2 Thoughts (2023)

“2 Thoughts” is an ongoing series on Natetheworld where a special guest and I respond to a published story in the manner of our choosing. Enjoy! 

What They Said & What Will Say by Nathan Box  

Slipping deeper into a sense of loss, I watched as our country spiraled into chaos caused by a global pandemic. That pandemic denied me a hike of the Pacific Crest Trail. It was pitting me against an unfavorable job market. It was keeping me from making Seattle my home once again. My heart felt broken, and I was unsure about my ability to handle anything else. Then, on May 16th, 2020, my phone rang. It was a phone call I had been fearing for some time.  

Hearing the sadness in my mom’s voice, I knew something was wrong. As she struggled to string together words that must have felt impossible to say aloud, my mind raced furiously. I could hear the tears in her eyes. The audible shakiness is something I will never forget. With all the strength she could muster, she told me, “Eldon passed away a few hours ago.”  

The axis of my world shifted. Unsure of what to do next, I helplessly gravitated toward a need to know what happened. As best as she could, she recounted the morning’s events. We then discussed what would happen next. We closed the call after discussing the arrangements that needed to be made. I told her I would be there as soon as possible and hung up the phone.  

Of all the questions I have asked my mother about that day and everything that led up to it, I have never asked her about the last words they said to each other. Watching the video that is the impetus for this essay, I am naturally curious, but refuse to ask.  

They probably didn't have a well-scripted conversation for their last words to each other. I doubt there were grand exclamations of love. I do not think apologies hung thick in the air. What went unsaid, but deeply understood, was probably much more profound. That moment and the moments before my father passed belong to them. I dare not intrude.  

Staring across the queen-sized bed, I watch my partner sleep. He does not realize he is being studied at this moment. With this story fresh in my mind, I drift to thoughts of our eventual end. These thoughts are not morbid. I think about who will pass first. How will the other person cope with that loss and life alone? What will our last words to each other be? Will it afford us an opportunity to express our love, or will suddenness rob us of a meaningful goodbye? Pondering this, I fall back asleep.  

When I wake, a sudden realization greets me and the new day. There is no reason to wait. There is no need for a script. There is no need to worry about time robbing me of the perfect words to encapsulate our long and storied relationship. Now, and in every moment moving forward, I can choose to show Brandon how much he means to me. I can start crafting a love that Brandon will understand long after my time on this planet is finished through my service, action, and words. Our last moment together does not have to be perfect. With minutes, hours, days, and years to count before that date with destiny, the greatest love I have ever known can live on without questioning what he has meant to me.  

Be good to each other,  

Nathan  

---

The Last Conversation by S. Jensen

I once wrote a poem called “A Slow Death is for the Selfish”, as my grandfather was fighting lung cancer. I stand by its sentiment, even as I’m facing the second anniversary of my mother’s sudden death. It feels impossible to watch a story of death or grief and not think of my own losses–it’s such a universal experience, processed individually. Watching Isidore and Sarah dancing their beautiful, domestic dance across six decades could only end in heartbreak.

Being left with one parent where you’d always had two is confounding. Every relationship has a language all its own that no one else speaks. The healthiest and most fun also has a deep culture unto its own, and even their child is only partially welcome. When half the team is gone, there’s no one left to translate. I don’t know how this feels–not yet–but it’s my new biggest fear and it can be suffocating. 

Isidore and Sarah’s last conversation is the illustration of how he cared for her in sickness and likely in health. We see how he needed to keep caring for her even when he wasn’t physically there anymore. As someone’s adult child, I hope finding this message gives Robert peace. There’s always going to be a phone call not returned, a visit not made quickly enough, and something left unsaid. I’ve spent most of my life trying to do all things for all people and they still get sick, they still die. We’re simply not that powerful. 

What is that powerful, is love. That’s it. Loving people while we have them, however we can. Maybe by giving them patience and peace of mind, if we can’t give them our presence.

 s.jensen

8/25/23

2 Thoughts (2020)

“2 Thoughts” is an ongoing series on Natetheworld where a special guest and I respond to a published story in the manner of our choosing. Enjoy!

