Wordslinger

If You Can’t Do…

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

If you can’t do, teach.

We’ve all heard that through our lives in some context or another. The basic idea being that people who don’t have enough ability or gumption to perform an action or accomplish a task just give in to teaching others how to do it. Teaching others to be better than they are, in other words. As a teacher, of course, it is a common hope that this is exactly one of the things we are accomplishing – inspiring the next generations to aspire to rise above the things we have done and take the initiative to do wonderfully in their endeavors.

I’ve heard the old adage about teachers my whole life, honestly, and it has never really bothered me much until very recently. Of course, in addition to being a teacher I am also an author. I don’t ride the top of the best seller list, but I have 9 books on the market right now and plenty more in progress. I often hear positive feedback about my work, and I am very pleased and proud of what I have accomplished.

One of the people who has been something of an inspiration for me, the first published author I ever met, in fact, is another person I know who is proud of what they have accomplished. This person is someone I have known for more than half my life, and has encouraged me without fail in all of my endeavors. They are also the person who showed me just how damaging that statement about teachers really is.

While at an event this week I was working away preparing for a new school year, and brainstorming story ideas – double tasking as I have every year since I became a teacher. One of the authors who was at this event with me happened to be the very one I mentioned above, and they were doing their very best to sell books like the rest of us were. At one point a couple of teachers came over and started talking to this author, revealing that they are teachers and what they teach, as we do. The author in question mentioned her history in the school system and continued talking until the pair of educators left.

At this point this person, whom I’ve known to have some larger than life opinions before, turned to some of the authors there and said “I worked in the school system for 23 years, they don’t want me to tell them what I really think about teachers.” She went on to rant about how teachers are not able to write books and do anything other than teach and that one of the reasons she wrote the books she has is because teachers can’t and she wanted to show them up.

I was floored. Like I said, I’ve been writing for nearly 20 years and I’ve known this person for most if not all of that time. I’ve been teaching for five years and, ironically enough since teachers “can’t do it,” I have published more work since starting to teach than I ever did before getting my license. This author laughed her comments away and just went on about her day while I tried to fathom how someone could make comments that are so harmful and, frankly, so irrevocably stupid. 

All too often in this world we don’t think about the things that come out of our mouths before they spill over into the void and show everyone our true selves. It is easy to make a comment disparaging against someone else or downplaying their accomplishments. In fact, in former generations this sort of speech was pretty common in my area, as a lot of older people I’ve encountered have no qualms about calling each other “fat boy” or something equally tasteless. This author is one of that generation. I’m sure that goes without saying. The statement about teachers is also one that is far older than myself, and probably even older than she is, so it’s not a shock that she has heard it. 

The shock comes from someone actually expounding on it, stating that teachers “can’t write books” especially while in the presence of not just one, but two teachers, because my wife was right beside me – and another author who has a sibling that has taught for more than 20 years. It blows my mind how someone can have such an honestly simple-minded and senseless opinion. Granted, we all know what they say about opinions. They’re just like assholes, everyone’s got one. It’s often best to keep them to yourself, too. 

My point in all this is multifaceted, but it  starts with this: think about the things you put out in the world. Don’t talk trash about others just for the sake of doing it or to make yourself feel better. It definitely does not make you seem high and mighty, but it shows the world you think that you are.

Also be wary of who you listen to in this world. They might ultimately be a bigoted, small-minded person whose opinion of themselves is much more inflated than it should be.

Saying like “if you can’t, teach” might have started out seeming a funny quip about someone who maybe didn’t get where they wanted to with a chosen field, but it has not aged well.

Coming from a teacher who both teaches AND does – let old, false sayings die with the past like they should. Your accomplishments are not limited to or by your profession. How would the world react to it if the saying  “If you can’t play, coach” came back into more popular circulation? We all know how hopelessly obsessed with sports a large portion of the population is, especially in Appalachia. I dare say coaches everywhere would throw a fit and be on the defensive far more than teachers ever have been.

