JOHN SAAVEDRA, JR.
Contributor

You dropped into my life and started roaming down empty streets and waiting on desolate corners. And the wind followed you, whistling the sad war songs of your time. And you remind me of women and their lonely, drunken struts as they walk off buses. I’ve taken care of those kind of women. I sit them next to me in theaters, while huge men recite the poetic words of Miller, and hold them, letting them fall asleep on my shoulder, and kiss them on the top of their heads, where their hair separates in two beautiful directions, and I let them sleep until they’re sober. And when they wake up they see me and wonder if the kisses really happened. I’m not wondering about my feelings, Holden. I’ve only ever liked that kind of lonely woman while she’s drunk. And you said you didn’t need people. You walked into bars and talked to men on elevators and they jipped you of course, didn’t they? Your small tuft of premature white hair is not enough to make you wise. Someone pointed out just the other night that I had inherited a few white hairs myself. Trust me I know. It doesn’t make you wise. But I’m not impulsive like you, Holden. I don’t take elevators.
I took the stairs one afternoon and it was her birthday. And I said, “Happy birthday.” Then I kissed her. You would’ve done the same. She wasn’t lonely. But sometimes it happens to us. We do anything for connections, for warmth. But after it happened I was still numb and still on the same woman. I couldn’t let go. You can understand, right? Remember how you held on to that hat for dear life?
And then we’re in mental hospitals, Holden. Or maybe in a hospice and we are just waiting to die, waiting for someone to let go on the edge of a building. We knew where we’ve been, where we’re going. You and I both have said this: “I’ve never been nice a day in my life.” Ha! It’s a wonder we’re not clawing ourselves out of existence. We are so reckless. And they laugh at it. From days hidden in closets with plastic knives to kicking school books across hallways, we are guilty of all of it. I know how much you and I both need people, Holden. We both know how much we hate people.
But you’re growing up. I will admit that. You tell your stories. You hum along with those sad war songs. And walk into jazz clubs and soak it all in, too. You finally talk and spill truths (or lies, we’ll never know) to the world. And we’re adolescents and we’re SUPPOSED to hate our lives because it just means that we won’t be drunk somewhere proclaiming “High school was the best time of my life!” You let those meat heads do that with their anthems and credos that mean nothing to you. It’s all just a long thread that follows you on your way to the store for some scissors.
And we all have break downs.
“I’m terrible, you know? What I’m doing. It’s terrible.”
And we all want to run away.
“I’ll ignore. And when the phone calls come, I won’t answer. And when they’re knocking on the door, I’ll laugh and take another sip. I’ll laugh because I’m no longer here.”
And we all want to be remembered.
“I just hope they play ‘Hey Jude’ at my funeral.”
And when they ask us if we miss home yet, we answer them: “I am home.”
One day, you had this great idea. You said you wanted to leave. Right now, right this instant. “The hell with it, leave it unfinished.” How you were going to get out, I haven’t the slightest idea. Model T. Steamboat. Locomotive. Hot air balloon. Beanstalk. All you knew was that somewhere you could set up your own place in the woods and read Thoreau, but not because nature was your friend. You always said you were in this world but not a part of it. This world has abandoned you the way I’m afraid it could abandon me. So we could farm and spit at the soil because we hated it and nothing would grow and we’d starve. Then we’d laugh and order another martini. You know I would’ve joined you. There was a time when I had my bags packed and ready, Holden. I could’ve left with you.
But we’re tied down. And we’ve lived the last four years. You were always in my pocket and I heard your cynical voice when I needed it. And when she’d come around again with malicious eyes and I’d prick my finger against her thorns, you’d stop me from bleeding out. I could’ve hemorrhaged. But I didn’t. My heart had an eternal bleeding instead.
There are always happy endings though, Holden. You sat in an asylum, listening to “Let It Snow” as you looked out the window. The snow fell and it was the first part of this world that you thought was beautiful. Honestly. It was why you decided to tell your story in the first place. You were happy to do it. And I listened.
It snowed outside today. And I realized this morning that I could go back to taking care of drunken women on buses. And fall in love with them for the entire presentation of “Death of a Salesman.” I could go back to any of them. They’d let me in. And I could stay and settle. And not be happy. But I’d have blankets and soup and coffee and tears. And I could forget that this moment happened. That it had ever snowed today. That the person that changed things for me, that kept me ticking won’t read this. But then I realize why I wrote this in the first place, Holden. I realize it was never about forgetting at all. This was simply to say – and it’s easier now that you’ve gotten your wish… This is simply to say I love you.

