The Petition (Part 10: Epilogue and Life Lessons)

Blogger's Note: And so it ends. I've decided to finish this tale once and for all tonight, rather than waiting until tomorrow; I fear my work day will get too busy, and I won't be able to wrap it all up in a neat little Friday bow. And wrap it up I must. It's time.

I have been touched and amazed by the number of people who have reached out to me in blog comments, emails and Facebook messages since I began writing this series. It seems to have hit close to home for many of you. Thank you for your feedback, which makes the grueling exercise of unearthing decades-old memories all the more worthwhile.

Some have suggested I turn this into something bigger -- a novel, a screenplay, or what have you. To that I say, bring it on. You're more than welcome to forward my story to any agent/producer types who may want to help me develop it. Lord knows I could use the career advancement, and I'll even give you a cut.

Apropos of that, I must give a special shout-out to my boss, Lisa. It's not every boss who would read this blog -- a blog I've been writing during work hours and on which I regularly rant about my "hideous day job" -- and tell me she can't wait to find out what happens next. Thank you, girl.

And now, finally, the conclusion:

Mr. Stubick and I ultimately did have our face-to-face sit-down to discuss the newspaper, though face-to-face would be an inaccurate way to describe it. It took place in his classroom during one of the last weeks of school. There was absolutely no point to the meeting, as I'd be graduating before any more issues of "The Tower" came out. But I think neither I nor Stubick felt we could back out.

I brought Rebecca with me for moral support. In Stubick's corner was Brian Kettenring, a very sweet junior who had become the paper's editor.

"OK, guys," said Brian after the four of us had taken our seats. "Why don't you give us your suggestions for how we can make the paper stronger?"

We rattled off some ideas. Brian nodded cheerfully. As for Stubick, he didn't say a word for the entire meeting. Instead, he kept his face buried in a notebook, scribbling furiously. I wouldn't be surprised if all he wrote was "Die, you little piece of shit!," or something to that effect, over and over again.

And that was that. I never saw or spoke to Mr. Stubick again.

Nearly a decade later, when I was living in Brooklyn, I ran into Juliet Martin inside the F Subway station. Juliet had been "The Tower's" first editor and had graduated the year before me, before any of the petition business began. We rode the subway into Manhattan together, reminiscing and catching up on each other's post-high school lives. But I couldn't let her go without asking her a question.

"Just tell me this," I said. "Was Stubick the Unknown Sophomore?"

"Of course he was," she replied.

So that was one question answered.

Here are some that never were:

Was there an actual edict issued against my winning those Awards of Excellence? And if so, was Mr. Stubick behind it? Or was it Dr. Geddes? Or some combination of the two? Or somebody else altogether? Or did I simply not win because I didn't win? Because other students were honestly and sincerely deemed more worthy? Or were? Or because the very nature of awards is that they are subjective and arbitrary?

Did my not winning those awards have any impact on my not getting into Brown? Could there have been even darker forces at work, say a well-placed call to the right person that this kid's a bad egg and you don't want him at your school? Or was it simply the fact that I was not a particularly extraordinary candidate in the eyes of Brown's admissions officers? That I was one of thousands of white, Jewish males from North Jersey with a high class ranking, a lot of extracurriculars and respectable -- but not spectacular -- SAT scores who applied to Brown that year? And that that just wasn't enough to put me over the top at one of the most competitive universities in the country?

Does it even matter? Really? Given that I did get accepted to Northwestern and Michigan, ultimately choosing Michigan and enjoying four of the most exciting, enriching, rewarding years of my life in Ann Arbor?

No. None of it matters. Shit happens. Or it doesn't. You can't live your life wondering what might have been.

And the fact that I eventually learned that is what does matter. That, and a few other things:

1) When two sides go to war, the one with more power will usually win.

2) Choose your battles very carefully. (See No. 1.)

3) Revenge is never a noble objective.

And in the final analysis, that's what I was after with my petition: Revenge. I may have dressed it up as righteous indignation and a desire to benefit the greater good; but at the core, everything I did was meant to shame and embarrass Mr. Stubick after I felt he had wronged me. And if I suffered because of my actions, I deserved to suffer.

"I admire your activism," Mr. Akey had told me, "but not the way you've gone about this."

Indeed.

I never told anyone this story after high school. But I did once attempt a poem about it for a college writing class. I can recall the opening lines:

"If a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, then what are the implications of a little power/Especially when coupled with a little mind?"

My instructor hated it. He said it was whiny and self-serving.

Indeed.

Before I began this series of recollections, I did a little Internet research on Mr. Stubick. He has written several more novels in the last 20 years, one of which was recently made into a film starring two of Hollywood's biggest young stars. And he is still teaching public school in New Jersey.

That's one reason I chose not to use his real name: I don't believe in outing public school teachers, either as closeted gays or as assholes. (Condoleezza Rice , she deserves to be outed, having toiled faithfully for that homophobic piece of shit over eight years. And I hereby out her. For real. I met her flamingly gay assistant in New York several years ago, and he confirmed it for me. Condi may as well be swinging a golf club and driving a UPS truck.)

But there's a bigger reason I chose not to name Mr. Stubick:


It's because 20 years after the fact, I no longer mean to shame and embarrass him.

Oprah says we must forgive the people in our lives -- not for their sake, but for our own. Otherwise we become bogged down by our own anger, bitterness and regret. And as usual Oprah is right.

So I forgive you, Mr. Stubick. I forgive you, Dr. Geddes. And I forgive everyone else from my days back in Summit High School for any wrongs you committed against me, real or imagined. I also apologize for the wrongs I did you. It's high time I let all of this go and look forward in my life... not as the 18-year-old boy I was but as the 38-year-old man I have become -- one who understands the power of forgiveness.

I am even able to forgive Josh.

Well, not really.

But I'm working on it.

Homo out for good. ♥