Another poignant post, but not a downer like the last one. However, the last post actually generated two comments on Facebook, something that surprises me (I wasn’t aware that people – other than my family that is – were actually reading the blog), but am incredibly and greatly appreciative of the responses. Thank you to all who read my blog, and especially to those who responded.

I’m sitting here in Chicago, on the eve of my last full day in my home town Wilmette, IL. Let me write this introduction to Wilmette for the benefit of my college friends, who have heard me only briefly mention my town, or the North Shore of Chicago.

Wilmette is a suburb. It is a village (hence the name, “Village of Wilmette”)! It is not a city. It is not a “college town”. And it does not have the glamour or the sex appeal of an extravagant night life. What it does have is safe streets. A rich, green neighborhood filled with trees that are decades and centuries old. Large houses with (generally) spacious yards, and lots of kids to fill those yards with soccer balls and sand pits and every sign of a well-played childhood.

This following paragraph is a vision that I described in 2012, the day before I left for college: “Earlier this afternoon, I found myself on the homestretch of my final neighborhood stroll, when I was struck by the beauty of our North Shore haven. I saw the hazy golden glow of a sinking, late summer sun. In between the rays of sunlight, I saw the strong and distinguished shadows casting themselves over lush, green lawns. I saw sprinklers running in neighbor’s front yards, flinging droplets in every direction. I saw the grand oak trees lining the sidewalk from end to end, quietly watching over the block. I saw children running around, and could hear their giggles and screams as they chased each other. I saw a son and father playing catch. I could hear the dull roar of cicadas in the background. And each time I turned my head, and my gaze fell on something new, I saw memories; years of summer block parties and water balloon wars, nights of cops and robbers and warm chili on a friend’s porch on cold Halloween nights. In short, I saw what I have always known (and now with leaving for college tomorrow, realize that I will always know) as home. No matter where I or my family go, no matter what I do, I know that I can always come back here, and know, just know, that I am home.” I have a new description, and I will save it for the end of this post.

First I want to reflect on the course of my travels this summer. I have traveled to four cities in the last five and a half weeks. That’s not a bad haul. I have traveled along the Pacific Northwest by train and enjoyed the very best scenery the Northwest US has. Perhaps most importantly, I have traveled all on my own. That is not to say I haven’t had help along the way. I would like to acknowledge and thank my aunt (my mom’s sister) and uncle for letting me stay at their house in Seattle for two weeks. I would like to acknowledge and thank my friend Rebekka from University of Redlands and her family for letting me stay at their house near San Francisco, and I would like to acknowledge and thank our family friends the Matthews here in Chicago gracious enough to host me for the last week of my traveling.

At the end of the day however, I did this on my own. I’m the one who made it happen, from fantasizing about the idea in summer 2013 to budgeting for it to living it. My time in Seattle was glamorous. I got to sight-see, I got to write, I got to travel and I got to sleep in. Most importantly though, from that trip, I got to see my extended family. Maybe it’s because I don’t get to see them very often, but I am always so, SO excited to see them. They’re funny, they’re crazy, and together they make me laugh. I eagerly anticipate the next time we can all get together and create even more crazy memories.

The time spent in Portland was not quite so glamorous. It’s where I was completely on my own, no friendly faces at night, and was also stuck doing things like shipping packages and doing laundry. I do not wish to give a poor impression of my experience in the city however. Powell’s Book Store was amazing. As a writer, it was truly inspiring to walk into that book store. As an outdoorsman, I fell in love with Washington City Park, and almost started drooling at the sheer size of the arboretum and the unbelievable beauty of the Rose Garden. There’s still more of that park to explore, next time I go back.

San Francisco was when I started settling down a bit. I had hoped to see more friends than I got to, but ultimately catching up with two of my closest college friends one last time before studying abroad was simple, and all that I needed. I got to traverse the Golden Gate Bridge several times, and I made my way down to the PRIDE celebrations – and experience some true heart of the history for the LGBTQ movement. The trip ended on a soul-searching note for me, with a second viewing of the movie Prayers for Bobby, and a visit to Bobby’s grave the last day of my stay.

