Sunday, March 29, 2009
Gun School and Despair
I really don't have time to be writing this. I really should be doing the following: making seven-minute frosting for Trip's mom's birthday cake; laundry; gathering up tax stuff; preparing goat-cheese veggie lasagna; showering, perhaps?; and calling Tom Creighton, the 50ish algebra teacher on my team at school.
I need to call him because yesterday he called me. Three times. I was at an NRA sponsored Women on Target program taught by my first Sipesville friend, Duck. I sat with 29 women of all ages and backgrounds, all of whom were interested in knowing how to handle a gun-- not because we are afraid that Obama is personally coming for our firearms, although the people at the pistol club where it was held believe that. We were there out of curiosity, safety, and a desire to check off an item on our bucket lists. We were a supportive, interested bunch. We cheered for each other when we plinked off balloons. We talked about yoga-- three of us were there from my yoga class. We took notes. We smiled for a picture, holding our targets and a big banner that read "Shoot Like a Girl."
Meanwhile, Tom was calling my house, and no one was there to answer. He left sad messages, then more messages apologizing for the previous messages. He was on his way to camp, and he probably wouldn't have cell service, but he was just having a really, really bad weekend. He was sorry. I was hoping he didn't have a gun with him.
He had had a bad Friday, too. He wandered into my study hall during his planning period, looked sorrowfully at me, glumly, then mumbled that this just wasn't the time. He was sorry, then went back to his classroom across the hall. Of course I followed.
I've worked with Tom for 16 years, half of those in a classroom right across the hall from his. He cares deeply about kids learning math. He comes in early so they can get help before school. He's dedicated to his community (he lives over 40 miles away and drives over a mountain every day to get to work, a mountain that becomes extremely treacherous in snow, fog, or rain), church, and family. Until his uncle, a contractor, died a few years ago, he worked alongside him, almost full time on top of teaching. He has a tax business. He's a martyr.
When I came into his class, Tom sat at his desk, head in hands. I sat down and asked him how things were. Tentatively, he spoke a word or two, then stopped. I waited.
Tom is disappointed in his life, to say the least. His wife had affairs, but he didn't want to put out his kids, so he did the right thing and let her stay in the house. It's rumored that he lived upstairs, she downstairs, but I don't know if that's true. Fast forward 15 years or so, and he found out that due to some oversight by a lawyer, he wasn't really divorced. He hit the lawyer, who filed charges, which the judge threw out. (The best part of all is that his ex-wife knew they weren't really divorced and didn't say anything.) This same ex-wife threatened to kill another math teacher in my building, Amelia Liddle, when she accompanied Tom to a family wedding.
Amelia is the reason Tom is so despondent. She's been dating a very nice man for a few months now, and Tom discovered this. He'd had always hoped something would develop with Amelia, but, as he said, he never let it. Wouldn't make the move. Wouldn't move away from his ex-wife and family (who seem to refuse to acknowledge this divorce-- when Tom's dad died, Tom and she were listed in the obituary as Mr. and Mrs. Tom Creighton, supposedly because that's the way his dad wanted it.) He bemoaned his inability to break away from his family, his inability to say no to any project the church wanted done for free, his inability to insist that his brothers step up to the plate and help take care of their parents. On top of this, there is a tumor growing on Tom's optic nerve, and this tumor may ultimately take his sight. He gets treatments, but they leave him sick for days. He chose not to have surgery because of a 50% chance of losing his sight, and his doctor has said to avoid stress. This simply is not possible for Tom, the poster boy of stress and bad luck and bad decisions.
I empathized. It's hard to take a risk with an old friend, especially one you work with. It's hard to make people do what they should do, especially when you fear things that need to be done won't get done. When he said his daughter was worried about him and tried constantly to make him go out and do things, a red flag went up for me.
He reminds me of my dad, a more educated version of my dad, a more docile dad. I shared how different I feel my dad's life would have been if he had talked to someone, something he actually admitted to me during the last year of his life. I shared how Vic and I worried about him lots, how stress and unresolved sadness ate him from the inside out. "It's okay to ask to help, to see a counselor," I encouraged. Unfortunately, it was time for the next class.
Please don't think I'm coldhearted, sitting here typing while a friend may be holed up in a camp in the Pennsylvania Wilds. I called Principal Stan last night at 10 o'clock when I got the messages. He and I both agree that Tom wouldn't hurt his daughter by doing anything to himself. I told Stan that I think Tom may need the Employee Assistance Program, that I'm extremely worried. I've called him twice, but had to text because his voicemail box was full. I'll keep trying.
If I'm being honest, though, I have to admit that last night I threw back my head and wondered aloud to Tripper if I would always have depressed middle-aged father figures in my life. Wasn't that supposed to die with my own poor father? The Senora's purpose in life, it seems, is to attract rich older men who want her to take care of them. (I think she should take one of them up on it, myself.) My lot in life is to worry that non-rich older men are going to blow their heads off.
