About the Composer
I graduated Rutgers University in New Brunswick, NJ in January, 2003 with a Bachelor of Arts in English. I struggled most of my college career not academically, but in finding a balance between my two passions, literature and music. I constantly took leaves of absence from school in order to participate in recording sessions and musical performances. In the course of obtaining my degree, I toured and recorded with a folk-rock band playing harmonica, recorded a jazz album, and composed countless jazz compositions, songs and orchestral works. I believe I have finally found a way to indulge both of my passions. I am a high school English teacher, which allows me to transmit my passion for literature on to a younger generation. This job also allows me summers “off” to pursue my musical ambitions. My next few projects are a parody of Charles Ives’ Orchestral Set No. 1 (“Three Places in New England”) entitled “Three Places in Jersey” and a symphony inspired by the poetry of Jimi Hendrix from his song “Bold as Love.”
I originally had the idea to write this music in or around 1995. I do not mean that I knew what this music was going to sound like back then, but I did know that I wanted to tell this story musically. I read Willa Cather’s short story around this time for a college English class I was taking. It immediately spoke to me and the experiences I had, which set something off in my mind, my heart and my soul. It is a very well constructed story with a number of themes and images repeated in such a way that I felt it could be recreated in music. I had some very basic ideas back then—the finale for instance—but only in very theoretic terms without too much thought to instrumentation, tempo, or even notes. Unfortunately, I did not have the time, the ability or the desire to undertake composing it at that moment. So, the basic idea that it should be composed existed for the last eight or so years. In that time, I reread the story a number of times and confirmed to myself, at least, that it was musical in its construction and in its communication of emotions. So, I suppose my mind may have passively worked on its composition more on a very rudimentary level.
It was not until I completed college in January, 2003 that I had the time, the audacity or the worldly experience to really undertake composing this piece. I set to work in January 2003 working chronologically composing each movement. I did not complete orchestrating this work until March, 2004.
Overview
What is the price of conformity?
For the artist, it is a bland existence with no progress, no inspiration and no soul. For Paul, it is death.
Paul's demise was the inspiration for my first symphony. The story comes from Willa Cather's short story "Paul's Case" written in 1905. While nearly 100 years old, this story could have been written today, as the themes are relevant to American society at any time in the past, present or future.
After 15 months of composing, the symphony, "Paul's Demise" is ready for performance. Borrowing its structure from literature more so than music history and theory, it not only takes the listener on Paul's journey towards self-destruction, but it deals with the elements that lead him down that track. "Paul's Demise" is one young man's struggle against a bland and restrictive world.
In the story, Paul lives with his father in Pittsburg on Cordelia Street. He is under pressure to start taking his life seriously and to forget about his love of music. Willa Cather balances scenes of agony and despair of a young man being forced into a lifestyle he can’t bear to imagine with his one escape, going to the theater to see live musical performances which lifts his spirits and sets him free. Finally, he decides he must escape in order to lead the life he wants to live. He steals money from a job he holds and takes a train to New York City where he lives out his fantasies of a more exciting life for a short while. Nursing a horrible hang-over and with rumors of his father coming to find him, he realizes he cannot escape his fate of going back to Cordelia Street and answering for his crime. He takes the train westward but gets off before Pittsburg. He ends his life by jumping in front of a train.
The piece is divided into eight movements, each entitled after phrases from the story itself. The music follows the action of the story very closely and tries to capture the mood of each section. A basic story about a wayward boy hides themes of the individual versus society, about progress, about dreams, about insanity, about life and death and about survival and suicide. I attempted to get inside Paul's head in order to compose music that doesn't just tell what happened but why it happened. It should also capture some of the joy of reading such a great story with all the twists and turns it takes the reader on. In order to tell the story, there are a number of musical themes repeated throughout the piece that act as a type of vocabulary meshing mood, meaning and music.
