I’m sorting through a plastic bag filled with old papers, booklets, brochures, newspaper clippings, and photos. My eyes are watering, not because anything is sentimental, but because it’s so dusty.
This is a bag of Malcolm’s Greatest Hits according to my mom. She saves everything. EVERYTHING! She’s not a hoarder, but when it comes to family, all achievements must be preserved. As she’s aging, I’m trying to sort out her stuff and help her get rid of things.
At first pass through the bag, I look like a superstar. There are letters and certificates of accomplishment from kindergarten through my time in the Navy. I have clippings of articles I wrote for The Talking Stick base newspaper all the way through the ones I did for Men’s Fitness magazine in 2010. My mom was lucky to have me as a son!
Then I look at report cards. From kindergarten all the way through high school, I excelled at very few things. I was average or slightly below in most. For some, math and science, I was below average or failed. Most teachers comment on how I don’t apply myself. I keep to myself and don’t participate in class discussions.
The teachers in my early grades seem sympathetic and encouraging. As I get into middle school, that shifts. I’m not applying myself. High school, and I attend a college prep high school, my highest grades are in PE and English. My final transcript shows me graduating fourth in my high school class.
Fourth from the bottom. An unremarkable start to life.
At that moment, I decide to take a break from the project to clear my sinuses. I walk past a bookshelf that contains a copy of every book I’ve written. There’s a bunch of them. None are best sellers. I rarely sell any. My last book, The Reboot, sold a whopping three copies, and two of them were purchased by me. I wrote books at first because I thought I had something important to say. Then I wrote more because my competitors all had books too. Some of my books are compilations. Most with colleagues and one with my oldest daughter Krystal. Most recently I’ve published my weekly blogs. A blog I’ve kept since 2008.
Writing, until I rediscovered my passion for art, keeps me sane. Telling stories on paper has morphed into telling them for business and I’m pretty good at it. More along the lines of the non-academic achievements of Malcolm’s Greatest Hits. Digging through this bag reveals some clues on how this one thing I’m good at, has become that thing.
My first clue is a handwritten paper from fifth grade. It’s written in cursive blue ink. The “I-Miss-The-Good-Old-Days-Get-Off-My-Lawn” crowd says kids today can’t read something if you write it in cursive. Bullshit. I learned how to write cursive, and I can barely read MY OWN writing.
The paper is a story entitled, The Magic Mushroom. I think it’s a cute story. I recognize my voice, and I still write this way.
But this paper has a lot of red ink on it too. And yet, I got an A-.
I read the red-inked feedback:
“What an action-packed adventure! Excellent vocabulary. Malcolm, you just have to obey dull grammar rules then I would like to have an autographed copy of your first best seller.”
There are lots of little scratch-outs and red replacements but along the left margin, she writes,
“Do you want to make this into a book?”
I don’t remember writing this paper. I honestly can’t remember my fifth-grade teacher’s name from 1975. Fortunately, mom KEEPS EVERYTHING, so I root through the bag and find my fifth-grade class picture and there she is. Mrs. Wilson. You can view a copy of that paper HERE.
Mrs. Wilson
I have few memories of her. After Christmas vacation that year, I went to a different school to finish elementary and middle school.
My second clue is a paper from my senior year, creative writing course. The assignment was to write a modern-day version of Dante’s Devine Comedy. I took lots of creative license with it and my teacher, Mrs. Riojas loved it. She loved all my work and often read my stuff out loud in front of the class. Her class is the lone highlight of my senior year. And the highest grade I get.
I close the bag, vowing to tackle it again soon.
Walking past the bookshelf again, I start thinking back to other clues.
It’s 1985 and I’m in a creative writing course with Dr. Emma Broussard. It’s through the University of Maryland and part of a moderate load of classes I’m doing in off-duty hours while stationed in Australia.
So far, it’s my favorite college class and the one I’m doing best in. Dr. Broussard is very encouraging, and my creativity is unleashed. Maybe some of its dark side too.
For a narrative paper, I take her on a journey down Broadway Street in San Diego, telling her about a typical night around the strip joints and tattoo parlors.
Another assignment takes us into the head of a man who is about to die in the electric chair and feels no remorse. She especially likes that one.
After getting an “A” in her class, I volunteer to write articles for the base newspaper, The Talking Stick. I do a three-part series on typhoons, including interviewing a local woman who survived Cyclone Tracy back in the 1970s. People like my writing.
I become a fan of Stephen King and dream about writing my own novel.
Then life reemerges. I go through a divorce and remarriage. School becomes a priority, including graduate school. Now I’m writing again. A lot. It’s not fun writing either. Essays with proper citations are boring. Sort of like Mrs. Wilson’s “dull grammar rules.” I’m also writing a lot in my Navy career. My boss has me write myself up for an award from him. Soon, he uses my write-up, with some modifications, as he “writes up” awards for others.
Then I take a class with Molly Gibbs. It’s one of the last ones in my graduate program. It’s a class on personal mastery and requires us to journal and do a lot of reflections. That’s the kind of writing I miss. Molly enjoys my writing and always gives me encouraging feedback. My final assignment was typical of Molly: create something that reflects what you learned in the class.
I write a poem. It’s more Dr. Suess than Longfellow, but it aptly sums me up in 1998, right before leaving the Navy. You can read it HERE.
From that point, writing becomes a vital part of my career. I write professional articles, magazine articles, online articles, essays, course curriculum, and of course multiple books.
How did I go from bottom of the class to a writer and storyteller? It was multiple pushes from various people through the years. It was Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Riojas and Emma Broussard and Greg Nelson and Molly Gibbs. None of them know each other. But they are all part of my journey. Each one came alongside me and gave just enough encouragement to keep me moving forward. None singularly changed my life, but all together, in this magic sequence, were a chain of people that brought me to today.
We all need people like Mrs. Wilson in our life. I think we all have them. If you don’t think so, you’re not looking hard enough.
More importantly though, we need to BE people like Mrs. Wilson in the lives of those around us. If you want to leave a legacy, there’s no better legacy than a living one.
Think about it this week.