JOHN SAAVEDRA, JR.
Contributor

The last couple of weeks have reminded me of the connections we make with people. Sometimes these connections are subtle. I hear myself thinking, “Well, he/she seems like a nice person. I’d like to hang out with him/her sometime.” Other times we see people we have similarities with. We see the artist within ourselves when we look at them or talk to them. We see the person we have been aiming to be and for others to see all along. It’s always a good feeling when you are compatible with someone, alike with someone.
Another realization is the fact that human beings are like spontaneous sparks of light. They are constantly rushing in and out of our lives, passing by us at mind-boggling speed. Most of these small lights barely stop to say, “Hello,” or “Sorry for bumping into you.” Human beings are constantly flickering on and off in their own private suns.
This is the sweet moment: I have found many of these people in the past two months. They are writers, musicians, poets, artists, smokers, laughers, runners, scientists, people that like to stare. Blue-eyed beauties with a tinge of green. People who like to hug and kiss on the cheek. Those abnormal people who will share angel food cake with you, not worrying about the germ-crazed factoids surrounding us or the swine flu scare. These are my people. My friends. These are the people I want to hold hands with and march into the next day.
Not to flatter—or pity—myself, but: Writing is a lonely business. It almost equates to being an undertaker. Both of these individuals turn to the silence and emptiness in their professions as company. The writer and the undertaker try to build images, whether it is on paper or a face. There are barely any lights in the workroom of a writer, besides perhaps a desk lamp or the dim light of the monitor (why doesn’t anyone use typewriters anymore?). So it is amazing when someone comes along and shines a bit of extra light on you. These rare but beautiful moments have come to me in the form of writing sessions, those strange occasions that occur almost against our will because writers can be such loners. More than once, I’ve sat down with someone, our laptops facing each other, the clicking of each other’s keyboards relaxing one another. That symbolic clicking gives us the one reassurance we can have as young writers in a hailstorm: we are not alone. And what comes out of that feeling of companionship is something very beautiful. A poem, a story, an essay, an energetic article that says, “Look out world! I’m not afraid to speak my mind!” Perhaps these moments can even give us a glimpse into what the creative process really is. Maybe we are not inspired by loneliness, but by the thought that we are able to make a connection with something. Some of us write to make a connection with others. Another writer might write to make a connection with him/herself. Either way, there are connections to be made. We are like the swarm of ladybugs clinging on to the Mansion in the fall: cold and looking for a home.
What have I learned from this overwhelming melting pot of experience constantly being dropped over my head? Some lights flicker on around us and somehow—I have no doubt this is one of the small miracles that make the human condition such a wonderful experience—make our own light even brighter.

JOHN SAAVEDRA, JR.
Contributor

Word of the day: transition.
It is bouncing around every freshman’s head, including my own. My first moments as a college student were ones played out with music— I room with Isaac Leggett and Matt Ryan, after all. I set my stuff down on the floor, my father following close behind with more things, my mother taking very slow steps into the room that would soon become her son’s new home. I looked around. Though the room wasn’t anything special in size, I could still feel a sense of its enormity. At that moment I felt like an ant, expectation’s big foot ready to stomp down on my puny body. I was scared in those first moments.
This is false: you can leave your home.
You cannot. The second thought coursing through my head after the fear was gone was that I was completely “free.” There would be no one to tell me to clean my room or invade my privacy — my parents don’t ever knock, which makes for hundreds of interrupted writing sessions. At long last, I was going to go out whenever I wanted, wherever I wanted.
But then I realized that every time I came back to my dorm on Sunday I needed to Febreze (yes, I can turn air freshener products into verbs!) my room. I didn’t only need to clean my room, I wanted to. I fold my clothes and put them in organized drawers categorized by type of apparel. I even put a new trash bag in the garbage can, sometimes even in my suitemate’s! It’s really scary realizing that I’m listening to my mother when she’s not around. As much as I hated the rules, the scolding, the complaining, I end up living my life with those same credos. Even if I’m running the clockwork of my life on my own now, my parents and their teachings are embedded in me. Home stays with you wherever you go.
Another lie: college doesn’t change you.
Fears are conquered on open mic nights. History, however small it can be (although huge for the individual), was made in the Mansion. A shy eighteen-year-old writer stood in front of a tightly packed crowd. It was silent. The mood was perfect for a poem. The happy folk songs were done with and only those with endurance were still in the room. They sat waiting for the writer to speak. His first words were nervous ones. They didn’t sound natural at all. In fact, he’d been rehearsing them all night, as he watched people begin to battle their heavy eyelids at a quarter past twelve.
“I wrote this last night. It’s short so it will be quick and painful…less.”
No one laughed. He was never a comedian.
Then he looked down at the paper. “Also Sprach Zarathustra” began to play in the background like it would in a Stanley Kubrick film. He read, “Man reading a newspaper…”
He read the whole thing, silence throughout. It was not a funny poem. He wouldn’t dare try something like that. A year before, he wouldn’t have even dared go up and read a poem in front of an audience. This night, he decided to change.
Final words of the poem: “A day in his life.”
Routine: keeping to myself, not sharing, not giving an inch of myself to the public, keeping quiet. Writing. Pondering on whether I should step out of my shell. A day in my life.
When I sat back down, people clapped. Brandon Battersby, a prominent student in the Creative Writing program, gave me a thumbs up. I didn’t feel like I had affected the audience with my poem. I hadn’t made it even more silent, as each person’s thoughts began to race in their heads. It was a simple sea of words lost in a wave. But experience is never lost. After that night, I feel like I can read again, and with a little bit more confidence. Next time I don’t have to say dumb jokes before I read. Next time my paper won’t shake as I read it. Most importantly, there will be a next time.
A pathetic attempt at wisdom: pick up a pair of sticks, start playing with them. Eventually, you will learn how to start a fire.
Last words: A new day. Discover something new about yourself. Make it sacred. Make it home. Nothing you have learned so far will be left behind. It was all thrown into the cocoon that is adolescence. You will be different when you bloom. A butterfly.