Musical Synopsis
Mvt. 1-Baptism of Fire
The first movement is an introduction to the struggle of the individual overcoming the mores of society—the group mind. In this movement, the downward, minor “Baptism Theme” is performed by the strings. It is contrasted with “Paul’s Defiant Theme” played by wind instruments and mallets. This theme is a bright, playful theme, which represents not only Paul’s defiance, but also his red carnation and his childlike mindset. At the end of the piece, these two themes are contrasted against each other and it will sound like two different bands combating each other. This piece sets the orchestra on different sides of the struggle with the strings and timpani representing society and the wind instruments and mallets representing the individual.
Mvt. 2-Orgy of Living
The second movement is one of unlimited joy, in sharp contrast to the first movement. It should be light and playful. Smaller instrumental groups have been created for the different themes, giving the sense of activity and sensory overload this piece deserves.
Mvt. 3-Cordelia Street
The third movement is a contrast to the action and excitement in the second movement. There is sadness and a repetitiveness to it which should mirror the life wasted on this street in the story. There are a number of important themes in this movement that will appear in later movements in varying forms.
Mvt. 4-Perpetual Sunshine
The fourth movement offers relief from the sadness and monotony of the previous movement. It is full of excitement, moves quickly, and sounds bright. It should all build up to the final “Perpetual Sunshine Theme” (starting in measure 33) at which time there should be the sense of an orgasmic release.
Mvt. 5-East-Bound Train
This movement is a transitional one in many ways. It moves the action of the story from Cordelia Street to New York City. It also reflects a transition in mindset from the confines of Paul’s home to the freedom the city offers. The movement moves from the melancholy of leaving to the jubilation of triumph. There are three important themes separated by train motifs of varying sorts. There is the “Departure Theme” in the beginning written for solo trombone. Then, there is the “East-Bound Theme” which first appears in measure 43. Finally, there is the arrival in New York City marked by the return of “Paul’s Defiant Theme” re-orchestrated and harmonized. It is bigger and brasher than its original appearance in the first movement since Paul’s internal strength is seemingly much greater at this point. The train whistle sound in this piece is achieved by an interval of a third however the notes become lower as the piece progresses which is supposed to represent the Doppler Effect and the train getting farther from its starting point. They rise again toward the end of the piece representing it getting closer to its destination. As the notes get lower, they should also be played softer. As they get higher, they should be played louder. This effect comes into use again in the last movement. This entire piece is in homage to Duke Ellington and his many compositions based on train themes.
Mvt. 6-The Omnipotence of Wealth
This movement represents the scene Paul is faced with in New York. The waltz-time piece represents the affluence, the power and the manic energy of the city. There is a slight detachedness to it and even melancholy of witnessing the excitement but not necessarily being a part of it. This may be the most structured movement of the piece, which is almost a palindrome of the segments presented. This piece will incorporate the entire ensemble and do so with great bombast utilizing the percussion section prominently. The piece starts with a mock classical theme, followed by the “Omnipotence of Wealth Theme”. It works through a number of themes afterwards until it reaches the center theme with all of its triplets. It then works its way back to the mock classical theme in reverse of the themes it took to get to this point. What should result is an initial sense of splendor, as if being amazed by a skyline, followed by a greater and greater realization that the city is not just the skyline but a maze of streets and a mass of people.
Mvt. 7-The Dark Corner
This movement represents the hangover from Paul’s adventures in New York City. It has that sense of continued inebriation mixed with sickness. It can be viewed, too, as fantasy meeting reality. This is where Paul realizes he cannot escape “Cordelia Street” and all it represents. Hence, the ending theme from that movement appears. This is also when Paul realizes that he must leave, hence, the “Departure Theme” from the 5th movement. This movement is orchestrated to make it sound as alien as possible. The dissonance utilized here is very deliberate and quite logical.
Mvt. 8-Into the Immense Design of Things
This movement is obviously the culmination of the entire piece. There is an overall feel of incompletion throughout this movement where ideas generally cannot be formulated without interruption from other ideas. Important themes from throughout the extended piece come back in warped forms—backwards, interspliced, reworked in minor keys or different tempos. There should be a sense of struggle between the two forces introduced in the first movement. The themes representing society sound more powerful and focused, while the themes representing Paul sound weaker as they progress. The “Westward Theme” (the “East-Bound Theme” in reverse) that begins the piece, and is repeated throughout, should be hummed by as many people in the ensemble as possible to give it the feel of a work song or chain gang song. After the screeching climax, the piece ends with a depiction of death in musical terms and in terms of the “vocabulary” created within this symphony. Conceptual clues can be found from a close investigation of the score.
