Part I
One year ago, I officially “retired” from education.
Over the span of a week in June of 2023, I said goodbye to friends and colleagues in Salt Lake City, hopped on a flight to Wisconsin, and walked into my current place of employment on 1600 Paramount Drive in Waukesha, WI to begin a career in communications and human resources.
Or…wait. Maybe it’s human relations?
People operations?
I think it depends upon the associated implications within one’s preferred nomenclature.
Search results differentiate these varied terms regarding the role I perform at Quintec Integration Inc., vacillating between the OG HR Manager who spends time compartmentalizing and categorizing employees and the newer, more progressive vibe, which is that of a cultural architect focused on strategic relationship-building between workers, managers, and executives.
To this point in my work-life, my experiences and interactions with HR have been quite limited—so much so that I didn’t know all that the role encompasses. Unfortunately, Toby from The Office was the most accessible public example of an HR manager I “knew,” and he’s hardly a character worthy of imitation. Based on that point of reference, I assumed I was in for a rather lonely and miserable experience. I’m happy to relay it hasn’t been that way at all.
Admittedly, I pursued this new occupation with trepidation, but 12 months later I feel like I’ve learned a lot about the automation and material handling industry I now work in, about supporting organizational growth, and my new colleagues. Importantly, I’ve also continued to learn more about myself.
Leaving academia created new challenges. For example, these days I need to discipline myself (for the first time in 20 years) to remain active with my reading and writing habits. Just because I’m no longer responsible for mentoring and teaching young people doesn’t mean my “life’s work” can be summarily discarded. One of the first undertakings I laid out for myself when I took my current job was to regularly engage with my (former) students and co-workers via a different platform—in this case, Substack.
I initially intended to highlight diverse topics of personal interest through blurbs of commentary. Similar to my classroom habits, I wanted to pose some thought-provoking questions; review books, TV shows, and movies; reflect on global events; explore popular culture, and more.
That model proved unsustainable.
First, I’ve never been one to stay in the shallow end of the topic pool. If there’s a glint at the bottom, I’m going to dive underneath the surface and find out what the fuck it is.
Secondly, much like I used to urge my pupils to do with their own writing, I hope to provide synthesis and analysis, cross-references, analogies, research, and real-life examples with the intention of distilling vague or difficult concepts into palatable and entertaining reflections.
Thus, three months into my resolution, I switched tactics and implemented a structure I loosely call “the five act essay.”
Given my propensity for changing my mind, who knows how much longer I’ll maintain this framework before making another adjustment. HOWEVER, one commitment I made back in June 2023 that I intend to keep was that I would double my output after a year of “practice,” and…well…here we are: July of 2024.
In the interest of full disclosure, the best aspect of this platform is that it remains a point of contact with so many people over the years who’ve captured both my heart and my abiding interest in their wellbeing.
Substack allows me to receive comments and feedback from former students like Chloe (shoutout to an all-timer!), who recently reminded me in an email exchange that my motivation for setting aside time to write can never be tethered solely to someone else’s valuation of it. The real appeal is discovered in the serotonin, dopamine, and oxytocin that I feel when I sit down to compose. Chloe’s message also encouraged me to shun worries, concerns, or fears about whether my writing will be liked, will reach a larger audience, or will make a difference in anyone’s day/week/life. She prompted me to pay attention not to how many people open an email or subscribe to my feed or hit the “like” button. Rather, I need to pay close attention to how I feel when I complete a post, and I suspect there are countless painters, musicians, poets, and sculptors who would validate her advice.
I also heard from another former student/ friend, recently, (everyone should check out Ryan’s latest musical efforts with Lotus Grove, a band he’s in with additional former students Ren and Tyler—y’all should have named the band something like AP3some) who told me he was happy to see that my posts are getting longer…!
What?!
I mean, come on—can a writer receive a nicer compliment?
As for best-laid plans, whether I can double my production is unknown. I spend a lot of time on this passion project already because it gives so much back to me in terms of personal satisfaction and maintaining vital connections. Minimally, I’ll increase my posts to twice a month; I just doubt that both will be longform.
Had I the type of iconic personality that drew people to my words and thoughts with such fervor that there’d be an uproar of gleeful exhilaration with the news of my increased online activity, maybe “announcements” like this wouldn’t be necessary.