To read the original essay, The Bar That Showed Me Who I Could Have Been, click here.

From Field Parties to Hollywood by Nathan Box

For all practical purposes, the Tillman county of my youth was a dry county. Sure, you could score beers from all the convenience stores, but there was no bar to hang your hat. By the time I reached “drinking age,” all the bars of Frederick had been shuttered. The Brass Rail was just a name to me, nothing more.

Still, I have stood in country fields, drinking with friends, and acquaintances from high school. I have sat in bars in Oklahoma City. I have walked into a gay bar in Seattle for the first time and I have sipped cocktails in the shadow of the Hollywood sign. Each of these scenes provided an opportunity to see who I might have been and who I would become.

The country fields and barn parties of my youth were filled with danger and teenage rebellion. Taking place on some farmer’s land, I could see the future for many of the people before me. Many of them would never leave Frederick or Southwest Oklahoma. Many of them were not forced to stay. It was their choice. They would choose to work and toil in the soil like their father and grandfather before them. Planting and harvesting were in their blood. There was no escape. They craved simplicity and rejected an outside world encroaching on all they hold dear. Others standing before me would be trapped by circumstance. They would long to leave but had been cast the wrong dice.

I would not be a victim of circumstance.

In the bars of Oklahoma City, I grew closer to my friends and cemented relationships that remain to this day. For hours, we found ourselves lost in deep conversation and in the midst of a never-ending arms race of who could own the spotlight. These were friends who would be hard to leave, but I had to leave. I needed to step into new bars and discover a version of myself hidden from the world. This version could not be freed in Oklahoma.

I would dare greatly and find myself in the process.

My first trip to a gay bar was in Oklahoma City. I went on a dare. My first gay bar on my own fruition was in Seattle. Standing outside in the rain, nervous anxiety ran through me. Crossing that threshold meant everything to me. It meant acceptance. It meant freedom. It meant defying preconceived notions. It meant finding new friends who were like me. It meant making some mistakes. It meant a new and truer version of Nathan would be introduced into the world.

I would become myself.

In bars of all shapes and sizes in Los Angeles, the most confident version of myself would request cocktails, gather with friends, and command my space. In the bars of LA, I felt accomplished, accepted, and loved. Here, I made new friends. These friends were completely different than those I made in Oklahoma or Seattle, but they made me feel like family. They made the struggle of work and a long-distance relationship a little less hard.

I would become convinced that almost anything can be solved over a cocktail.

Some people like to assume no good can occur in bars. They are drawn only to the rebellion, danger, hedonism, or pretentiousness of it all. While I have experienced all of this in these establishments, I also experienced growth, safety, acceptance, and friendship. Bars are what we make them out to be. For me, they have meant the world.

Be good to each other,

 Nathan

---

  A Minnesota Bar by S. Jensen

While I think we all should experience what it is like to work in the service industry for many reasons, this article highlights a little known one—so we might have a better understanding of the community we live in. This is true if it’s where we were born and raised, but even more impactful if we move to a new place, one in which we don’t feel we belong. Although I’ve never worked in a bar or restaurant, I have upended my entire life in a city I loved and moved to a rural area in a new state. I’ve felt as though I was a foreigner in a land where everyone spoke a different language and followed a set of rules I wasn’t clued in to. Reading about the regulars at Kickers made me think of our local bar. I could replace names with names of friends I’ve made here, although it’s not been easy to form those relationships. The difficulty makes it more worth it, perhaps, and observing people in their comfort zone has taught me how to approach situations in a way I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

There really is a moment when you walk into a bar like Kickers when you walk in—as an outsider—and people stop and look at you. If a record player could skip like in the movies, it would. If you’re lucky, it ends within a couple of seconds. Depending on the bar, and the small town, folks might shout a hello, or they might go back to their own drinks and town gossip. I quickly learned not to walk in first, and to try to walk in behind someone tall. The city girl confidence I once had of meeting someone at a crowded place was long gone. No amount of knowing one’s worth could withstand a repeated assault of a room full of people staring at you as if you don’t belong.