Conclusion
What you have before you is a very rough sketch of what the symphony sounds like. The recording was created from the notational software used to write the score and has more limitations than are worth discussing. I will point out that the software limited me to only 8 staves. While some composers would consider this a huge hindrance, I accepted the challenge of focusing on what was absolutely essential to the piece and did not allow myself to become over-indulgent. While the notes are all correct, the dynamics, the tone and the texture of the piece are limited by the software. This piece needs musicians to perform it and breathe life into the story it tells. I envision a small orchestra, perhaps a high school orchestra, performing it with a discussion of the story and the music.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
An Excerpt from My Novel - Greetings from the Ghetto
I was the product of great teachers. My education wasn’t about facts and figures. It was experiential and left a lasting impression on me. It shaped the person I had become. I owed back to these great teachers and the system that had made me who I was. At the same time, I did not want to fail that system. If I could pull off being a teacher, it would mean my waywardness in my college years was not for naught. It would bring great meaning to my life. The signposts were all about me. I remember in seventh grade, when my mother had hit the slots big in Atlantic City, and she brought me back a Webster’s Dictionary. It seemed like a crappy gift at the time considering the amount of money she had won, but it was a sign. She always pushed me in school. Her last official act on this planet was driving up to college with me to make my bed in my dorm room. She barely made the trip. She went home and died two weeks later. I have no doubt she struggled to stay alive that last year just to see me off on my way. I owed it to her. I owed it to my grandpa who was the greatest teacher of all. I was going to do it for them but also for me and for Erika. I needed a stable CAREER. I wasn’t one of these people that was going to play politics in a nine-to-five job. I wanted a job that would allow me to give back, to make a difference, to challenge myself.
I was absolutely hyper that night. I packed my briefcase, made my lunch, prepared the coffee-maker, picked out my clothes and ironed them, and proceeded to just sit up all night with my head spinning. What had I gotten myself into? In retrospect, I didn’t need to set my alarm that night, because I never went to sleep. I was in the shower well before my alarm was scheduled to go off. There was a bit of debate whether I should wear a tie for the first day. From my corporate experience, I learned that you always wear a tie for a big day. However, I wasn’t in the corporate world anymore. I knew that what I wore would be analyzed by my students, fellow teachers, and administrators. I wanted to make the right impression to everyone. Most of all, I didn’t want to back myself into always having to wear a tie. The tie, to me, represented the corporate world I was fleeing from. I decided to not wear a tie, but have one handy in my briefcase just in case all the male teachers were wearing them.
I arrived to school early and was surprised to find that the front doors to the school were locked. The only person sitting out there was an odd looking older man. He had on these huge glasses with the thickest lenses I had ever seen. His skin was pasty white and he seemed like a caricature of some kind of old nerd. He sat on a stool and had a small hand truck beside him with a milkcrate on it. When he spoke, he had an odd whining tone to his voice. He was strange. After a while, he took a book from his milkcrate and starting pounding on the wire grate covering the windows of the office. After a while a large security guard came to door and let us in. He told Dr. Liftier to “cool it.”
I went through the metal detectors, and signed in at the main office. I didn’t know what was going on. They told me there was a special schedule today. We would have a long homeroom period in order to take care of administrative stuff and then proceed to shortened periods five through ten. This meant that I would only meet my seventh and eighth period classes today and for the rest of the week. I learned that I would share my homeroom with a math teacher named Mr. Scaparullo. My homeroom was on the third floor in Room 303, a science lab. I waited by the front door to watch the kids pile in through the security gate. They were dressed like the rappers I saw on MTV. They wore baggy jeans, long white, black and red t-shirts, basketball jerseys, Timberland boots, skull caps, backwards baseball hats, and gaudy sweat suits. There were a large number of African-Americans but even more Latinos. They cursed incessantly and used a ton of slang. They packed an attitude. They threw around the word “nigga” in everything they said. “Nigga this” and “Nigga that”. “Nigga PLEEEAAASE.” They also walked around in a half daze reciting lines from their favorite raps songs. They were LOUD as all hell. They looked at me with curious if not suspicious eyes. I made eye contact with them, which for me took a concerted effort. I stood tall.