I need to call him because yesterday he called me. Three times. I was at an NRA sponsored Women on Target program taught by my first Sipesville friend, Duck. I sat with 29 women of all ages and backgrounds, all of whom were interested in knowing how to handle a gun-- not because we are afraid that Obama is personally coming for our firearms, although the people at the pistol club where it was held believe that. We were there out of curiosity, safety, and a desire to check off an item on our bucket lists. We were a supportive, interested bunch. We cheered for each other when we plinked off balloons. We talked about yoga-- three of us were there from my yoga class. We took notes. We smiled for a picture, holding our targets and a big banner that read "Shoot Like a Girl."
Meanwhile, Tom was calling my house, and no one was there to answer. He left sad messages, then more messages apologizing for the previous messages. He was on his way to camp, and he probably wouldn't have cell service, but he was just having a really, really bad weekend. He was sorry. I was hoping he didn't have a gun with him.
He had had a bad Friday, too. He wandered into my study hall during his planning period, looked sorrowfully at me, glumly, then mumbled that this just wasn't the time. He was sorry, then went back to his classroom across the hall. Of course I followed.
I've worked with Tom for 16 years, half of those in a classroom right across the hall from his. He cares deeply about kids learning math. He comes in early so they can get help before school. He's dedicated to his community (he lives over 40 miles away and drives over a mountain every day to get to work, a mountain that becomes extremely treacherous in snow, fog, or rain), church, and family. Until his uncle, a contractor, died a few years ago, he worked alongside him, almost full time on top of teaching. He has a tax business. He's a martyr.
When I came into his class, Tom sat at his desk, head in hands. I sat down and asked him how things were. Tentatively, he spoke a word or two, then stopped. I waited.
Tom is disappointed in his life, to say the least. His wife had affairs, but he didn't want to put out his kids, so he did the right thing and let her stay in the house. It's rumored that he lived upstairs, she downstairs, but I don't know if that's true. Fast forward 15 years or so, and he found out that due to some oversight by a lawyer, he wasn't really divorced. He hit the lawyer, who filed charges, which the judge threw out. (The best part of all is that his ex-wife knew they weren't really divorced and didn't say anything.) This same ex-wife threatened to kill another math teacher in my building, Amelia Liddle, when she accompanied Tom to a family wedding.
Amelia is the reason Tom is so despondent. She's been dating a very nice man for a few months now, and Tom discovered this. He'd had always hoped something would develop with Amelia, but, as he said, he never let it. Wouldn't make the move. Wouldn't move away from his ex-wife and family (who seem to refuse to acknowledge this divorce-- when Tom's dad died, Tom and she were listed in the obituary as Mr. and Mrs. Tom Creighton, supposedly because that's the way his dad wanted it.) He bemoaned his inability to break away from his family, his inability to say no to any project the church wanted done for free, his inability to insist that his brothers step up to the plate and help take care of their parents. On top of this, there is a tumor growing on Tom's optic nerve, and this tumor may ultimately take his sight. He gets treatments, but they leave him sick for days. He chose not to have surgery because of a 50% chance of losing his sight, and his doctor has said to avoid stress. This simply is not possible for Tom, the poster boy of stress and bad luck and bad decisions.
I empathized. It's hard to take a risk with an old friend, especially one you work with. It's hard to make people do what they should do, especially when you fear things that need to be done won't get done. When he said his daughter was worried about him and tried constantly to make him go out and do things, a red flag went up for me.
He reminds me of my dad, a more educated version of my dad, a more docile dad. I shared how different I feel my dad's life would have been if he had talked to someone, something he actually admitted to me during the last year of his life. I shared how Vic and I worried about him lots, how stress and unresolved sadness ate him from the inside out. "It's okay to ask to help, to see a counselor," I encouraged. Unfortunately, it was time for the next class.
Please don't think I'm coldhearted, sitting here typing while a friend may be holed up in a camp in the Pennsylvania Wilds. I called Principal Stan last night at 10 o'clock when I got the messages. He and I both agree that Tom wouldn't hurt his daughter by doing anything to himself. I told Stan that I think Tom may need the Employee Assistance Program, that I'm extremely worried. I've called him twice, but had to text because his voicemail box was full. I'll keep trying.
If I'm being honest, though, I have to admit that last night I threw back my head and wondered aloud to Tripper if I would always have depressed middle-aged father figures in my life. Wasn't that supposed to die with my own poor father? The Senora's purpose in life, it seems, is to attract rich older men who want her to take care of them. (I think she should take one of them up on it, myself.) My lot in life is to worry that non-rich older men are going to blow their heads off.
# posted by Chrissy Snow @ 3/29/2009 07:59:00 AM 
