Letters for Jones 4/2018

Happy 4/20!  It's not really a big deal here in Asia, as marijuana consumption is

much more of a fringe social behavior than a norm.  That being said, for some reason the

pond where we live attracts a mixed bag of locals and expats who congregate at the coffee

shop, drink coffee or beers, and pass around a never ending joint.  No pipes, but the tobacco

bong rises up and down from the floor with a regular pattern.  A listener knows when the

smoker is about to experience a monster head rush - the match strikes, the water

percolates slowly, drawing the smoke up the chamber, then the smoker tips the bong into

the horizontal position to forcefully clear the chamber with the sound of a wet whistle.  The

bongs gets laid down in the filthy sidewalk until the next grubby man scoops it up for a

quick fix.  I hear it all day long on the streets. Thanks my soon-to-be-wife for helping me

kick the lingering habit over the years.  

This day reminds me a most rebellious maneuver you lulled back in 2004, one in

which I'm hesitant to share with your folks, but in the theme of this letter, and with the

notion that any memory is a good memory, this one surely hasn't been shared with the

parental generation.  

It was Tuesday, April 20th, 2004, at 11:50 am in the north end of Boise, Idaho.  Our

severely underdeveloped brains had the idea to make full delinquent use of our off campus 
lunch - only 35 minutes long.  I don't remember exactly who joined me, but to my memory

is was Johnny and Pete, and one other.  We hopped in my little red Subaru and drove the

quick 5 minutes to North Junior High where we stopped and waited for you to mosey out

the North entrance door into our car, like we were a parent picking you up after school -

NBD!  North Junior High didn't have off campus lunch - or so the admin thought.  We drove

around the north end streets, eyes alert, peeled for any signs of a snitch who might give

away our delusion of stealth.  

We choked down a j and quickly dropped your ass back at the main entrance this

time - genius-  the THC further detracting from our already under developed decision

making abilities. I, personally was terrified of being a part of this rebellious endeavor and

being responsible for your potential consequences.  The risk was high, the consequences

higher.  Nonetheless, you managed to fire off a text mid-class to let us know all was well.  We

were so dumb!  Yet we had a lot of fun.  Mostly we were stoked to have pulled off another

stint.  

During your Jr. high days, your defiant, rebellious attitude could be summarized by three 
rules you identified, and somewhat followed, but only for the reaction of the implementation 
of the rules.  The rules were:

1. Different is bad
2. Don't worry about it
3. Don't do anything anyone else can do for you.  

One scene in particular is associated with you sharing these rules, and the setting is

your kitchen at the modern little breakfast table.  The sun is shining through the recessed

kitchen window overlooking the hot tub.  Your lovely mother is preparing a snack as you

recite your rules.  Shannon is somewhat amused but mostly appalled at your nonchalant yet

slightly offensive utterances. “Matthew!” She shouts, half questioning your words half

telling you to zip it.  It is morning on a spring or summer day and I lightly yet politely tease

Shannon about her tofu smoothies my parents always referred to when discussion

Shannon’s snacks.  You double down on the jab by affirming the strangeness of snack

choice, but with no room to talk.  You had no problem putting down a 300 cal Kirkland

chocolate weight loss shake chased with a pound of claussen dills on the side.  Pretty

different dude!

Your sister bounces back and forth from her messy room, always hosting a full faced

smile with her jaw dropped dropped at some ridiculous Jones expletive.  You and her laugh

the same.  Mouth open, neck forward, half glotal snort, half… different.  We fed her a lifetime

of shit every 10 seconds, just for her cute reaction, and all in love.  

After the snack we head outside for any assortment of games, pond exploration,

back forty fort building, or rolling on any form of wheels. I don't remember too much

indoor play at your house unless it was after dark playing video games or a wintery Sunday

watching football.  Amelia continues her occasional appearance, always sweet, always

independent, and always seeking justice from frequent unjust comments.  She still is all of

these things.  I don't like to project on what you would do or how you would feel in present

situations, but I know you would be proud of your sister for being different and standing up

for justice. She is working to reverse all the hate our ignorant teenage mouths put into the

world.  Not that it justifies our horrible mouths, but I hope she knows we did it all just for a

reaction, not because we actually believed it.  