I headed up to my homeroom. I introduced myself to my co-teacher, Mr. Scaparullo. He was a nice old Italian man who spoke very slowly. He welcomed me and asked if I was new. I had made up my mind to not let my students know I was a first year teacher. If they asked, I would say that I was new to the district but had taught in New Brunswick the year before. It wasn’t necessarily a lie since I had been doing corporate training in Somerset which was just up the road from New Brunswick. Mr. Scaparullo was very kind and showed me exactly what needed to be done in homeroom. He took care of everything. The kids slowly came into the class and sat down in bunches talking to each other. Mr. Scaparullo made some jokes at some of the kids. He had taught a few of them last year. The homeroom turned out to be full of juniors, so when I was introduced by “Scap” (as the students called him) most of them told me they had me for English.
“Are you a mean teacher?” one of the female students asked.
“I’m the meanest English teacher you’ll ever have,” I said with a smile and a wink.
“What are we going to read this year?” someone else asked.
“Oh, I have a bunch of great books planned,” I lied. I had very little idea what I would be teaching these kids this year.
“Do we have to do Shakespeare?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
There didn’t seem to be anything really to do in the homeroom after about ten minutes. Scap said this homeroom would last for an hour and was like babysitting. I couldn’t believe they would waste everyone’s time like this.
Fifteen minutes into the period, I noticed an odd sight in the back corner of the room. There were two boys, one white and one black, looking around suspiciously. It was like they were keeping watch for someone or something. They were absolutely silent with big bugged out eyes scanning the room. I tried not to stare at them, but something was up. I started making small talk with a girl sitting quietly asking her if she had me. She said she did. While I was talking to her I noticed the black boy in the back of the room pull out a giant wad of cash. I was amazed that anyone in this school carried so much cash on them. He was looking around still but I was amazed that he was showing off his roll of bills right out in the open. Next, the white boy sitting with him pulled out a notebook to sort of shield himself from view. Granted, a notebook is not like a private room. I saw him pull out a dime bag of weed and slide it across to the black kid with the cash. The kid handed him some money. I couldn’t believe my eyes. IT WAS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME. I had witnessed a drug deal in the first fifteen minutes of my career. What was I supposed to do?
A few options came to mind. I could forget that I saw anything. This way, I didn’t have to be put into such a difficult situation. Just forget what you saw and go on with your day. You have enough to do trying to educate these kids. Do you really want to tread on such uncertain ground on your first day? You’ll be considered a “narc” and lose all the trust you were hoping to gain from these kids. Plus, you don’t even know these kids. What if there is some kind of retribution for getting them in trouble? This is your entire career that you’ve dreamed of. Here it is. Don’t blow it over a lousy dime bag. Don’t be a hypocrite. It’s easy enough to just look away and pretend you saw nothing.
What if they saw me? What if they knew that I knew? They were so brazen about it. What kind of reputation would that give you? Soon, you’ll have more and more kids dealing drugs right in front of you. Come to Williamson’s class. He’s doesn’t give a shit. Do you really want stoned kids in your class causing trouble?
How do you go about busting a kid for drugs? Do you walk up to him and ask him to empty his pockets? Then what? Do you hold the bag of weed? Isn’t that illegal—to be in possession of drugs on school grounds? What if he says no? Do you call a security guard in the hallway? What if while you go do that the kid throws the bag out the window? Do you really want to cause a scene right here?
I wrote a little note to Scap who seemed oblivious. It read, “That white kid back there just sold drugs to that black kid. What do I do?” I walked over to him casually as the two kids’ eyes followed me. Was this a joke? Was it a test? He asked me how I was doing and complained about what a waste of time this homeroom was. I handed him the note. He looked around. He motioned me to the door.
I stood outside in the hallway, while he stood in the doorway watching the room. He questioned, “Who did you see doing this?”
“That white kid back there and the tall kid next to him,” I replied.
“What was it?”
