The ghosts gained substance

and marched back in

In the space of about 8 hours on a recent evening, several former students returned to my orbit in ways that could not have sprung from more different circumstances. I am left thinking hard about humanity.

Recently the Missoula Public Library held a celebration of poetry and specifically, of Montana Poet Laureate Chris La Tray. A enrolled member of the Little Shell Tribe of Chippewa Indians, Chris is not the first Indigenous Poet Laureate of Montana but certainly the first of his people in this state. As his friend I wanted to help provide an honor song for this celebration, so I unspooled some contacts to reach someone I used to call on for events like this in Arlee. The singing group of four is led by a father with his three sons. Two of the sons, twins, are my daughter’s age and I have known them since kindergarten. I also experienced the joy of teaching them and directing them in a play when they reached high school, so they were much on my mind as we entered the library for the celebration. Chatting with them and their dad, I learned about their employment and aspirations and their latest activities. We snapped a couple of photos. They remain as affable and polite as I remember, and the song they shared set the tone for the evening, both serious and uplifting.

Red Sand drum group. Twins first and third from left. I swiped this photo from the Missoula Public Library Instagram account.

That night, I was lying in bed about 2 am, enjoying my regular and involuntary habit of not sleeping, when I heard some horrifying, unrelenting screaming. I peered outside and saw nothing, but the screaming increased in volume and I could also now hear a male voice. I threw on my housecoat and slippers, grabbed my phone and went outside to investigate. A young woman, barely dressed, was seated on the sidewalk being berated and physically harassed by a man. I saw no one else around. I took her hand and led her to my house.¹ When I peeked outside five minutes later, cops were swarming.² Everyone on the Northside has my undying gratitude for also waking, calling the police, and giving statements. I will spare details as this is not a newspaper story but I do have to provide one more fact: this young woman, it turns out, is also a former student of mine. After I verified this the next day, I sent her a facebook message, certain she would not have recognized me (either).

But she did. I was astounded.

I share this pair of events because I often find the ways human pathways cross astonishing. We all have stories of how we met a person and the encounter seemed predestined; or how we circled around another person for years before finally making their acquaintance, certainly knowing them from afar. People you haven’t seen in years who suddenly reappear. Teachers, and I’m sure others whose lives intersect with a wide array of people, experience this in even more layers, as we meet siblings and parents of our students and sometimes, if we’re lucky, children of former students too.³

In high school, kids are…they’re kids, right? Adolescents with all their foibles and frustrations, and exasperated-me would often say after some kind of dumbassery, “I can’t wait to meet this kid again when he’s 25.” But you don’t know where they’ll be or what will have happened to them. Plenty of former students have married/have kids, some have finished graduate school, some are incarcerated. Some have passed away. Some have become traditional hand drum singers, and others live in my neighborhood, unbeknownst to me.

This pair of incidents with former students the other night made me feel like some kind of vector, a central point from which lines emanate like silken threads of a spider’s web.⁴ Diaphanous ghosts of people I used to know take shape in my peripheral vision, reminders of class projects and parent conferences, students who engaged in class and students who slept through class. Babies born, basketball tournaments, honor songs. Particularly when I have an opportunity to reconnect with the community where I lived for so long, these ghosts gain substance and sit beside me in my mind. And sometimes, on a night full of drama, they march back into my life for real.

1. it wasn’t really this simple, as he was circling and blocking and generally not letting up but I always never let a bunch of details derail a story.

2. I have never seen the police show up this quickly or quietly. Yay, cops.

3. This is actually a horrifying experience and I don’t recommend it because it makes you feel old as hell

4. Clearly I don’t know what a vector actually is.