Because they were right.

The thing is, they were all very nice, once you drank with them. But that was just it—if I wasn’t serving them drinks, I needed to be tossing them back. I had neither skill. I also had little to offer in the way of conversation. Like the author, it was best for me to keep to myself and say nothing of my past or future plans. I didn’t want anyone to think I was using them for a pit stop—I wasn’t. I didn’t want to appear elitist—I’m not. But I had, and still have countless questions.

I’d never seen people walk home from bars—it wasn’t an option where I lived before. It felt like Cheers, but no one knew my name. While I didn’t necessarily want them to, it hurt my feelings to be so invisible. I wondered if I worked there if that might help. Everyone likes a good bartender! Part of me thought it didn’t matter what career goals I had—I didn’t look down on anyone’s job, so why not me? Isn’t this how I assimilate? By serving drinks to a town whose hobby includes drinking? I decided to give it time, and if I didn’t feel more at home in a few months, maybe that was my path.  (I didn’t end up working as a bartender, but stay tuned—you never know!)

Some of the best people I know I’ve met on barstools. I can ask them anything, and once they trust I’m not mocking their way of life, but instead genuinely asking about farming, hunting, or what certain words and phrases mean, the seeds of real friendship are planted. I don’t have to get drunk, but I usually have a drink in front of me. I learned I love Bloody Mary’s, which are basically an appetizer in a glass. I use quite a bit of profanity, and I suppose that lends some credibility. It’s possible that most of my new pals here in Minnesota have no idea about my previous career path, my education, upbringing, or any accomplishments I’ve had. That’s by design. It’s due to humility, but I’m also acutely aware that the less I focus on me, the more they can discover on their own. For people who work hard, mind their own business, and seek out their own information, that matters.

s.jensen

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2 Thoughts

Two authors. One question. Two different responses. 

How did you become aware of your economic status? 

I was raised in the southwest corner of Oklahoma in the 80's and 90's. The economy of Frederick is largely based on agriculture. There was one factory in town that always seemed to be months away from shuttering its doors. For as long as I can remember, my father was an electrician for a plant in North Texas in a town called Vernon. For most of my early life, my mom was a stay at home mom. As I grew up, she began a side arts and crafts business and then became a grocery store clerk before going back to school to become a licensed practical nurse. Almost every friend I grew up with would be considered middle class. 

As a child, I don't know if I understood my economic class. When school began each year, we had new clothes and shoes. We had wonderful and nutritious meals on the table each night. Each and every birthday and Christmas was filled with wonderful toys and things we didn't deserve. By almost any standard, we were spoiled kids raised by parents who knew how to work hard and stay within their means. For much of my life, my parents rented their home but I don't think it ever dawned on me to take that as a lack of prosperity. My parents also drove used cars for most of my life. Again, I don't know if I equated that to not being wealthy.

In middle school, I did become aware of my economic status by total accident. Like lots of small towns, Frederick is divided by a railroad track. Long ago, these tracks were more than a system of transportation. They were meant to segregate races. Even as a child, I would hear people call a certain side of the tracks by a name I won't repeat here. I lived on the other side of the tracks. Just from aesthetics alone, I knew my parents could afford to live in a house that was bigger than those on the other side of the tracks. As an adult, I now know and understand how institutional racism contributed to such an opportunity.

But I also know we didn't live in what people called, "Rich Town" or "Snob Hill." These were homes in a certain corner of town with perfectly manicured lawns, nice vehicles in the driveway, and kids who were all white and well dressed. As a kid, I so badly wanted my parents to live in that part of town. At the time, for me, it wasn't about the home. Rather, it was about being close to my friends. When my parents decided to move, I begged and begged for them to find a house near my friends. 

For my dad, the houses in this particular neighborhood were too close together. The yards weren't big enough. He didn't see enough room for his family or his stuff. So, much to my dismay, my parents selected a home on the south side of town. It wasn't particularly close to lots of neighbors. The yard encompassed half a city block and we had plenty of room to play. Also, my dad's ever-growing piles of junk had a place. In hindsight, this was the right house for us. It would become a gathering spot for neighborhood kids and our family. Us three boys had plenty of room to roam. It was also affordable. It also allowed my parents to move from renting to owning. It was the perfect home and always will be for me. 