“It looked like marijuana, but I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure what you saw or…”
“No, I’m sure I saw a drug deal but I don’t know for sure what drug it was.”
“You’ll have to excuse me but my eye is infected and I’m getting surgery on it in a few weeks. I saw nothing.”
I was confused. Had he saw something and didn’t want to get involved? Why the excuses before telling me he saw nothing.
“You need to decide what you want to do. You can go down to Mr. Bruno after the period. Welcome to Eastwick.”
Now, another teacher knew. The decision was made for me. I had to speak to Mr. Bruno after the period was over. Would the kids get suspicious and dump their drugs? Was I going to look like a fool for falsely accusing these kids?
“Hey, what are their names? Do you know?” I asked Scap.
He pulled out his attendance sheet and said, “Yes, the white guy’s name is Ike Queensbury and the black guy’s name is Chris Sydney.”
I jotted the names down on the note I had handed Scap. I also put their roles down next to their names, “dealer” and “buyer.”
The period lasted forever. I was lost in thought. The students continued to ask me questions about my class, questions I didn’t really have answers for. I answered them the best I could. How was I going to teach today?
When the bell rang, I made my way downstairs to the main office. It was busy with activity. I asked for Mr. Bruno but the secretary told me he was in with somebody. She must have noticed the concern on my face because she told me if it was an emergency, I could interrupt.
I walked back to his office. I knocked on the closed door and was called in. There was a guidance counselor sitting there still talking to him. He looked up at me. “Can I help you, Mr…”
“Williamson. Mr. Bruno, I believe I saw a drug deal in my homeroom,” I stammered out fighting back tears.
Don’t let him see you cry! Do not let him see you cry!
“Wait a second,” he said with great agitation that took me by surprise. He put his hand up to stop me from speaking. I felt uneasy going through this with the guidance counselor sitting right there. “What exactly did you see? Who was involved?”
“I saw Ike Queensbury sell Chris Sydney a small bag of marijuana.”
“Slow down. Be careful what you say here. What exactly did you see?”
“Chris pulled out a wad of money and handed some to Ike. Ike then handed him a small bag with what looked like weed in it.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was right in front of me, sir. I’m almost positive.”
“Oh man. Queensbury’s grandfather is going to be so disappointed,” Mr. Bruno replied.
“So, this is a possibility then?” I asked.
“Oh, Queensbury has a long record. This is perfectly possible. OK, Mr. Williamson. I will take care of it and let you know what happens.”
I could barely see him through the tears welling up in my eyes. This wasn’t how I had pictured my first day. I refused to let one of those tears run down my cheek. Regardless, I was not in good shape and I think it was fairly clear to Mr. Bruno.
“Welcome to Eastwick, Mr. Williamson. Consider this your trial by fire. We all go through it sooner or later. You took no time to get acquainted with it,” Mr. Bruno said with the first sense of understanding I had seen from him.
“Yes, Mr. Bruno. Thank you,” I said exiting his office. Now, to face the rest of my day.
I was absolutely hyper that night. I packed my briefcase, made my lunch, prepared the coffee-maker, picked out my clothes and ironed them, and proceeded to just sit up all night with my head spinning. What had I gotten myself into? In retrospect, I didn’t need to set my alarm that night, because I never went to sleep. I was in the shower well before my alarm was scheduled to go off. There was a bit of debate whether I should wear a tie for the first day. From my corporate experience, I learned that you always wear a tie for a big day. However, I wasn’t in the corporate world anymore. I knew that what I wore would be analyzed by my students, fellow teachers, and administrators. I wanted to make the right impression to everyone. Most of all, I didn’t want to back myself into always having to wear a tie. The tie, to me, represented the corporate world I was fleeing from. I decided to not wear a tie, but have one handy in my briefcase just in case all the male teachers were wearing them.
I arrived to school early and was surprised to find that the front doors to the school were locked. The only person sitting out there was an odd looking older man. He had on these huge glasses with the thickest lenses I had ever seen. His skin was pasty white and he seemed like a caricature of some kind of old nerd. He sat on a stool and had a small hand truck beside him with a milkcrate on it. When he spoke, he had an odd whining tone to his voice. He was strange. After a while, he took a book from his milkcrate and starting pounding on the wire grate covering the windows of the office. After a while a large security guard came to door and let us in. He told Dr. Liftier to “cool it.”
