We Can Be Zeros Just For One Day
Mr. Sweet, my high school English teacher, has long been a subject of reverence. Not only did he impart his welcome dogma throughout freshman year, but he also additionally oversaw a dozen literati for senior year AP English. We were required to read four novels the summer prior to his class for academic elites—Slaughterhouse-Five, The Stranger, Sula, and Richard Ford’s Independence Day (one of his favorite novels)—and write (at minimum) ten-page papers about each of them. It seemed daunting but my unwavering respect for Sweet reinforced my belief that he was a learned man who knew the best methodology to prepare our pubescent minds for future textual scrutiny, a hallmark of Real World day-to-day functioning.
Class consisted of roundtable discussions about short stories, literary theory, plays, occasional film screenings (he showed us a terrible TV movie version of The Elephant Man yet only a snippet of David Lynch’s superior feature), and writing at least one monthly paper that had to be read aloud then subjected to peer feedback. All the papers I wrote for AP English, including a slapdash critique of Hamlet that earned a withering C-plus, remain chronologically stored in a three-ring binder near where I’m typing this essay. Perusing his handwritten notes every five-ish years has yielded a mixture of wincing and admiration for his commitment to logic, sound analysis, and general unwillingness to hand out an A sans a minus.
Sweet coined Moore’s imaginary middle name (“You look more like a Wayne than a Patrick”), chided my pal Josh for his dabbling with pretentiousness, and could be occasionally seen mock dancing to cassette tapes he played in between classes (I vividly remember entering the room while he sang along to Little Feat deep cuts). There are a handful of beloved high school pedagogues Moore, Josh, and I have chewed the fat about in the twenty-one years since graduating; nobody has arisen in conversation more often, in part because they both also saw him each day for four years as their homeroom teacher. It certainly helps explain why he tended to be friendliest to me.
He comes to mind during anecdotal excursions. On occasions I listen to Wilco I think of Sweet, the man who once raved that I’d love their early output’s sonic similarities to my beloved classic rock bands. Whenever 1984is bandied about as a pop culture touchstone, I recall reading it in the early stages of fresh(wo)men English. Sweet could be snarky with more than a hint of scathing, occasionally exhibiting his dickishness to loud or less motivated students in excess of what the moment may have required. I endorsed it—cynicism and I were sickeningly tight bedfellows back then—unaware that he would be the man responsible for giving me an English Achievement acknowledgment during the senior year awards ceremony. Upon returning to the Annex to converse in June 2002, he thanked me for never referencing 9/11 as if it had any direct impact on my life. He let his guard down a bit more than usual, trading opinions and laughs until he had to depart for a doctor’s appointment.
Having intuited from my early obsessions with reading and writing coupled with the knowledge that my great uncle got paid to share his opinions about sports, it was clear as a teen that one of my few long-term goals concerned publishing a book. Sweet helped fuel my desire and now I wanted to send him the evidence. Despite mulling the pursuit of his address whenever inevitably failing to find him online, the idea routinely got abandoned. After visiting Moore last week—featuring a fresh round of teacher reminiscences—I looked up another English teacher who I loved, inquired about Sweet, and sadly learned he “was not a fan of the internet,” keeping to himself upon moving south years ago.
Finally willing to accept the challenge, I contacted a friend whose sister currently teaches in town, forgetting that his father-in-law also taught with Sweet for decades. Upon gaining access to Sweet’s brother’s email address, I sent him the following note (in part): “He remains my favorite teacher I ever had, and I was hoping to get in touch with him. Would it be possible that you could share his address with me? Hope this email finds you well. Happy Holidays!”
If it were to generate a reply, it wasn’t likely to arrive until 2023. Surprise! Twelve hours later Karl updated the email thread: “My brother has never been too interested in written or phone communication and he does not use email and texting. I asked if he was interested in contact with you and he said no. Sorry I couldn't help you.”
Sweet may have been a curmudgeon a generation ago, but now I envisioned a bitter, uncompromising asshole. He’d remarried and headed to South Carolina hoping to write the novel he’d talked about not having the time to complete while teaching. According to my searches on Amazon and Barnes & Noble’s website, he still hasn’t moved beyond the draft stage. Then again, this was a man who also once read three or four books per week, keeping a master list on a legal pad. Was he unable to trade one preoccupation for another? It’s fair to reason that Karl shared my mercifully brief words fully expecting his sibling’s inevitable response.
“Harrison Who? Oh, that fuckin’ clown? You tell that cocksucker he can eat my ass until he chokes on my shit.” Or so I assume that’s what he tapped back in Morse code.
I’ve long agreed with the sentiment that one shouldn’t elect to meet his heroes, but this is different. I knew this man. There’s no way he lost his mind or else Karl would’ve elaborated. Right? Sweet heard my name and defaulted to his misanthropic worst, foreseeing a post office trip that would inconvenience his seventy-five-ish-year-old contented misery. Perhaps I’ll be capable of channeling that same headspace one day. I loved the guy too much to allow this letdown to ruin him for me. However, since he’ll never know how I feel nor what I write, the ideal form of payback for a hermit who gives zero fucks about you is to post his picture on the Internet. May you live in electronic glory forever, ya grumpy old antagonist. Thanks for your final evaluation.
Grade for his response? B-plus.