Finally… Chicago. Home sweet home. (Kind of). After I got picked up at O’Hare airport last Tuesday, as I stared at the street signs, they gradually became more and more familiar, and when I finally recognized the last few blocks to my home town, I started smiling… At something as basic as a street sign. I didn’t realize it right away, but it occurred to me later, this is the first time I’ve been in Wilmette during the summer since I wrote that Facebook post. Two years ago by about a month.
What has ensued in my visit since arriving: relaxation (taking no effort to sight-see… done that enough times as it is), family friends running into me on my way over to the annual July 3rd fireworks (not me running into them), seeing one of my absolute longest friends of all time (“known” each other since before we were born), walking by my Eagle project numerous times, including meeting up with the prairie expert I had worked with again and just in general taking deep breaths and enjoying being back again.

Amidst all this past-exploring that I’ve done however, I have noticed one thing in particular: that I am drawn to the 1400 block of Forest Avenue, where I grew up. It was the first place I walked to, last Wednesday morning, and I have kept wandering over there every day. The renovations on my house (being done by the contractor who bought it from us) are complete, and now there’s a Mississippi (oh… SO close to being ironic) family with two small children renting out the house. As I have walked down this street numerous times for the first summer in years, here is what I have noticed:

The lawns are just as green and lush as they were the summer I left. Parents are still bustling in and out of their houses, running errands, dropping off kids, living the busy life as a parent in the North Shore. The kids, while still running around, are growing up. Just as I grew up on that block once. But the difference is this is no longer my block. It is theirs now. With their memories being created and shaped. New houses are put up, or houses are being renovated and sold. Different families live there… new friendships are being made. After so many years of children playing and running around the neighborhood (at least 2 decades) I see the change of an era coming, of older families staying put, growing comfortable, and kids growing out of elementary and middle school and into junior high and high school. A different block. A new block. And yet… I still see my home here. I look around and I still see the phantom traces of kids playing cops and robbers all over the yards. I see the remnants of a neighborhood that got decked out for Halloween. I see, essentially, the memory of what I knew as home. I still see this as home because a small sliver of my heart will always stay behind. And home is always where the heart is.

I apologize in advance: this is not an uplifting or cheerful post. Please read only at your discretion.

In our daily lives, we have grown accustomed to burying ourselves in superficial matters: work issues, homework assignments, that dentist appointment next Tuesday, the strange rattling sound in the car, buying snacks for the upcoming soccer game, etc. But every once in a long while, the dust seems to settle, and in that moment, we either hear a song or a story, or maybe witness an action that stirs us, and connects us to something primal. Emotion.

Now, I’m not talking about the kind of emotion you feel when your kid scores a goal at that soccer game (pride, hopefully), or learning that the rattling in your car means a new car would be cheaper than fixing all the problems (crushing disappointment)… not that those emotions aren’t important. No, I’m talking about the kind of feeling that reaches to the deepest center of your core as a human being, that lets you know you’re alive, that more often than not wrenches your heart painfully in some direction (sadness or longing, etc.). In this moment, when the confusion and the chaos of our daily lives settle, and we allow ourselves to truly listen or see, when the deepest parts of us are stirred to feel profound emotion, it is that moment that I believe we communicate with our souls. A whisper to the soul, so to speak.

These moments, while rare, often resonate so powerfully within us, that we’re inspired to do great things as a consequence. Sometimes it resonates within us on a personal level, and moves us to do something like forgive someone for who we thought had done something unforgivable at one time. Other times it stirs in us emotion so powerful it resonates with us on a large scale (community, country or even sometimes the world) and it moves us to make a difference. And not just any difference, but the kind of difference that matters. The kind of difference that changes people’s lives. The kind of difference that permanently alters the course of history.

Bobby Griffith. At 20 years old, he was traveling on his own, he was someone who loved the outdoors, and he was an aspiring writer. He aimed to write novels one day. Does that sound familiar? At 20 years old, about 2 months after his birthday, he killed himself. Why? Because he was gay. And the one thing that he wanted most in the world, that he wanted so much more than anything else, was the one thing he would never be able to achieve while alive. He wanted his mother to love him, and accept him for who he was.