I went through the metal detectors, and signed in at the main office. I didn’t know what was going on. They told me there was a special schedule today. We would have a long homeroom period in order to take care of administrative stuff and then proceed to shortened periods five through ten. This meant that I would only meet my seventh and eighth period classes today and for the rest of the week. I learned that I would share my homeroom with a math teacher named Mr. Scaparullo. My homeroom was on the third floor in Room 303, a science lab. I waited by the front door to watch the kids pile in through the security gate. They were dressed like the rappers I saw on MTV. They wore baggy jeans, long white, black and red t-shirts, basketball jerseys, Timberland boots, skull caps, backwards baseball hats, and gaudy sweat suits. There were a large number of African-Americans but even more Latinos. They cursed incessantly and used a ton of slang. They packed an attitude. They threw around the word “nigga” in everything they said. “Nigga this” and “Nigga that”. “Nigga PLEEEAAASE.” They also walked around in a half daze reciting lines from their favorite raps songs. They were LOUD as all hell. They looked at me with curious if not suspicious eyes. I made eye contact with them, which for me took a concerted effort. I stood tall.
I headed up to my homeroom. I introduced myself to my co-teacher, Mr. Scaparullo. He was a nice old Italian man who spoke very slowly. He welcomed me and asked if I was new. I had made up my mind to not let my students know I was a first year teacher. If they asked, I would say that I was new to the district but had taught in New Brunswick the year before. It wasn’t necessarily a lie since I had been doing corporate training in Somerset which was just up the road from New Brunswick. Mr. Scaparullo was very kind and showed me exactly what needed to be done in homeroom. He took care of everything. The kids slowly came into the class and sat down in bunches talking to each other. Mr. Scaparullo made some jokes at some of the kids. He had taught a few of them last year. The homeroom turned out to be full of juniors, so when I was introduced by “Scap” (as the students called him) most of them told me they had me for English.
“Are you a mean teacher?” one of the female students asked.
“I’m the meanest English teacher you’ll ever have,” I said with a smile and a wink.
“What are we going to read this year?” someone else asked.
“Oh, I have a bunch of great books planned,” I lied. I had very little idea what I would be teaching these kids this year.
“Do we have to do Shakespeare?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
There didn’t seem to be anything really to do in the homeroom after about ten minutes. Scap said this homeroom would last for an hour and was like babysitting. I couldn’t believe they would waste everyone’s time like this.
Fifteen minutes into the period, I noticed an odd sight in the back corner of the room. There were two boys, one white and one black, looking around suspiciously. It was like they were keeping watch for someone or something. They were absolutely silent with big bugged out eyes scanning the room. I tried not to stare at them, but something was up. I started making small talk with a girl sitting quietly asking her if she had me. She said she did. While I was talking to her I noticed the black boy in the back of the room pull out a giant wad of cash. I was amazed that anyone in this school carried so much cash on them. He was looking around still but I was amazed that he was showing off his roll of bills right out in the open. Next, the white boy sitting with him pulled out a notebook to sort of shield himself from view. Granted, a notebook is not like a private room. I saw him pull out a dime bag of weed and slide it across to the black kid with the cash. The kid handed him some money. I couldn’t believe my eyes. IT WAS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME. I had witnessed a drug deal in the first fifteen minutes of my career. What was I supposed to do?
A few options came to mind. I could forget that I saw anything. This way, I didn’t have to be put into such a difficult situation. Just forget what you saw and go on with your day. You have enough to do trying to educate these kids. Do you really want to tread on such uncertain ground on your first day? You’ll be considered a “narc” and lose all the trust you were hoping to gain from these kids. Plus, you don’t even know these kids. What if there is some kind of retribution for getting them in trouble? This is your entire career that you’ve dreamed of. Here it is. Don’t blow it over a lousy dime bag. Don’t be a hypocrite. It’s easy enough to just look away and pretend you saw nothing.
