Legacy

My students have been in Tale of Two Cities for a while now, Charles Dickens's epic historical novel about the French Revolution. My seniors started the book in January and finished before March; my AP kids have now been reading it for the past several weeks.

At one point, the seniors were researching the book's background, and came across a Dickens biography. They read about his father and reported back that he was a debtor, a father to ten children, a well-meaning man who ended up serving months in a debtor's prison and asking his children to work in factories. The biography described him, in a word, as "feckless"-- not fit to assume responsibility.

For whatever reason, that left a big impression on me. This is a man who tried and... failed. His whole life-- those nights of striving, and crying, and praying, and soul-searching, and talking with his wife, and watching his children's hungry eyes-- only to be summed up in some supposedly objective history book as... "feckless."

The historians dismiss an entire life in a word: feckless.

At what point, I wondered, does a life become classified as a failed one?

It's really been grating at me. I think of legacies all the time now. Looking just at the novel, for instance-- the novel's hero is a man named Sydney Carton who, for most of the book, is, indeed, "feckless." He is a brilliant drunk-- a man who has squandered all his potential in the bottom of his ale can, and alienated himself from people that would love him. However, in the end, he emerges as a hero. In one glorious moment, Carton switches places with a man who has been condemned to execution at the guillotine-- a man whom he bears an almost identical appearance to-- a man who is, in fact, the husband of the woman Carton himself loves. He sacrifices himself, his own misspent life, so that the woman he loves can live a happy life with his romantic rival.

Heroic-- it is a heroic legacy. A feckless life, followed by a glorious last moment... And his life is, ultimately, deemed a success.

His rival, Charles Darnay, spends most of the book as a noble, moral, responsible gentleman-- a loving husband and father, and a diligent provider. Yet Darnay makes one stupid mistake that gets him imprisoned, sentenced, and ultimately puts his entire family at risk as the chaos of the French revolution rage around them. And it is a passive Darnay that Carton sneaks to greet in a prison cell, a passive Darnay that Carton drugs with a sleep agent, a passive Darnay that is carried out by a bribed jailer, a passive Darnay that escapes the consequences of his mistake, to be remembered-- whether he asked to escape his sentence or not-- as the coward. A noble life, interrupted with a miserable mistake... And his life is, ultimately, deemed a disappointment.

I think about it when looking at non-fiction as well. Today, I read the biography of Samuel Taylor Coleridge-- the brilliant poet who wrote "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner." His life was a tragic one. He was bullied as a child, plagued with depression and loneliness, ended up getting addicted to laudanum, was estranged from his wife... Didn't make it through the University, didn't make it in the military... He was deeply unhappy and summed up his own life in an epitaph that partly reads, "O lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C./ That he, who many a year with toil of breath,/ Found Death in Life, may here find Life in Death." Death in life-- his own words describing his experience in looking back at the span of his years.

Yet we read his poems and exclaim over his great "success."

You know what's weird? Instead of feeling concerned about how I'LL be remembered, in light of all these morbid considerations, I'm more concerned with how people I care about will be remembered.

I see people trying, so hard. I see people praying, and people hoping, and people's hopes falling through. And it kills me to think of any one of these lives being classified as "feckless" because of unlucky efforts. Kills me, to think of a life being considered a disappointment because of one STUPID mistake.

I think of people like the Apostle Paul or Dietrich Bonhoeffer who had ROUGH life circumstances, but who found a way to triumph over the situational mire, and continued to inspire others and experience joy themselves. They are remembered as heroes.

Is it in my power then, to keep a stiff upper lip in the face of difficult circumstances and go down in the books as a "good one"? Or will my chance life happenings prove my life to be a sad one, a disappointing one, a life that never really got going-- even though I TRIED to be good? How many triumphs do I need, to tip the scales in my favor? How many mistakes can I afford without upsetting the balance?

What will people say when they look at my expired life? What will the conclusion be, after all the flowery eulogies have been forgotten?

I remember a woman telling me once, "You'll be okay. You know what? You're just that type of person. You'll do well, whatever you decide to do with your life. You'll do well." I find myself thinking similar thoughts about some of my students. Whatever they decide to do-- they'll do well. They'll live well. They're just THAT sort of person.

