Ben Bonkoske

I had some heroic explanation waiting for me. A squiggly smile. I was feeling awfully good for some reason. And I felt awfully bad today too. Really not on top of anything. You think you are past this. You walk around just a bit too wise, and then reap a nice sow of another nothing much kind of couple of years.

I got an email from a kid I student taught today. Didn’t really have the energy to write him back. He said he was sorry the job didn’t work out but knew I’d find a good school. He thanked me for what I did. Those kids were so great and I had the time of my life. I slept under the desk though. And thought I was best-dressed. Next thing you know, you throw out your whole closet by accident.

Here is the letter:

Hi Ben!

I hope you are doing well. It’s Conor, from your 8th-period English class last semester at ETHS. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed reading your book. Your writing style made connecting with the main character, Jack, feel so natural. I’m looking forward to reading any future books you write!

I know you weren’t able to find a continuing position at ETHS, but I hope that you were able to find another school that values your teaching just as much as I know our class did.

Best,
Conor

Here is what I just wrote back:

Hey Conor! 

Thank you so much! This means so much to me. I am finishing a collection of short stories and I will let you know when it is finished. Keep Reading. It will open a world of thought and understanding of human emotion that is a vital component for love, and world and inner peace. I hope that you continue to search for things that interest you. Find what you are looking for, not what everyone else thinks they’ve found. 

Be smart, prudent, and stay young at heart,

Mr. Bon

I just recall telling the guy who was in my corner at the ol’ castle, “Do you have any idea how many of my hopes and dreams have been crushed?” or shattered. When, you know, again, nothing works out. I don’t just sit in my pity party. I really really really really just try to figure stuff out. I just can’t always make sense of everything. It shouldn’t be my fault, and I feel blamed.

Perhaps a macabre example, but there was a holocaust survivor, a lawyer who lived through the holocaust. And being someone who studied law, and to see it, just so violated, he couldn’t make sense of the aftermath. He didn’t recover, mentally anyways. There always is some sense to be made, but explaining some things of that nature, is actually quite evil and gruesome, and definitely not to be understood by one person, and more so, can’t always be recompensed.

I think I bring about a certain kind of disgust. I think I bring about a certain kind of hope too. I was on the train talking with a couple of heroin addicts today. I told them they could beat this thing, even though, ya know. They were just people, on their way to the bag, and me on my way to God knows.

I miss just typing. I just miss typing so bad. In the memoir, in my, head, I wanted to tell a story about how in third grade we played Type to Learn 3. And I cried, because every time I was just about to get to the next level, we’d have to go back from the computer lab. My mom got me Type to Learn 3 from one of those Scholastic Magazines, and I got pretty far. But I still type with about three fingers. And now I write longhand? “Some girls fall in love with bad handwriting.” I once, wrote, or told myself so.