What if they saw me? What if they knew that I knew? They were so brazen about it. What kind of reputation would that give you? Soon, you’ll have more and more kids dealing drugs right in front of you. Come to Williamson’s class. He’s doesn’t give a shit. Do you really want stoned kids in your class causing trouble?
How do you go about busting a kid for drugs? Do you walk up to him and ask him to empty his pockets? Then what? Do you hold the bag of weed? Isn’t that illegal—to be in possession of drugs on school grounds? What if he says no? Do you call a security guard in the hallway? What if while you go do that the kid throws the bag out the window? Do you really want to cause a scene right here?
I wrote a little note to Scap who seemed oblivious. It read, “That white kid back there just sold drugs to that black kid. What do I do?” I walked over to him casually as the two kids’ eyes followed me. Was this a joke? Was it a test? He asked me how I was doing and complained about what a waste of time this homeroom was. I handed him the note. He looked around. He motioned me to the door.
I stood outside in the hallway, while he stood in the doorway watching the room. He questioned, “Who did you see doing this?”
“That white kid back there and the tall kid next to him,” I replied.
“What was it?”
“It looked like marijuana, but I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure what you saw or…”
“No, I’m sure I saw a drug deal but I don’t know for sure what drug it was.”
“You’ll have to excuse me but my eye is infected and I’m getting surgery on it in a few weeks. I saw nothing.”
I was confused. Had he saw something and didn’t want to get involved? Why the excuses before telling me he saw nothing.
“You need to decide what you want to do. You can go down to Mr. Bruno after the period. Welcome to Eastwick.”
Now, another teacher knew. The decision was made for me. I had to speak to Mr. Bruno after the period was over. Would the kids get suspicious and dump their drugs? Was I going to look like a fool for falsely accusing these kids?
“Hey, what are their names? Do you know?” I asked Scap.
He pulled out his attendance sheet and said, “Yes, the white guy’s name is Ike Queensbury and the black guy’s name is Chris Sydney.”
I jotted the names down on the note I had handed Scap. I also put their roles down next to their names, “dealer” and “buyer.”
The period lasted forever. I was lost in thought. The students continued to ask me questions about my class, questions I didn’t really have answers for. I answered them the best I could. How was I going to teach today?
When the bell rang, I made my way downstairs to the main office. It was busy with activity. I asked for Mr. Bruno but the secretary told me he was in with somebody. She must have noticed the concern on my face because she told me if it was an emergency, I could interrupt.
I walked back to his office. I knocked on the closed door and was called in. There was a guidance counselor sitting there still talking to him. He looked up at me. “Can I help you, Mr…”
“Williamson. Mr. Bruno, I believe I saw a drug deal in my homeroom,” I stammered out fighting back tears.
Don’t let him see you cry! Do not let him see you cry!
“Wait a second,” he said with great agitation that took me by surprise. He put his hand up to stop me from speaking. I felt uneasy going through this with the guidance counselor sitting right there. “What exactly did you see? Who was involved?”
“I saw Ike Queensbury sell Chris Sydney a small bag of marijuana.”
“Slow down. Be careful what you say here. What exactly did you see?”
“Chris pulled out a wad of money and handed some to Ike. Ike then handed him a small bag with what looked like weed in it.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was right in front of me, sir. I’m almost positive.”
“Oh man. Queensbury’s grandfather is going to be so disappointed,” Mr. Bruno replied.
“So, this is a possibility then?” I asked.
“Oh, Queensbury has a long record. This is perfectly possible. OK, Mr. Williamson. I will take care of it and let you know what happens.”
I could barely see him through the tears welling up in my eyes. This wasn’t how I had pictured my first day. I refused to let one of those tears run down my cheek. Regardless, I was not in good shape and I think it was fairly clear to Mr. Bruno.
“Welcome to Eastwick, Mr. Williamson. Consider this your trial by fire. We all go through it sooner or later. You took no time to get acquainted with it,” Mr. Bruno said with the first sense of understanding I had seen from him.
“Yes, Mr. Bruno. Thank you,” I said exiting his office. Now, to face the rest of my day.
Monday, August 6, 2007
A Poem - Dissection
Time is an illusion,
Of human conceit.
