as I became a teacher, Sid gave me plenty of advice as a former teacher himself, and looked at me with the same sense of pride as my own family did. He also encouraged me to travel - see the world for all it has to offer - while I was still young. The fact of the matter is, Sid had a sincere love for life...and he wanted everyone to feel the same way.

Three years ago, Sid was diagnosed with Glioblastoma - the most aggressive form of brain cancer. I don't think we took it as seriously as we should have - after all, one very similar trait that he shared with my father was strength and resilience. He also had everything that he wanted out of life - including his true soul mate, Cheryl. Also, Sid seemed to have a positive attitude about everything, including his illness. He made jokes even when he could barely open his eyes or move his mouth. We all believed that he could make it out of anything.

As time passed, we saw Sid as we never thought we'd see him. My brother and I watched our parents visit every weekend until there were no weekends left. We watched Cheryl laugh through tears, as though for both herself and Sid. He watched life as he once knew it disappear around him, holding on for as long as he possibly could.

It was only until his death in July do I think my father realized that his best friend was truly gone. At his funeral services, people were lined up, ready to talk about the great person that Sid was. My mother, brother and I told him to speak, or perhaps we could speak on his behalf. My father, being the person that he was, quietly shook his head "no," stayed seated, hands folded, strong and grounded as always. I often wonder what went through his head on that day - and everyday.

Unlike Sid, and even my student, who unfortunately, both knew their fate to some extent, a childhood friend, Corhen, suddenly passed away last Friday. He was only 29 years old - and one of the nicest people I've ever met. I just saw him at a friend's barbecue about a week ago, not knowing that it would be the last time I'd see him. When I heard the news of his death, I simply did not believe it. I thought my friend had the wrong person, or perhaps he was in a hospital, recovering. When his death was confirmed, I began thinking of all the times I saw him at my friend's house, laughing, dancing and hugging everyone he knew, filling the room with positivity and love.

In 2008, my best friend suddenly lost his father. I received the phone call on an early Saturday morning and didn't understand what he was saying through his tear-filled voice. Here was a man who made me feel like family as soon as I stepped into his home since I was 14 years old. I just didn't get it.

I don't think I'll ever understand why these things happen. I've recently witnessed four deaths that just didn't make any sense - three of them in the span of five months. As my mother says, is it because their purpose in this world has been fulfilled? Or, as others put it, maybe Heaven only takes the good? I'm beginning to think that it might also be small signs, telling us that time is borrowed and life is merely a fleeting moment.

In the meantime, I have no choice but to remember those that have passed for what they have given me - and that, is hope.

Hope in finding true happiness.

Hope in having the ability to give and receive love.

And most importantly, hope in making today better than yesterday - because in the end, that's all we really have.

Catharsis

I've been waiting for inspiration before I write in the new year, and I don't think that I can find a better form of it than this.

At 16 years old, I was busy thinking of myself, no care in the world, other than what was going to make me happy. Whether it be a family gathering, the person I was dating, the friends I was keeping, or the haircut I envied in a magazine, I truly had no real problems. At 16, I thought that if these areas of my life were incomplete, I would be incomplete as well.

Fourteen years later, I find myself in front of 150 versions of my former self, and as a teacher, I try my best to guide them in the right direction during the forty-five minute interval we share each day. Within those 150 students, there is one that will be in my mind forever, and this is because of the unbelievable strength and resilience that I could never have fathomed at 16, nevertheless, now, at thirty.

Knowing that someone is dying can never prepare you for the day it actually happens. When I heard of my student's death, I could barely believe the words coming from the other end of the telephone. As I tried to compose myself for first period, all I kept visualizing was his face in that last row, a voice saying "I'm not going to be in for a while," and the arm that was constantly raised for the first half of the school year.

The most amazing aspect of it all is that if I didn't hear it from his guidance counselor, I would never would have known that he was sick. He would come into school everyday, ready to work, laughing, smiling and unbelievably energetic - without a single complaint. He was very much unlike the aspiring football player in the back seat, the popular girl in the third row, or even the weary teacher sitting in the front desk, tired from lack of sleep from the night before.

As I write this, I am thinking of every excuse I've made, every insignificant argument I've had, and the times I could have done something when I did nothing. While some people are sleeping with dreams of tomorrow, this student, in his intelligence, ambition and grace, is lying in a box when he should be looking forward to his high school graduation.

They say things happen for a reason, and perhaps it's to have an ability to see beyond the insignificant ennui that is inevitable in the everyday. Maybe it's to realize what true happiness is - that being incomplete is only incomplete if you want it to be.

At the wake earlier today, my student's mother graciously thanked me for teaching her son. The fact of the matter is, he actually taught me.