I first heard this story October of my freshman year in college. I just recently learned the other day that one of my closest friends at Redlands was actually the one responsible for showing that movie to the PRIDE club, which I am sure is a moment that changed the course of my life forever. It is also the first movie ever (and maybe the only one ever) to move me to shed tears. As I like to tell my friends, when it comes to movies, I have a heart of stone. It’s always just a movie to me, I don’t care enough about fictional characters to cry for them. But this movie… maybe because it’s about a real teenage boy, maybe it’s because I see so much of myself in him, but somehow it gets past that stone wall surrounding my heart. The movie is called Prayers for Bobby, and you can find it for free on Youtube. If you have a thick emotional skin for movies, I highly recommend it. What makes it so moving is not that it’s a story about a 20 year old boy killing himself, but that it’s a story about a mom, who was a Presbyterian conservative, learning to love and accept that which she couldn’t before her son’s death, and becoming a national figure to support those who are in the same situation that her son was in: being gay with an unaccepting family or parents.

I watched this movie for a second time Sunday night, after I got back from the San Francisco PRIDE celebrations. I watched it, because I wanted to re-live as much as I could about Bobby’s life. Monday, I went to Oakmont Memorial Park. Up in the highest part of the park, in the Garden of Peace, I finally found Bobby’s tombstone. I have attached one of the pictures that I took of it. As you can see, someone recently visited leaving fresh flowers for him, perhaps on his birthday about a week before, and the actual stone has a scene of the wilderness decorated on it. At the bottom, it reads “See You Later.”

Being able to sit down for about 15 minutes, and just know that someone so similar to me was right there, someone who had had so many of the same kinds of feelings was right there. It was a poignant moment to be sure. As strange as it sounds, I even had a conversation with him while I sat there in front of his marker, but what we talked about will stay between us.

That night was perhaps one of the hardest I’ve ever had to fight through. Still battling a bout of homesickness from the day before, learning that there had been several shootings at the PRIDE celebration within two hours after leaving it and now facing these emotional upheavals… I read articles about the Supreme Court’s conservative rulings regarding corporations and religion, and about GOP 2016 Presidential candidates looking to reach out towards Evangelical Christians as an “increasingly vilified group” in America (which I have to admit, is definitely true) it felt like I was up against an insurmountable wall of hatred. And I wondered, to what depth did Bobby’s despair reach at the moment he decided to take his own life. What was the last thing he thought of as he fell onto the highway in front of that semi-truck? Was it that his mother had told him that she would rather have no son than a gay one?

Anyway, as I lay there wondering how hopeless he had felt, what kind of future the world had in store for us, and whether or not I was over staying my welcome by that point at my friend’s house, I realized that anyone who identifies with this group of people… yes, it helps to have family and friends who support you, even if they don’t understand what it is you go through, but ultimately, they can’t understand. We are on our own, as is every other group (races, etc.) that faces any sort of oppression and hatred in this country. It is in the very air that we breathe.

To wrap this up, I don’t want to leave on a downer note. Like I said at the beginning, sometimes we hear a story, or we hear a song that seems to reach to our inner cores, and it inspires us to act. I have wondered, if I maybe have a little bit of Bobby’s spirit in me, and that’s why it feels like a part of me is trying to rip itself out whenever I watch the movie or see the story: it’s a part that’s trying to go back to its original home, but can’t. I know I won’t get the chance to meet or get to know Bobby. But as his own mother said, there must be other Bobbys out there. I know there are others out there. I want to change the world for them; I want to make it a better place.

I also want to comment, this kind of opportunity, where I give other people a glimpse into my soul does not come often at all. I am perhaps one of the most carefully guarded people that I know, mostly because I don’t like to talk about myself with others. This jokingly came up several times at Philmont last summer, but it’s very true. Somehow, either through luck or through skill (most likely a little of both), I am quite adept at avoiding answering questions. The take home message of this comment is, read this post, but don’t bug me about it. I won’t talk. Not to friends, not to family. I am offering a free glimpse into my hopes and dreams, the worries that keep me up at night, and what inspires me to move forward. Please, do not ask for more than that.

Anyway, every day I think about the future, and making it better, and I hope that whether it’s sitting around a campfire, or hiking together up to a peak that maybe in one such moment I might get to whisper to other kids’ souls, and give them their own magical moment… that I might get to make a profound, positive difference BEFORE it’s too late, and continue to keep Bobby’s memory alive, so that other kids won’t have to make the same choice he did.

See You Later.

Joe