Sadly, only Taylor Swift or Donald Trump seem to perpetually maintain such an ardent following, and upon the briefest reflection I wouldn’t want either of those crowds backing my play. One group may be too naïve and rudimentary, and the other is daft, fatuous, vapid, and potentially bat shit crazy.
Ultimately, I hope you enjoy what I’m trying to do, and I hope you’ll share my writing with others. That will always be the nicest compliment you can give.
A final note: I’ve been contemplating some changes and adjustments to my life and work. I’m in the exploratory stages of some ideas about how I can marry my old passions with my new passions, and I’ll be excited to share where this takes me when I have an end goal in mind.
Until I’ve gathered enough information, I’ll clamp up for a while, but you can trust that when I know what I know, you’ll be among those who will be first to know also.
Goddam but I can write some shitty sentences when I want to, right?! I’m prouder of that than anything else tbh.
Part II
I’d be remiss, and penalized several weeks of sleeping on the couch, if I didn’t mention another anniversary taking place this month.
Twenty-nine years ago, I married my high school sweetheart.
At the risk of over sharing, I’m going to include in this post an excerpt from my personal journal (something I rarely do) and one that reflects on my earliest interactions with Theresa. Not only might you gain insight into my thought process as a junior in HS, but you’ll also receive a brief introduction to late 1980’s/early 1990’s slang as spoken by white, middle class, American teenagers.
I’ve not sought permission from the titular character, so I could be in trouble for putting this out on the inter-webs for “all” to see.
I’m thinking I’ll have to aggressively edit and redact, but here goes…
…when Kim finally bypassed Susan’s unyielding tree trunks, she made eye contact with me and said, “Hey, Joe, I guess we’re sitting next to you.”
That’s when I noticed, for the first time, the other person who made it a “we.”
She was about 5’3 with ringlets of brunette hair, chocolate dipped eyes, and a smile that worked like a taser set on “kill ya.”
“What’s crackin’?” I asked.
It was important to sound casual and to not make eye contact. If the eyes are indeed windows to the soul, I didn’t want New Girl to see the brain scramble I was currently experiencing.
“Hi,” New Girl replied.
“You know each other, right?” Kim asked, as she worked her way past me and plopped herself down one seat away, leaving the chair next to me for New Girl to sit in.
“Uhhh…”
Here’s the thing. I knew who this girl was, but I’d never spoken with her, and here at this moment when all I had to do was say something as simple as “I don’t think we’ve met,” I was tongue tied and incapable of vocalizing anything other than the noises a farm animal would make in the same scenario.
You see, New Girl’s brother was a teammate of mine, so she’d shined around at a few basketball tournaments the previous winter. I’d also seen her at a couple of youth functions sponsored by various local church organizations.
Let’s just say, she was noticeable. She was the kind of girl who—and this had happened—elicits a nudge from your buddy on the bench as the game is being played without you in it.
You feel an elbow in your ribs, and you follow your teammate’s head nod and the direction of his gaze into the crowd.
He says, “Check out the choice betty in the third row. Far right. Brown hair. Blue V-neck. Got her?”
“Yeah.”
“Creamy, right?”
“I think that’s Jimmy’s sister.”
“How old you think she is?”
“I dunno, but yer trippin’ if you think you got a shot at that.”
“Dude…why you gotta wheeze my gig?”
“That’s a 10-6 swing, minimum. Yer four points behind already.”
“You buggin’. I’m at least an eight.”
“Pfft. Yer scale’s broke. You plain fugly.”
“I’ll get her digits after this. Watch.”
Except he didn’t. He didn’t even approach her after the game. Prepositions matter, and this was the type of girl you only talked about, not to.
There’s a monumental difference between peeing in a pool and peeing into a pool, and there was a monumental difference between talking to a girl like this and about a girl like this because talking to her meant getting shot down in front of all your teammates, in front of all the people in the gymnasium who were watching, in front of God and country.
So, back to Kim’s question: Did I know New Girl?
No. I knew of her.
“Yeah…we’ve met,” New Girl said, settling into the seat immediately to my left.
I stood there dumbstruck for a few beats before realizing I was the only person still standing. New Girl turned from whatever conversation she’d been having with Kim and asked me, “Planning to get a head start on the National Anthem?”
“Um, I…yeah. Wait, what?”
Was she talking to me?!