At the time, I was disappointed. I was also confronted with the reality that my parents were not as wealthy as others. Suddenly, I noticed the differences in my clothes. I knew my selection wasn't as wide as others. Our summer vacations to nearby destinations began to make sense. The "nos" I would hear from my parents soon had a deeper meaning. For the first time in my life, I was aware of my place in the world. In the moment, it hurt. Looking back on it now, I couldn't be more grateful. 

That house on 15th St. will always be our house even though my parents have since moved. I am glad I heard the word no. I am proud I didn't get everything I wanted. Watching my parents put sweat equity into every purchase and trip, instilled within me a sense of hard work and deep understanding of the value found in a dollar. As a 33-year-old man, I know my place in the universe. Yet, I know no man will define me by the amount of money in my bank account. I will be judged by how I carry myself, my intelligence, and my compassion. Becoming aware of my economic place taught me that. 

Be good to each other, 

-Nathan 

---

I don’t remember as a child how I figured out our economic status as it actually was. I assumed we were fairly poor. That was because we did things in ways I believed were only to save money. They did exactly that, but it was sometimes for other reasons. We gathered water in buckets when it rained and used it to help water the garden. I thought that was because we were constantly reminded that water isn’t free and to turn off the hose. Perhaps that was partially true, but I also grew up in southwest Oklahoma, which is moments away from catching on fire in summer. My mom was a stay at home mom, so we did need to save money. That didn’t make us poor; it made us think about what we spent. We were not handed money like some teenagers. My parents didn’t care about the newest cool jeans, and expected us not to either. I probably resented it at some point, but I don’t recall that now.

I see economic status and disparity now like a spotlight. It’s one of the toughest things to reconcile about my job and life. While I genuinely don’t think those who are wealthy are undeserving, it’s hard to watch children in poverty suffer while so many are clueless. But they aren’t always suffering. The generosity I see from those with very little to give juxtaposed with the often selfishness of those with so much is confusing. It reminds me of a story I once heard. Wouldn’t you be so happy if someone gave you $200? Wouldn’t that make your day? Then someone else came along and gave you $20? What a letdown that would be?

Except the person who gave you $20 gave you everything they had. The other guy kept $300 more for himself.

I guess that’s what I see. And I’ve become more that way. Not that I give money away, or that I think people have to to be good. It’s about the intent behind the giving. Tonight we had an event at my school. A school in a high poverty area that people often say the “parents don’t care” or “don’t work”. But we had to have it later on a Friday so parents CAN come, because they DO work. The parents made all the food. It’s their gift. (And I love homemade Mexican food, so it was quite a gift.) It would be an insult for us to offer to pay them. And so I choose to go to family or locally owned restaurants whenever possible.

That’s my economic status. As little money as I make, which is basically public record, I can go out to eat most of the time. Many of my students have never been to a restaurant that isn’t fast food. It simply isn’t done. Granted, I do cry more as a teacher than I have in any other job—these kids will get you—but one of the most unexpected times was when I mentioned that my cousin and I like to go to Buffalo Wild Wings. A little boy told me it was his Christmas wish to go there one day.

And I thought I was grateful before.

It’s easy to simply say their parents should do better. But I’ve been broke enough that if I didn’t have the people in my life that I do, I would be that hungry. Life comes at you fast and hard and mean.

I’ve stopped saying “food insecure”. To me, that’s the very definition of political correctness. Just because it’s south Oklahoma City and not across the world doesn’t mean a person isn’t starving. I’ve come to think I’m rich. Not in a sentimental, I-have-love-and-friendship-and-health way, although I do, but because I have my own bedroom. I have TWO bedrooms. I have air conditioning and heat. I have running water and lights. I have the internet at home. I can feed myself and a dog. I have a car. I can take trips to other states and even a couple countries.

I’m almost a millionaire.

s.jensen