Peace and love brother.  Stay up.

Jackson

Letter for Jones 3/2018

Hey bud,

I have 85 students spread out in 4 different subjects.  Any public High School teacher

would drool over having only 85 students.  This is over 6 periods too, so my average class

size is 13.  Most of my students are 9th and 10th graders.  Over half are Korean and most

Korean students are a year older than their North American, Vietnamese, and Russian

peers.  Given all this, most of my students are the same age as you when you left.

It isn’t easy for me to identify the impact that your passing has had on my

professional trajectory, but I know the two have deep roots that are intertwined.  At the

Colorado Outdoor Education Center, we frequently reflected on our past.  Why were we

there?  What drew us to be with kids?  At the beginning of every summer staff training, we

would sit on the hill, watch the sun creep high in the sky over Pikes Peak and share stories

about family, friends, community, and hardships.  In the four wonderful, memorable

summers I spent at camp, not one of those mornings on the hill did I share my story with 
dry eyes.  At least twice I remember referencing my time as a high school risk taker.  
I shared that I saw people miss opportunities, make poor choices, run with the wrong crew,

break the law, and break themselves.  Often we were involved in these behaviors together.

It made sense to use these experiences to justify my time with kids in the mountains,

showing them the real way to get high - hiking, pushing yourself physically and mentally,

making meaningful friendships, and having a shoulder to cry on when the going got tough.

I wanted to do everything in my power to show kids a healthy way to live a wholesome life,

because I didn’t want anyone to experience the long term pain of subtle self harm and the

sharp emotional stabs of losing a loved one to this trap.  We were in it together. I wish we

still were.  I want other kids to avoid wishing they still were too as they grow old.

Most Fridays I play soccer after school with the varsity soccer team.  It feels like a

celebrity shot in beer pong - I’m not the coach, I’m not on the team, I’m absent from practice

Monday-Thursday, but Friday afternoon I get to run and play with a grip of fit Korean boys.  

These times remind me of our epic backyard and pick up games growing up.  In the early

days, you and I and Johnny would play “De--Aw,” which was short for Defense-Offense, in

the narrow field next to the arboretum at Highlands Elementary.  One person would be

Steve Young, one was Jerry Rice, and another was Deion Sanders.  No one else in the NFL

mattered to us.  Niners or bust. Thanks Dads!  We played backyard football until the last

days at Boise High.  We played at everyone's house.  Particularly yours, but also Johnny’s.

We played at schools, parks, and in cul-de-sacs.  It was always heated and pretty evenly

matched.  The glory days of youth sports - no parents, no refs.  Just bros. I have a vivid

memory of you making an epic hail mary catch in the fall leaves on a Sunday evening in the

small field surrounded by the parking lot lined with trees at Highlands.  Just like Jerry. His

signed Jersey hung on your wall forever.  

We used to shoot hoops in your long driveway on Park Hill.  We would lower the rim

enough to dunk, but soon enough we bent the rim so much it wasn’t as fun to play real ball.

We shot hoops and Johnny’s, Reid’s, Pete's, my house.  You and I were never the all-stars,

but we still played.  At one point we were playing at Pete’s, I beat you to the hoop, and you

pushed me into the post and sent me to the hospital for a half dozen stitches on my knee.

That injury contributed to my decision to quit playing competitive soccer and start the

Sunset Boys - 3 seasons of unadulterated fun.  We played frisbee and basketball for warm

ups.  We had loads of fun squashing less fortunate teams.  All in all, we had maximum

teenage fun disgracing the game.  The only thing I regret is not playing quite hard enough to

ever take home the gold.  For you however, I imagine beating Timberline in the final for 3

years straight wasn’t your prerogative for being a sunset boy.  

