Hello friends,
I spent most of last work week in a classroom on the first floor of Middlesex Community College. Technically, it was the second; I walked in the front door of the building, signed the visitor's log, and took an elevator up one flight. So wouldn't the ground floor also be the first floor? After all, there is no zeroth floor. Zero is a symbol of absence, a lack of something. But I am looking directly at people, so there is something here.
These are the types of thoughts a college is supposed to elicit. But there I was, surrounded by dozens of indifferent and anxious people. My coworkers and I are leading a series of training sessions related to workforce readiness designed by an agency in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I am facilitating the lessons for the first time in an official capacity. Of course I'm anxious - but I'm also excited. We get to teach a new generation of young adults about essential life skills: communication, collaboration, initiative and dependability. We are not molding human beings into machines - we are empowering them with the tools they'll need to be successful agents of change.
By the fourth and final day of training, I have been disabused of the notion that my teammates see things similarly. They are tired, they are ready for it to end. I understand. They do not see themselves as educators. What they do see themselves as, I do not know well enough to write about here. How could I claim to thoughtfully and respectfully represent them in a few sentences? The point is: I have struggled during this week to stay motivated.
But on the morning of the fourth day, I have high hopes. I got goofed up the night before and woke up with ideas. I'm going to remind these young adults why we're here: this is an opportunity to enter a new stage of life. You put the work into applying, interviewing and submitting paperwork. You've earned this position. So let's learn together.
I'm carrying my supplies, walking down the final flight of stairs in my apartment building when I see three of my coworkers pass the front door. Oh boy! It'll be nice to walk into work together. (The college is roughly two blocks away - how lucky am I to have such a short commute.) I can catch up to my teammates, see how they're doing, share my excitement. I grab the handle of the door, tilt my gaze to the ground and step onto Merrimack Street.
I've always imagined "My life flashed before my eyes" to occur as a movie. It takes time to happen. But no, it's a literal flash. There is no possibility of recognizing any actual story here. It's just a burst of light and sound.
A bird, smaller than my palm, lay on his side. The first thing that I notice is the dangling yellow bit hanging from his mouth. I do not think it belongs there, but what do I know? I am no ornithologist. That doesn't prevent me from diagnosing him: he's in rough shape, and the space immediately in front of an apartment building in downtown Lowell is no place for a living creature in such a condition. I looked up, looked around. My teammates had already crossed the street.
I looked at my supplies. What could I use? I didn't have a napkin to wrap around him. I was carrying my office sack, not my purse with its pockets overflowing with items that would have been so useful in this moment. Ah! The construction paper for the group activity. I pulled out a piece and tried to slide it under him. But I only got so far before I realized I would need to touch him to transfer him to this flimsy gurney. Aren't you not supposed to touch birds? Thoughts of an unseen momma bird and disease flashed as I used a quarter of the tip of my index finger to guide him on.
In front of Middlesex Community College are a line of trees. Last week, the grounds crew had put fresh mulch down. This would be the best bet I thought. Of course, the proper thing would be to call the authorities. But what's their number? Surely I'd be chastised if I dialed 911. Rightfully so. I guess a good option would be Animal Control, yet I don't bother looking up their contact information. It's about 8:30 and I'm due in the college. There are five hours of training ahead of me, and I can't stick around to direct the Animal Control team when they arrive.
But shouldn't I give him water? I have a thermos, but it's a big mouth. I couldn't poor it directly past his beak, and leaving a pool of water in the mulch seems too messy. Before I make a decision, I hear my name. Another teammate and our boss walk up. I mumble about what I'm doing and follow them through the parking lot. I am a child, screaming internally that there's a problem but I'm just hoping that they'll ask me what's going on. They do not.
That evening, I'm walking Lando. I typically allow him to choose our path because he has so little choice in his existence. Thankfully, he follows the same steps I took that morning. The trees are full of chirping, and the little bird I delivered there is joining in. He's not on his side - it looks like he moved a bit and is sitting on his tummy. But his eyes still look sad. There are no birds in the mulch beside him.
Friday afternoon, I again am walking Lando. It is the second visit to Bob Cratchit's house, but this is no vision. It is reality. And Tiny Tim is no longer living though his frail body lay before me. Another flash. I scoop up mulch, pour some on top of him in a frantic burial not befitting a noble creature. But what, should I mark his grave with a twig? Say a prayer? My phone is ringing and I must answer it.
I hesitate to write more, to convince you of any interpretation. But I know that I can not make you learn anything, make you choose to say or do a dammed thing in this world. Any words I use are simply offerings. What you choose to take is your decision.
So: I will make explicit, or at least as explicit as I can, my reason for telling you this story. It is a tombstone, a millstone, a cornerstone of this digital home that I am building. It is a weight upon my soul that I must carry with me for all of my days. I could have done more.
Please: do not react the way that I anticipate you will, telling me that it's okay, I did all I could, it's just a bird, any of the million versions of the same excuse we use in vain in our attempt to escape the Truth. I was part of this being's life, and I knew he was not well, and I left him alone. That is what happened. To add any details is an obfuscation of what happened.
This email, however, is not just a story about what happened. It is a meditation. And so: I know that we all will fail to do what we know is right, over and over and over again. In those moments, we are humbled. Then: two options, stark as neon in the night. Stuff it all into a tight, hidden space, lying about every element of our actions; or, as a brave man recently said: when we get knocked down, we get back up. There are more lives out there, and we will do more than we think we can to care for them. It is who we are and who we hope to be.
Love,
Paul