I scanned my immediate surroundings to make sure I was the person being addressed.
Now, in fairness, lest you think I lacked enough “game” to handle this situation, I was somewhat distracted at the moment.
For instance, the original reason that I was standing and skimming the crowd so carefully was tied to the calculations I was making for trading seats—specifically with the idea of finding a cute girl to flirt with for the duration of the boring baseball game.
Now, however, I was processing an entirely new and unanticipated turn of events. I now owned the best plot of real estate in the entire fucking stadium. I was in the process of transforming from Smeagol to Gollum; I’d gone from hunter to holder of “my precious” in the blink of an eye.
“Joe’s very patriotic.”
This from my friend, Dave, who may have been trying to save my ass.
“Clearly,” New Girl said.
I sat down and tried to think of something clever to say. I needed to be witty, whimsical, winsome. What quip could I deliver in that moment that would set the hook for the rest of the evening?!
New Girl seemed comfortable and self-confident, which was significant. It meant she was at the very least friendly, and if I played my cards right, she might even be interested in having a conversation with me.
Additionally, there was a good chance that New Girl was stuck sitting next to me for nine innings of baseball. This was a veritable lifetime on a teenager’s clock. Remember, this is before cell phones. No one was ignoring others around them to stare at a screen and Snap Chat their friends in other rows. We were either going to interact or completely ignore each other while watching the slowest sport in the world.
Whatever came out of my mouth next suddenly seemed paramount to the survival of the species. I could irrevocably screw things up, or I could score some early buckets and set a positive trajectory for the rest of the night.
I’d never struggled talking to girls before, but this felt different.
Other girls were just…girls. They were either my friends or friends of my friends who I knew I’d never see again or who didn’t interest me that much. New Girl, however, was fresh as fuck. She made my mouth dry.
This was unchartered territory; I was stepping out onto Saturn’s rings, here.
New Girl turned her attention back to Kim. They were laughing about something, but their dialogue was mere background noise as I burrowed into my own headspace. It was like listening to people having a conversation at the edge of the pool while you’re underwater.
Suddenly, I had my opener!
Innocent, tidy, and potentially prolific.
I waited for Kim and New Girl’s conversation to die down, and then, when the opening arrived, I gently leaned her way and said, “So, I hear you might be coming to our school.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“It’s around.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Then, she was distracted by Kim again, and continued her previous conversation.
Another kid I knew named Derek was sitting in front of me. He turned and said under his breath, “Nice.”
“What?”
“Smooth.”
“Bite me, hozer.”
“Excuse me?” said New Girl, assuming I was still talking to her.
“You heard me,” I said nonchalantly, taking the ultimate chance.
This was going to be it, or it wasn’t. Either she was someone who enjoyed the dry sarcasm of a nonchalant “bad boy” (the persona I was trying to forge back then) or she didn’t.
Theresa giggled at my reply, and I whispered my gratitude to the gods for the blessing they’d bestowed upon me.
We were married seven years later.
Infrequently, someone will discover that Theresa and I have been married since 1995, and they often express surprise. I like to think it’s because we look so young, but that’s not really the case anymore. My whitened whiskers and wrinkles have increased ten-fold over the last couple of years.
When people learn that we met in high school and started “going out” during my senior year, they inevitably ask us about how we’ve managed to accomplish a somewhat rare feat. The data is sketchy and unreliable, but googling the topic leads to a bunch of sources using the same statistic that claims less than 2% of married couples met in high school.
So, we’re outliers, which elicits many different questions like…
How/when did you know she was the one?
Did you ever take a break?
Did you attend the same college?
Is this the only person you dated?
And, of course, the most popular question: “What’s your secret?”
It’s to this inquiry that I will now turn my attention.
As a public service announcement to all the readers in those early stages of establishing serious relationships, here’s my list of “5 Secrets to Maintaining a Long Marriage/Relationship”
Recognize/celebrate each other’s gift(s).
Accept each other’s foibles.
Value each other’s dreams.
Spur each other’s growth.
Enjoy each other’s bodies.
If both partners are into this process, you’re golden.
I love you, Theresa, and thanks for saying “yes” all those years ago.
And…just in case you were too lazy to click the imbedded link, here’s the first track from Lotus Grove. Enjoy!
🩶me, you, and Jose Canseco for life …xo