Playing with these High School boys at St. Paul reminds me of our formative  years of

healthy competition.  You and your folks’ back 40 were instrumental in the development of 
our sporting days.  So much sweat, so many swear words, so much stamina to make us

stronger.  I miss the innocence of pick-up, backyard sports with the boys.  I get to feel a

tinge of this every Friday as I step on the pitch to release from a week in the classroom.  

Talk soon bro,

JB

Letters for Jones 2/2018

26/2/2018

Hey there brother,

My Fiance, Molly, and I moved to Vietnam 7 months ago to pursue a long time goal of living in another country.  Before we moved I started writing a blog with the idea of sharing my traveling adventures with my friends and family with an introspective twist.  I mentioned this to a Venezuelan Entrepreneur on the bus to take my under-the-table motorbike license test (which I failed, but they gave to me anyway) and he said, “kind of like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance?”  I replied yes. My writing passions are changing though. I still want to update my friends and family, but recently I have begun questioning my writing platform. I am engaged in so many amazing and new experiences as a first year teacher in an east asian country.  With a flood of new ideas inspired by a slight shift in my lifestyle, I desire to make more meaning out of this experience than only occasionally updating a travelogue. I kept telling Molly how I want to synthesize my experiences and make connections between my experiences: the conversations I have with locals and travelers, memoires and historical texts I’ve read, meetings with monks, time touring temples, teaching predominantly Asian students, focus on whole body health, and navigating city life.  A synthesis isn’t the endpoint - it is like mindfulness, a constant process of focusing and refocusing depending on what is most important in the moment. Finding greater meaning out of these isolated experiences, for me, can only be aided and guided by writing.

I’m not sure if you remember this, but I have been writing in a journal regularly since 1998.  In 5th grade I mostly wrote about girls. Ashley Zimmerman and Sarah Park had frequent appearances and my love for you, Johnny, Jeff Ball, and Grant made nearly every page.  I still write regularly, but I think the topics are a little more real and adult. Who knows, in the next twenty years with a teenager or two pushing my parental boundaries I may look back on today's entries as naive and young too.  For many years after your passing I titled most of my entries to you. I wrote to you as if you were reading them. I pretended you had access to my thoughts, emotions, and successes because I knew you wouldn’t judge me from your current place.  For whatever reasons, my entries to you became less frequent. These days I only write to you when you make the now infrequent appearance in my dreams. But when you do, it is always vivid, special, and very personal. We talk. You are aware you are no longer with us, but you are peaceful.  

So last week Molly and I were walking down River Road in Siem Reap, Cambodia. We had been discussing a potential writing platform other than the blog.  She suggested a mini-series titled “Letters for Jones” and I immediately liked the idea. Writing to you brings me back to the days of writing to you in my journal.  It brings back strong memories of you and of you and I together. Before we went to Cambodia, we were with Molly’s parents in Central Vietnam exploring the amazing historic town of Hoi An by bicycle, foot, and basket boat.  During our time there, however, Chuck’s brother, Molly’s uncle Steve, passed away after a long battle with cancer. We were all somber for the better part of a day, but Chuck shared an important insight. Our culture isn’t comfortable talking about death unless it is a recent event.  Chuck wanted to turn this idea upside down and share story after story about uncle Steve and his encounters with Mexican red wolves deep in the dessert, his race fiascos from many famous marathons, and his dedication to his family and spirituality. The sadness was numbed by good memories and the laughs produced by sharing them.

After Mol suggested the “Letters for Jones” idea, I thought back to the previous week surrounding our family story time with Molly's parents.  “Letters for Jones” also seemed like the perfect remedy for something your sister shared with me last time we met in Boise two winters ago; she was afraid people were forgetting about you.  I want to remind your family that I have not forgotten about you and I think of you often. The letters are meant to connect my current experiences to memories of our interconnected upbringing.  I hope you and your family enjoy the updates of my current situation and the memories they provoke of our wonderful childhood and adolescence together.

All my peace and all my love to you brother.  Tears bring happiness to my memories of you.

J