It seems sometimes, often in fact, that I come along in the last good year. Or, rather, that I’m a harbinger of death. I don’t in any way cause said death; I simply fortell something that was set in action long before I came around.
When I was six and a half my mother and I were baptized in the Orthodox church. We moved a year and a half later, just as things at that monastery were disintegrating. By “disintegrating” I mean that the abbot left the Russian church because of disagreements with the bishop. He eventually joined the Bulgarian diocese, but as of this spring he was defrocked for behavior that occurred around the time we called that church home. It had been a wonderful introduction to the Church for me, loving and and strict and full of warmth and forgiveness. It grounded me well, I feel, but it hasn’t been the same since–particularly because of the whole, y’know, it not actually being a monastery right now, what with it lacking a priest and not belonging to a church.
When I was seven my mother and I had dinner at a busy fish-house. The old doctor, whose practice my mother had taken over, invited us to sit with him. It was lovely conversation, and he gave me much-appreciated peppermints. Then he fell over with a heart attack just before the food arrived. My mother never got hers. I sat in the booth quietly eating my fish and watching as she performed CPR as he lay on the tile floor. I was seven; judgment was a skill I had not yet developed, for better and for worse. In this case, I think it was better. The experience wasn’t scarring, although reflecting on it makes me wince.
The winter after I lived with my (great-) Uncle Bob and his wife Ida for a summer, Uncle Bob was killed in a car accident by a drunk driver. Drunk driving is never okay. Neither, frankly, is heavy drinking. This isn’t the middle ages, and I have a heart, and I don’t like it being broken by others’ selfishness. Also, pickled liver is SO NOT A DELICACY, and even if it were, the proper method of pickling uses vinegar. Take care of yourself, dammit.
When I was in eighth grade I took a senior-level government class that was offered to every eighth-grader at my school. The teacher was so liberal he was nearly an anarchist, and his name was Mr. Mann. (How’s that for a misnomer, eh?) It was not the last year, and it was not always an enjoyable year, but I learned more than I realized then about politics, life, and how to play The Game. About two years later he died. I attended his funeral and met his wife, an elegant former hippie just like him. I still miss him sometimes. I have no idea who teaches his class now, but I’ll bet they aren’t as good. Nobody could be. His excellence was entirely accidental.
Skipping to high school, my first JROTC experience was in many ways fantastic. However it, too, was a Last Good Year. The secondary instructor had just changed due to…well, some illegal conduct by the former secondary instructor. However, most of the old leaders had come back, ready to guide a new crop of cadets for yet another year. By the end of that year, almost all of the leaders had decided they would not do so. (To be fair, a handful graduated.) The structure was changing, the leadership style of the instructors was changing, and the amount of conflict between instructors and students just got some people fed up. And for good reason! But the next year felt empty. We didn’t have enough older students to create the same ethos of respect and honor and hard work. The new students slacked because we couldn’t get them to feel it was important. They half-assed their pushups and wore sloppy uniforms and didn’t care. I left halfway through the first semester, primarily because we were moving to a different town but partly because I couldn’t stand watching something I loved so intensely fall apart so quietly.
When I was in 11th grade I got a chance to feel like the Grim Reaper yet again. Once more, Mother and I went to dinner. It was hosted by a pharmaceuticals company, so there were quite a few white male doctors present. And, of course, because this is a Terribly Dramatic Paragraph and this is what happens in Terribly Dramatic Paragraphs, one of them did not live to go home that night. Had just ONE of those doctors–or even myself, a lifeguard and CNA–lingered just ten more minutes, he probably would have. The poor man only needed the Heimlich, and someone to see him in time. But he stayed behind to wait for a dessert he could bring to his wife, and then he had a seizure that caused a piece of meat to lodge in his throat. He died. Mom and I went to see his family later that week. They were nice people. Seeing them was one of those things that kind of makes my heart crumble just a little more.
Shimer is probably NOT having a Last Good Year. I am an optimist, and Shimer has survived before. However, it is a year of change and possibly danger. Shimer is a school based on dialogue, on democracy. Our new president is having great difficulty understanding the former, and the latter might not be his cup of tea either. He’s a politician, and as far as I can tell a good man. However, he does certain things without adequately communicating them. Also, he’s kind of supposed to ask the students. We’re just that kind of school. He’s been making changes, and he gets upset when we cry “Outrage!” without stopping to ask him why he did what he did. But I do wish he’d learn to explain himself in advance. We’re an involved kind of school. We have an Assembly of all students, staff and faculty as our primary governing body. Obviously, it’s a really good idea to consult that assembly, particularly when one’s hoping to make RATHER SIGNIFICANT CHANGES. Like firing an admissions director without talking to anyone in admissions, the dean, the head of faculty, or most/all of the Board of Trustees.
I am quite certain that none of the above was my fault. I am also quite certain that knowing so doesn’t help much. Life is just unpleasant sometimes. But, that isn’t the all of it.
There’s always a first good year too. With every end comes a beginning, somewhere. Even when I can’t see it.
