Happy Thanksgiving, even so

A few days before Thanksgiving I sit by my writing window, sun warming my neck, and I’m trying to figure out what to say to you when a former colleague texts me and asks me if I have a poem that, like cranberry sauce, pairs well with Thanksgiving.

I find a folder in a bedroom closet creatively marked “POEMS” and leaf through. The folder, like a spare dresser drawer, is a mishmash of poems I collected throughout my teaching career. The poems range from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 10 to Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.” I remove the poems from the folder and begin reading.

Thanksgiving 2020 will not be normal. A trimmed version. A half-the-fixins’ version. A Zoom version. And right now, I know, it’s hard to be thankful. We’re overstuffed with confusion. Baked with frustration. Glazed with sadness. Maybe, for the first time in the history of your life, you’re not feeling thankful for Thanksgiving this year.

Before long, a pile of poems litter the kitchen table when I find ” Late Fragment” by Raymond Carver.

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

The “…,even so?” at the end of the second line hits a nerve. I shuffle the rest of the poems into the folder until “Late Fragment” sits alone on the kitchen table. I read it again, this time out loud like I used to do in a classroom stuffed with students.

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

It’s called dysarthria. A weakening of speech muscles: the tongue, larynx, vocal chords. It’s a common symptom of neurological disorders. I have dysarthria. Sometimes my voice sounds fine. Strong. Sharp. Measured and clear and full of base like it always has. Other times it’s as if I just spent the last 3 hours shouting AC/DC songs while hammering back a fifth of Jack Daniels. This is one of those times. My recitation of ‘Late Fragment” is imprecise, staccato, and slurred like a night school english teacher who crashed Applebee’s happy hour before his class. But it’s 11:30 am. I just finished my second cup of coffee. I’m stone sober.

The irony of this moment is not lost on me. My physical voice weakens while my writing voice develops. Dare I say, strengthens.

Dysarthia is one reason why I stopped teaching. I still love teaching but talking became too laborious and triggered stress and anxiety. All those eyes. All those ears. Did they hear my slurs? Do they think I’m drunk? Is my speech distracting them from learning? I once prided myself on a quick tongue. My words fired with killer machine gun accuracy. But now, my words are losing syllabic accuracy. Missing targets. Sloppily falling out my mouth. Like talking with a mouthful of mashed potatoes to someone at the far end of the table.

Picture you swim too far from the shore. You stretch your legs for bottom but your feet swipe more water. Your chest squeezes. Breath. Your heart hammers. Breath. You’re too far out. You’re in trouble now. The water swells and laps below your nose.”Hel… .” You swallow and gulp and breath. Stay calm. The water swells again. You’re too far out. Your legs stretch and yearn for something solid. Sand. A rock. “Hel… .” You panic. Your arms flail. Your legs swipe. Desperately. You breath fast between cold gulps. The water swells. Is this what drowning feels like? Sometimes the words I want to say are too hard to say so I don’t say them. Sometimes I would rather float than drown.

I think it’s fair to say that 2020 was a bad year. A year of great global, national, and personal strife. A year of breakdowns. Anxiety. Sadness. A year when self-isolation was a noble act.

There is so much to be unthankful for this year.

A pandemic, even so?

Civil unrest, even so?

Financial hardship, even so?

Canceled weddings, graduations, retirement parties, even so?

Loneliness, even so?

Frustration, even so?

Anxiety, even so?

A compromised voice, even so?

A socially distant Thanksgiving, even so?

A scary diagnosis, even so?

The passing of a loved one, even so?

This week my dad installed hand rails around my house. Next to the outdoor steps around the house. By the front door. Problem areas. Areas I fell before. So when the disease worsens I’m ready. Doomsday prep. Even so?

The irony of a house of handrails is not lost on me. As if, in fading days of hard, hard year, the house calmly says, “Hold on.”

(Pictured above is one of the newly installed handrails. I was going to embed this post with several pictures of the various handrails around my house but then I realized they’re just handrails. Not puppies or motorcycles or puppies riding motorcycles. One picture will do.)

“Late Fragment” was the last poem Raymond Carver wrote before he died of lung cancer. He was 50. The poem is engraved on Carver’s tombstone.

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

I text my former colleague, “Late Fragment by R. Carver”

A few minutes later.

“THX. I like it!”

“It’s a good Thanksgiving poem!”

A few minutes later.

“Yes. Happy Thanksgiving, even so!”

Be well,

Jay

PS: Despite everything, 2020 has been my most productive writing year. And knowing my writing is being read and shared and maybe even helping inspires me to keep telling my story. This is because of you. I’m thankful for you. For reading and sharing and liking my writing. You remind me to be thankful–especially in those moments when thankfulness is hard to find. Happy Thanksgiving!