Talking down about anyone’s abilities based on their profession or their chosen vocation of any sort is not OK. It is not intelligent. It is not funny. Someone I’ve thought was a bit inspiring for a long time lost a lot of my respect this week, but I doubt they will care, even if they read this. Frankly, I don’t care enough to confront them about it and bring it up, either. It just isn’t worth it. What I will do, however, is continue to teach to the best of my ability and train the future generations to be better than I am while ALSO writing and publishing books and using the gift God gave me while hoping to hit that bestseller list one day. But, even if I don’t, I’ll still know – and so will others – that I both taught AND did. And that’s definitely something to be pleased with.

The Age of Innocence

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 2 Comments

As another school year is slowly winding to a close, life moves back into the familiar mode of Summer (and yes, that’s Summer the holiday, not just summer the season). One of the good things about being a teacher, of course, is that we also get to enjoy some of the freedoms we can all remember from our youths – and it is a highly coveted thing. Even now I can remember the way things altered as the school year wound to a close. After all, as a kid, that’s the way life is split for you, typically. School and not school. Summer and not Summer. Play and not play. It’s just a fact of life.

The thing many of us never wanted to think about, though, is what happens when that separation is over. What life is going to look like when Summer just becomes summer, when time changes from being a split between school and not school. Apart from the days when we rested in the satisfaction of having that dichotomy we have only the nostalgia of looking back at “the good old days.” That’s where I find myself today, lunch block slowly slipping away minute by sleepy minute. I’m not alone in today’s reminiscence, though.

Outside my classroom windows there is a small lawn where the younger children in another section of our school have recently been going out to play on warmer days. Today they are out en masse, and my classroom and I have found ourselves immersed in watching their antics. From my students, between the ages of 14 and 17, myself in my mid-30s, and my school’s SSC who is older than me, we have all been drawn into their games.

Sun shining on the bright green lawn, clouds passing over just enough to provide a break for the eyes, if not the skin, the children who have been granted their momentary pre-noon freedom engaged in activities ranging from dodgeball, one-armed baseball, tag, sidewalk drawing, and their own games that seemed to combine some combination of all the above. It was just as amusing, for me, to observe the way we all reacted to their spectacle. We laughed when one of them got a win, or took a rolling tumble to avoid getting hit with the ball. Arms shot up in victory, while none of them showed the standard and dreaded playground separation tactics that plague older students. It was, in the words of our SSC, innocence.

It’s no secret that I do teach at-risk kids, that I myself could have been considered an at-risk kid based on my mother’s income and my status as a child of a single parent household. So when these students, whom many stereotypically assume are troubled and trouble-making, are taking the time to bond and enjoy life while living simultaneously through the playground games of others, it says a lot. Students, who sometimes have to live their lives on guard for themselves and their loved ones for fear of injury or worse, sitting in a classroom and talking amongst themselves while reflecting on the times they had in those playground settings truly puts things in perspective.

I see it as a highly important and therapeutic activity, in all honesty. The fact this allowed students who have to build walls in order to keep themselves safe to drop those barriers and look back on times of innocence means a lot to me as a teacher and a nostalgic person. Most, if not all, of my students know my room is a safe space anyway, and this secured that even more. I take pride in my efforts to meet my students where they are coming from in an intellectual, educational, and social-emotional standpoint. I ask them how they are doing, and they know that is not just a nicety. Seeing the way the games of others put a smile on all of our faces today, it really made me think that humanity as a whole is truly striving for the freedom of a child. The unspent innocence so many take for granted without even realizing they are doing so.

When we were children we couldn’t have imagined the way our lives would alter by the time we left school. That long-distant future was as unreal to us as waking up one day with no sun in the sky. Teaching high school seniors for four years has allowed me to see that change first-hand with others, and it’s impressive how well some handle it. Some students rise to the occasion with plans and schemes galore and provide themselves with failsafes to protect them in the event life gives them a turn for the worse. Others… Others slip on the cap and gown and venture out into the final great Summer with little more than hopes and dreams in their reserves to get them through.

