Time after time after time, you bring me/us to a place of utter precariousness and then offer a magical outstretched hand that saves the day. Your story is simultaneously exhausting yet reviving. Hope lives on.
Such powerful writing. A journey of constant discovery and wonder. Lots of pain in all the generations before us, the desperation of all the Bobby's , all the people like me looking for a place to belong. Maybe in the end Bobby got what he most longed for , he is the legend that was in your story. I agree with your wise daughter , Bobby didnt want to die he wanted to be someone.
So well told. My favorite part of this piece: 'That’s one of the traps for us Indians. The warrior trap.' And your young daughter's observation. I think of people I knew who died too young from fighting in a war that benefited no one except the rich, from drugs, from a car accident in the mountains of a country in Northern Africa, from an awful disease, from their own hands ... always a why in my mind.
That little girl goes on to live a happy life. The boots left behind make her know it was an accident, not suicide. I see her focusing on the bits of life that bring light, not darkness. Her glass is always half full. For her, catharsis is through laughter, not tears. I love it that Pollyanna turns up in a story about death and dying young.
I read that story and thought about my cousin who hid a pregnancy and gave birth alone at home. It scared me when my mom told me that social services removed her from the care of my aunt. People walk around with ideas about life and how it’s supposed to be for everyone but sometimes there’s no other way to be. I thought about that boy and wondered if these kids just were not ready for life in a world where they weren’t wanted. They were afterthoughts and nobody knew how to give them purpose,not just punishment. This breaks my heart, but it’s very real.
A similar debate rages over the death of an unhoused friend, Alex, who drowned in the ocean with pockets full of beach stones. Some say he killed himself; I say, knowing how Alex loved to dance on the rocks, that he slipped and fell and would not ever kill himself.
Yes, no one knows for sure what makes a person do what they do beyond the limits and strains of their character. I hope your rewrite goes well.
I've been inspired to reconsider my own story about Alex, who once challenged me to a fight on the beach for publishing a negative essay on local loud-mouthed Christians. I liked Alex.
You called it short fiction, but how much of it is true? I don't want it to be true. I don't want you to have, in reality, lost so many of your sixth-grade classmates so young.
So much of my own life has been distorted, but I'm still alive. You make me feel grateful for that. Thousands of "second chances" that your characters or real friends never had.
Time after time after time, you bring me/us to a place of utter precariousness and then offer a magical outstretched hand that saves the day. Your story is simultaneously exhausting yet reviving. Hope lives on.
Whoooa. Instant subscribe. Those boots...
"they looked like two open mouths—one of them whispering and one of them shouting."
Wow. Just wow.
Such powerful writing. A journey of constant discovery and wonder. Lots of pain in all the generations before us, the desperation of all the Bobby's , all the people like me looking for a place to belong. Maybe in the end Bobby got what he most longed for , he is the legend that was in your story. I agree with your wise daughter , Bobby didnt want to die he wanted to be someone.
Thanks, Sherman, for bringing this piece back to more recent Substackers. I have no profound words. You took all of them!
So well told. My favorite part of this piece: 'That’s one of the traps for us Indians. The warrior trap.' And your young daughter's observation. I think of people I knew who died too young from fighting in a war that benefited no one except the rich, from drugs, from a car accident in the mountains of a country in Northern Africa, from an awful disease, from their own hands ... always a why in my mind.
Goodness, I loved reading this💜
Thank you, Jo.
Goodness, I loved reading this💜
That little girl goes on to live a happy life. The boots left behind make her know it was an accident, not suicide. I see her focusing on the bits of life that bring light, not darkness. Her glass is always half full. For her, catharsis is through laughter, not tears. I love it that Pollyanna turns up in a story about death and dying young.
Thank you for writing this. Beautiful, vivid, heartbreaking.
Thank you, Alice.
I read that story and thought about my cousin who hid a pregnancy and gave birth alone at home. It scared me when my mom told me that social services removed her from the care of my aunt. People walk around with ideas about life and how it’s supposed to be for everyone but sometimes there’s no other way to be. I thought about that boy and wondered if these kids just were not ready for life in a world where they weren’t wanted. They were afterthoughts and nobody knew how to give them purpose,not just punishment. This breaks my heart, but it’s very real.
Thank you, Cathi.
A similar debate rages over the death of an unhoused friend, Alex, who drowned in the ocean with pockets full of beach stones. Some say he killed himself; I say, knowing how Alex loved to dance on the rocks, that he slipped and fell and would not ever kill himself.
We can hope, right? I've been rewriting this story in my head. I'm going to add one little detail, I think.
Yes, no one knows for sure what makes a person do what they do beyond the limits and strains of their character. I hope your rewrite goes well.
I've been inspired to reconsider my own story about Alex, who once challenged me to a fight on the beach for publishing a negative essay on local loud-mouthed Christians. I liked Alex.
Tragically romantic. Kids tell the truth every time.
Thank you.
Ah, the boots. And this line: "I think of him getting closer and closer to the beginning of time." Beautiful. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Raza.
You called it short fiction, but how much of it is true? I don't want it to be true. I don't want you to have, in reality, lost so many of your sixth-grade classmates so young.
So much of my own life has been distorted, but I'm still alive. You make me feel grateful for that. Thousands of "second chances" that your characters or real friends never had.
There is truth in it. Many of my reservation peers died young.
This is a stunning--soul-searing--story. Hug your daughter ❤️
This is fiction. The narrator had a daughter. I have two sons in real life.