The truth remains hidden,
In the ground beneath our feet.
Life is just a game,
We all must learn to play,
The Rules are like the weather,
They change from day to day.
Money is an addiction,
Like heroin taking its toll.
Poverty may be a lack of equity,
But it reveals an abundance of soul.
Wealth is something coveted,
Not an essential need,
They say it leads to power,
But it can only lead to greed.
Hate is an answer,
To a question we didn’t ask.
It will never be eradicated,
Unless we all take up the task.
Peace is beyond our reach,
If we travel the road we’re on,
We forgot our destination years ago,
The compass we followed is gone.
War is a desperate blessing,
For a country devoid of hope.
Try to convert a conquered people,
Or leave them dangling from a rope.
Missiles are our message,
In the Armageddon age,
Send the boys overseas,
The storm’s about to rage.
Ignorance is a modern plague,
More malignant than any disease.
It has afflicted our entire population,
In varying degrees.
Plant your head firmly,
Snug beneath the sand.
Cry out to heaven,
Why you still don’t understand.
Insanity reigns supreme,
Waiting for your pledge,
Follow it straight to hell,
Or off the nearest ledge.
Hail to the madness!
Bow your head in praise,
Logic has been stolen,
Replaced with a deep malaise.
And time keeps on ticking,
The minutes just flying by,
While the cash registers go on clicking,
Their syncopated rhymes.
War machines keep wavering,
From one target to another,
While stupidity keeps savoring,
Mother, father, sister, brother.
Waves of craziness keep crashing,
The waters rising to the top,
The levees of logic are getting a lashing,
There’s only one thing to make it stop.
Communication is the answer,
Making sense of life,
Offer up your antidote,
To all this struggle, grief, and strife.
Leave a lasting mark,
Don’t write your message in the sand,
Speak to me my friend,
Help me understand.
Where you’re coming from,
Might be where I’ve just been,
Follow your heart’s desire,
You know it’s not a sin.
Create your own universe,
Don’t rely on what you’ve heard,
Make every sentence count,
Until your dying word.
Of human conceit.
The truth remains hidden,
In the ground beneath our feet.
Life is just a game,
We all must learn to play,
The Rules are like the weather,
They change from day to day.
Money is an addiction,
Like heroin taking its toll.
Poverty may be a lack of equity,
But it reveals an abundance of soul.
Wealth is something coveted,
Not an essential need,
They say it leads to power,
But it can only lead to greed.
Hate is an answer,
To a question we didn’t ask.
It will never be eradicated,
Unless we all take up the task.
Peace is beyond our reach,
If we travel the road we’re on,
We forgot our destination years ago,
The compass we followed is gone.
War is a desperate blessing,
For a country devoid of hope.
Try to convert a conquered people,
Or leave them dangling from a rope.
Missiles are our message,
In the Armageddon age,
Send the boys overseas,
The storm’s about to rage.
Ignorance is a modern plague,
More malignant than any disease.
It has afflicted our entire population,
In varying degrees.
Plant your head firmly,
Snug beneath the sand.
Cry out to heaven,
Why you still don’t understand.
Insanity reigns supreme,
Waiting for your pledge,
Follow it straight to hell,
Or off the nearest ledge.
Hail to the madness!
Bow your head in praise,
Logic has been stolen,
Replaced with a deep malaise.
And time keeps on ticking,
The minutes just flying by,
While the cash registers go on clicking,
Their syncopated rhymes.
War machines keep wavering,
From one target to another,
While stupidity keeps savoring,
Mother, father, sister, brother.
Waves of craziness keep crashing,
The waters rising to the top,
The levees of logic are getting a lashing,
There’s only one thing to make it stop.
Communication is the answer,
Making sense of life,
Offer up your antidote,
To all this struggle, grief, and strife.
Leave a lasting mark,
Don’t write your message in the sand,
Speak to me my friend,
Help me understand.
Where you’re coming from,
Might be where I’ve just been,
Follow your heart’s desire,
You know it’s not a sin.
Create your own universe,
Don’t rely on what you’ve heard,
Make every sentence count,
Until your dying word.
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