Regardless of the way we approached the end of those playground days, the truth of life comes into play in just how much we allow ourselves the freedom to observe and enjoy the innocence of youth. Wherever life has taken us, it is important to remember those days of fun. The bonds of youth, of innocent life, of going outside and truly just enjoying being alive, are something none of should ever forget. The blessed simplicity of just living for the moment, not having to concern ourselves with what bills need to be paid, what stresses await us when we look through the checkbook or get back home, the idea that we are all just able to enjoy spending time with our friends or even alone is truly something to savor.

I know it isn’t always easy, but I recommend taking a moment to do just observe the life of youth. Enjoy a moment of watching children play without judgement, look at animals lounging in the sun, watch a river flow, anything that pulls you out of the stresses of life. We all deserve a moment to remember how good life should be. That’s the truth of our situations in the world. We have, most of us, forgotten that life is supposed to be enjoyable. It shouldn’t be competition and anger, stress and work, bills and class status. It should just… be. But until that’s something we can make happen, the next best thing might be to just relax. And, hey, while we’re at it, why not find a playground that’s empty and have some fun of our own?

Superstition

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 2 Comments

I do want to say no to this, but to be honest, it’s hard to be Appalachian and not hold some superstition. Growing up in this area you hear a lot of wives’ tales about why things work the way they do, what this event or happenstance might mean, or how changes in the weather can effect the seasons ahead (can anyone say “mythology” and the origin of storytelling?). Hearing those things, you also can’t help but notice that some it does kind of make sense. For instance, there is a saying that if you see a bee/hornet/wasp nest built high off the ground in a tree or on a structure it means there will be a bad winter. The idea is that insects know that bad weather is coming and try to build high enough to stay out of the snow.

I noticed late into Fall and early into Winter there were several nests/hives built high in the trees on my drive to and from work, and made note of the myth. This winter we had some decent snows – nothing like the 3 footer we had about ten years ago, but a decent amount. You can see how there are some elements of potential truth to things like that, I hope.

Knowing there are truths to some of the superstitions in these mountains is not exactly a bad thing, either. Seeing the leaves turn upside down in the summer typically means there will be rain soon, so that can give you an indication you should seek shelter soon. Likewise, the color of the sky in the morning or at night can give you an amateur meteorologist’s view of the day’s weather (Red sky at night, sailors delight vs. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning) and let you plan a little.

On the other side of this, there was a wives’ tale I heard growing up that said if you hear a Screech Owl (one of my personal favorite sounds in the mountains) at night while in the bed you should tie a knot in your bedclothes or someone you know will die. Needless to say, I don’t have any reason to necessarily believe this is true, but when I heard that lonely, warbling screech last year I was sure to tie that knot. In other word, I may be superstitious at times but, with some things, it’s better to be safe than sorry, right?

Daily writing prompt
Are you superstitious?
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Coming to Terms

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

I went to the visitation service for my biological father last night. I’m not at all sure what I expected to happen there, but it was certainly not the way things went. Or maybe it was.

For those of you who don’t know, I was raised in a single parent household because my father made his own choices. Those choices did not involve me. Through the years I have made an abundance of attempts to reach out to him and create some sort of relationship, against the advice and better judgement of pretty much everyone around me. For a little while at one point it worked. When I was 12 I convinced my mother to take me to his adoptive parents house and ask about him. This resulted in his nephew taking us directly to his house and we began forming what I hoped would be a real friendship, if nothing else.

It may have lasted a year. During that time we went to a few movies, ate a couple of meals. he bought me an action figure or two and I paid for at least one of those movies with saved allowance. Of course, toward the end of this period of time as we were driving him back to his home he asked to stop at a convenience store and borrowed money from me for a beer. I probably should have known.

Not long after that the contact stopped. Again, his choice, not mine. He stopped answering calls and letters. Faded into the distance again with no explanation or excuses.

For five years I didn’t know if he was alive or dead until we received a letter from the state that he had been summoned to court for back child support. The state’s choice. Not ours. So, at the age of 17, I convinced my mother to go with me to the courthouse and see if he showed. Surprisingly he did. He was told to pay, said he would, walked out the door with barely a glance in my direction, but I followed. I shouted for him and watched as he thought about walking on and getting in the car as if he hadn’t heard me.