But what about the others?

I want a magic stamp, a holy wand, some sovereign STICKER that I can plant on people's foreheads that will guarantee their lives be remembered as GOOD ones. I want to honor the people that I see trying. I want to tell them, "I KNOW you will have a happy story, because-- see?! The sticker! So just don't even worry!"

But I can't guarantee any of that. And the only One that can... seems so frustratingly elusive sometimes.

I don't have a glib resolution to offer at the end of these thoughts. Sometimes, after writing all my ideas out, I come up with a hopeful final thought. But nothing has arrived tonight.

Oh God, please bless them. Please let them be remembered well.

Remembering

I just had a very Mondayish-Monday. Kids in 6th period didn't have their drafts. 7th period sophomores ticked me off. I remembered that I had forgotten to do something-- many things. I have three different organizations to call that will put me on hold for decades before helping me with my problems. I have too much to do and too little time. I am ready for Spring Break. Spring Break is three weeks away.

It's amazing to me-- in these 26 years-- how little I actually remember. I remember the truly good things, and the truly horrific things. Days like this though-- they slip away. It's one more wave onto my desert island that is as forgettable as the next. It's one more leaf off a tree that will be ground into the soil. It's one more cherry blossom off in the breeze.

This day doesn't last. Literally, or figuratively. I will forget essentially everything about this mundane Monday. And that, in this case, is a good thing.

I will remember playing princesses with Heidi in our front yard.
I will remember climbing trees with Shane.
I will remember waiting backstage at the Spokane Opera House, waiting to dance on as Clara in the Alberta Ballet's Nutcracker as a 5th grader.
I will remember walking through the halls of my Arts School High-School when it was still under construction.
I will remember the day I heard the terrible words.
I will remember my first kiss.
I will remember being ricocheted onstage as "Ariel" in The Tempest.
I will remember Mike calling me to exult over us both getting our first leads in I Hate Hamlet.
I will remember singing quietly to myself to calm my nerves when waiting to come on stage as "Madge" in Picnic.
I will remember the first time I said, "I love you."
I will remember dancing with Tony in West Side Story and getting thrown so high.
I will remember weeping over my first lost love.
I will remember talking with Fernanda during rush at Gamma Phi.
I will remember a tragic dinner in my short yellow dress.
I will remember playing guitar for the first time in public, and singing with a voice that shook like fear.
I will remember playing guitar in Covent Garden, and singing with a voice that lifted like joy.
I will remember the sunrise I saw when leaving London.
I will remember the campsite in Rome.
I will remember catching the bouquet at Shane's wedding.
I will remember laundry in Malawi, and ants floating in the laundry tub.
I will remember Tikambe falling asleep in my lap.
I will remember Clayton swinging from my back.
I will remember the sand-dollar walk on the beach in Malibu.
I will remember falling for him, and falling for him, and falling for him.
And I will remember the slow extrications.
I will remember emails with Annie.
I will remember the dinner after Heidi's graduation, and the canyon that opened up beneath us.
I will remember frolicking in meadows on "Heidi's Alp" in Switzerland.
I will remember running into the damn sign.
I will remember the words on the screen at the internet cafe in Cinque Terre.
I will remember the angels.
I will remember the monster duck in Chantilly.
I will remember the snowy walk, and the scaffolded house, and the view, and the goodbye.
I will remember the horrible realization that I had somehow forgotten to do four huge grad school assignments that were already past due.
I will remember Grandpa's balcony.
I will remember watching Heidi come down the aisle.
I will remember swimming in the lake with Max at 1am on a stifling summer night.
I will remember the phone call from Stephanie, and hearing that she wanted to hire me to teach at her school.
I will remember meeting him.
I will remember hanging art in my classroom.
I will remember the first time we said, "I love you."
I will remember that horrible day when Natalie said she didn't think the class was adequately preparing her, and I will remember the birthday card from the sophomores, when they all wrote how much they loved me.
I will remember the best.
And I will remember the worst.

And today is neither; and today, I will forget. And I'm thankful for forgetting.

I want room for what matters.