But he stopped. He turned around and came back with his shark-toothed grin and made me feel like he was happy to see me. More empty promises of future contact, blank apologies for a lack of communication, and we went our separate ways.

I never heard from him again.

For nearly 18 years I went without a single word from him. Nearly as long without any word about him, save the mention of him given by his brother after the man found me online. I could have had a child of my own in that time, and watched them grow to be the age I had been the last time I laid eyes on the man who contributed to my DNA. I know damn well I would have treated that child a lot better than I had ever been treated.

Several times during those 18 years I attempted contact again, including one shameful time when I went to his house and knocked on his door. As I looked at the window I saw him looking back out at me before the woman he lived with opened the door and told me he wasn’t there.

I told myself that was it. I had done more than enough. But, it didn’t stop me from sending some last ditch letters. Or from making a phone call after my grandmother passed. A phone call that asked me to leave a message on a voicemail that had his name on it. I told him I wanted nothing from him, no money, no goods, I just wanted to speak to him. Even once.

I won’t even pretend I was surprised when the call wasn’t returned. Or that the next time I tried the number it had been disconnected/my number was blocked.

That time it really was over. I stopped trying. I won’t pretend I hadn’t thought about trying again, but I hadn’t. I had no clue if the man was alive or dead, if he had other children, if he thought about me. I knew nothing. Until I got the message last week that he was actually dead.

If you haven’t lost a parent, I’m glad. It has been something of a whirlwind for me, and nothing like the standard I’m sure. In talking to friends who have reached out, I do realize how many of us have a non-standard (read non-glamorous, non-Hollywood, non-cookie-cutter) relationship with our parents, so I definitely know many of you will know what I mean. A parent who has been nothing but a repeated disappointment, who you truly had no relationship with despite your best efforts, suddenly passing, is still quite a shock.

As I said, I went to the service last night. A more than two hour drive from where I work and nearly the same back to my house. To say I was nervous is an understatement. I have always hated funeral homes and hospitals, and this made that even worse. But I went. I’ve asked myself why it was important that I do so, and others have wondered the same, and I think the full truth is exactly what I said from the start. This is the only time I have had full control over the way this relationship ended. I never got to say my goodbyes. I never got to be the one to really choose how things would progress, or whether they would progress.

Sure, I had decided to stop trying to reach out, but that was really tantamount to deciding to stop pounding a closed door and let my bloodied knuckles heal. It was already sealed. I merely gave in to the choice of others. No, this time I was the one who had the final say. So I went to the service. It took a while to work up the gumption to walk in, but I did it. Amanda and I were 2 of the 7 people there for the man who had isolated himself from his flesh and blood. I will never be able to thank her enough for putting herself through that for me, for supporting me in what she knew was a lost cause. Having her by my side was the only thing that kept me from losing my grip, as it so often is.

When I went to the casket he looked so different from the man I remember, the man who I have maybe three pictures of, that I was worried we were in the wrong chapel. But it was him. His mother was there. My grandmother. Whom I hadn’t seen in probably 25 or more years. She had to subtly walk to the sign-in book to see if I was who she thought I was, but she came up to me and spoke. Told me she knew the effort I had put in, but chalked it up with the true Appalachian “you know how he was.”

No, ma’am. I do not know how he was. He made sure of that. You all made sure of that. I know next to nothing about the man. Even the things my own mother can tell me about the father of her child is little more than three decade old facts. How much of that changed? How much different was the stranger in that box who made sure I never had a chance to know any version of him from the 22 year old she had once cared for? I have no idea. And, given the likelihood those who have chosen not to reach out in the past will continue on that trend, I may never know.

Not once did my grandmother ask about me, my life, my wellbeing. Would it matter to her? No. Just shrugging off the way her son had behaved the same way he shrugged off his own child. I can’t pretend I’m not upset by it all, but I finally am at a point where I can truly say I did everything I possibly could. I will be able to go to sleep tonight and every night knowing I never closed the door on my father, though I likely should have. At the end of the day I was able to say goodbye on my own terms, something that feels as close to satisfaction regarding the matter that I may ever get.

Confusion and Grief

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 3 Comments

Last night, I found out my biological father died this week. No way to sugarcoat that information, really. I hadn’t spoken to the man in nearly 18 years, not for lack of trying. I sought him out time and time again, wanting to have a relationship with him, no matter how small it was. I put myself out there and gave it my all to try and be a son to a man who didn’t want to be my father. I’ve never gotten to share my accomplishments, my sadnesses, my truths, and myself with the man whose DNA I share. I might never have even known he was gone because of these decisions on his part.

I am forever grateful to the cousin who made sure I knew, also. A lifetime of potential memories gone. A lifetime spent wondering why I wasn’t good enough, if there was something wrong with me, if I would ever even know why he wanted nothing to do with me. Now I guess I will never know the answers.

I think that is the strangest part of the whole thing for me. I have thought about going to the last place I knew he lived and seeking him out, or pushing harder to find the relatives on that side of the family that are still alive (which, according to his obituary – in which my name is not even correct, I might add – is nearly everyone except his father), but ultimately have chosen against it. For the last few years, I honestly didn’t even know if he was still alive, with Covid running rampant as it did. Until his brother found me on Facebook last year and at least confirmed that much for me, that is.

Even until I got the obituary and saw the face of the man I barely remember looking back at me, some part of me said my cousin must be mistaken. But there it was. The first line in the obituary read that he died with his daughter by his side. A daughter I’ve never met. Not a biological sibling, I know now, but nonetheless, someone who mattered enough to him for him to raise. To stick by. To live for. Someone I never even knew existed. Did she know about me?

Did he ever mention me? Could she hold the answers to why she got a father figure out of him and I never did? Do I even want to ask?

Those questions and more have been flooding my mind for the last 16 or so hours, and I am no closer to deciding if they are even worth asking. I have a whole side of my family whom I know nothing about. My father’s obituary said he loved God, loved to cook, was a great dad. Two out three ain’t bad… we have those in common at least. Is there anything else we share?

There is a service for Scotty Wayne Osbourne on Monday. A time for those who knew him to grieve him, to say goodbye to him, to pay their respects for a man they now have to build a life without. Do I fit that mold? I know next to nothing about him. I only know life without him in it. But I’ve never gotten to say goodbye. I never knew I would have to. Until it was too late. Just like this time.

Erosion of Free Speech

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Good morning, all. Of course, in the states, one of the most talked about issues right now is the ban of Tik Tok. While I’m the first to admit I was slow to the game, and I definitely didn’t utilize to the full potential I could have for my writing and business ventures, I did enjoy the app. Fortunately, I was not one of the thousands, if not millions, who used the app so successfully they were able to start making their living as content creators and no longer need a day job. I will say that I know some of my posting drove people to my books and my events – because they told me so.

Since I started using the app to promote my writing and my travels, I have had numerous encounters with people who found me and my work through the app. At one of my events I had a young man who left his job early one day, telling his boss he was sick, just so he could come to the book store I was at and meet me and buy some of my books. Another time I was out in a local store and met someone who frequently interacted with my videos and we were able to make a face to face connection. These are just a couple of examples in my own personal life that came about because of the freedom this app allowed.

Of course, I would be remiss if I didn’t also mention the hours of laughing and simple entertainment I have gotten from the hilarious content there, as well as the bands I have discovered (one of whom, Definitely Maybe, has even graciously allowed me to use their work and their name in a book of mine) because of the platform. This is all a drop in the hat to international connections made because of a simple video platform.

I mention because I want to emphasize that the app was more than just a silly place people could go learn dances or recipes. It allowed homebound individuals to catch glimpses of faraway places they might not ever be able to go. It allowed readers to connect with their favorite authors, genres, or other readers to discuss books in an easy to use way that offered real time discussion rather than short messages back and forth. It gave truly free speech to a number of people who might otherwise be too timid or worried to speak to people outside their home. Introverts thrived on Tik Tok.

In order to truly understand s to have this platform taken down, you have to be able to look beyond the surface and the lies that politicians and nay-sayers have been spreading. There little to no “data breaching” happening on this platform. As long as this country still orders mass amounts of goods from Shein and Temu, those will always be a much bigger threat than Tik Tok. No, the threat was not to data or citizens. The threat was to the lies we are told every day. The threat was to the control the U.S government wants to maintain over its citizens and the information they receive.

Therein lies the true issue. As long as people across the world have the chance to speak their mind to others without interference from the Powers That Be, we will always be a threat to them. Of course, Agent Orange is pretending that he is going to save the day, despite being the one who started the whole issue 5 years ago, but is he? Will anyone offer the same brand of freedom and connection without limitations? Sure there were issues with the app. There are always issues with new things. But even I witnessed the growth it experienced. Growth that now doesn’t stand for much. 

The point I’m making is that, with this ban, goes the first in what could be a long line of changes toward information sharing and free voices in this country. What will be next in the list of things that keeps us from connecting with like-minded people both in and outside this country. If you want to see some possibilities, you can always grab a copy of “1984” or even “The Handmaid’s Tale.” Oh, wait… those are banned books. Books that the local and federal governments have deemed in some ways dangerous or damaging to the minds of learning individuals. Coincidence? I think not….

Stephen King’s Rage

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

As a lifelong fan of Stephen King, it is my mission to read everything the man has published, naturally. I’ve been on that track for quite a while, but the main book that has eluded me for much of that time is the one book King himself doesn’t want the world to experience. Given today’s climate and the subject of the book itself I had been understanding of that idea, since he is (some would say ironically) a huge supporter of human rights and simply being a good person. I still have not been able to purchase a copy of this book for myself, but I did get my hands on a copy so I could finally read the forbidden tale, and I have to say…. I think the world deserves to read it.

Woah, a teacher not wanting to see a book that, at it’s base description, is about a school shooting taken off the shelf? Polarizing, right? Keep in mind, also, that I am an author and a literature lover who has an extreme hatred of censorship as a whole, but kind of. Like I said, at its base description, Rage is about a school shooting. More specifically, about the shooter himself. But there is so much more to it than that.

Charlie Decker reacts to life the way he has, in part, because he has been consistently let down and crapped on by everyone he is supposed to be able to rely on. Being a teacher at two different alternative education centers I have seen this phenomenon more than I ever thought possible in such a small community. More often than not kids are being let down by everyone they know. They are being abused, disrespected, and not being given the love and guidance that is a parent’s obligation. Which is exactly what Charlie Decker dealt with.

While Decker did have his moments of abuse and neglect, he was also very obviously suffering from not only the social pressures of being a teenager, but I heartily believe he was suffering from mental illness as well. Charlie kills two teachers in the school a couple of weeks after striking another with a wrench, causing him considerable damage. There is no doubt he was a school shooter, and before the term was used in conventional conversation. His crimes, however, were small in comparison to even some of the smallest of real world attacks in this country. So how does that influence, or even potentially motivate others to take up the gun? During the late 80’s and 90’s there were multiple students who acted on feelings of anger and hatred and performed atrocious acts of school violence that were either openly attributed to the reading of King’s book or associated with it through mere familiarity.

I can completely understand being an author who has to deal with that and having to make the difficult decision to pull your work because of it. I fully support King’s decision to remove his book based on the idea that it was harmful to others, if only because it was associated with those who made poor decisions based on their own hurt. One of the bigger things in the book that I noticed, however, was the deeper meaning I associated with it. That, of course, is one of my favorite things about literature. We can all read the same words, but they speak to us all differently. The individual interpretation of works of art can not only be different from person to person, but one person going back to a familiar work might resonate with it differently based on maturity and changes of life and attitude. I can’t honestly say what I would have thought of Rage if I had read it ten or even 20 years years ago, but I do know that now it speaks to me in a very specific way.

The book itself, to me, is not just about the fact that Charlie comes into the school with a gun and uses it. It is about the fact that he poses no real threat to his classmates. He sits down and speaks to them. What’s more – they listen. Each and every student in that room understands Charlie – save one, of course. Decker is a boy who has been dealt a crappy hand, and he doesn’t make great choices. But he is real. He is relatable. Once he sits down and really levels with his classmates many of them open back up in the same way. We learn that all of their lives are not only connected, but that many of them have judged or been judged by their peers based on public or personal opinion. Several of them discuss their own hardships and come to understand Charlie’s point of view and why he has done what he has done. If they can’t agree with his decision to shoot their teachers they can at least see that he has enough hardship in life that it has taken him through avenues that are not totally unfamiliar to them.

I think that is the most important thing to look at for this book. These students bonded with the shooter in their midst because each and every one of them have been through some of the same horrible situations. It goes to show that everyone in the book itself is an example of how we can all react differently to any stimulus. That, in my opinion, is the real genius of the book. King presented us with a story that, yes, can be taken as offensive due to Charlie’s actions. But what book can’t? King has been through an extensive list of people, creatures, dimensions, and aliens intelligences that have massacred people in enough ways to supply the writers of even Game of Thrones with some new ideas, and we still return to his work. Because he gets it. He’s real. he gives us the honest truth about the world and the crappy humans that inhabit it.

Like I said, I respect his decision to want Rage off the shelves. No creator wants to think of their work contributing in any way to something and horrendous as an act of domestic terrorism and violence. But the strength and openness in the book are among the best pieces of helpful literature I’ve seen in a long time. As a review, I have to say that I highly recommend the book. Charlie Decker is to the world of the misunderstood and abused what Holden Caulfield is to the disenfranchised youth of the world. Any student familiar with the feelings of anger and neglect associated with an abusive, addicted, or absent parental figure can gain some real insight on how not to act based on Charlie’s tale. Until the world, this country in particular, comes to the realization that violence is not the solution to their problems, I think books like Rage both do and do not have a place in popular culture. Think of it like Schrodinger’s cat. A kid who never opens that book might still walk into the school with a gun and do horrible things. But the student who reads the book and truly makes an effort to understand it may have a chance to think about his or her actions a little longer. They could see the results of Charlie’s ordeal and understand they just have to hold on a little longer, just power through for a little more time. It could be the difference in another act of violence, or a true act of peace and restraint based on knowledge.

“Peace sells, but who’s buyin’?” -Megadeth

Face of Horror

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Happy Spooky Season, everyone!! I am super pumped to announce that I have been selected to be in the running for this year’s Face of Horror competition! Now, I know competition is pretty fierce for this one, but how stinking cool would it be for an indie horror author to win this!? The prize this year is a meet-up/ghost hunt with Kane Hodder, a photo shoot for Rue Morgue magazine and $13,000. Think how many books I can fund with that!!! Like I said, I know competition is fierce, but any and every vote helps, guys, so please make your vote count! Follow my link below and help push me to the top of this year’s contest! Round one of votes opened yesterday and I’m sitting pretty at number 2, so keep pushing and let’s see if we can’t make the impossible happen!! Please help a horror lover out!!

https://faceofhorror.org/2024/damean-mathews

Lessons from the Classroom

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Teaching is one of the most rewarding, but also one of the most difficult professions out there. To be on the forefront of instilling education and knowledge into the minds of the future is something I, for one, do not take lightly. Now, I can’t speak for every single educator out there, of course. I have first-hand experience with some people who act like little more than warm bodies in a chair waiting on a paycheck. That is one of the first and best ways to fail children – and I don’t mean on a grade scale.

Working with students is a never-ending responsibility, that much is certain, but there are an endless supply of benefits in the profession regardless of how hard it can be. Growing up in a single parent household, I did not have a full-time male role model in my home. My grandfather stepped into this role as often as he was able, and I certainly have many life lessons from my short time with him. Likewise, men from my church were crucial parts of my life, becoming friends that I am still in contact with to this day, but that’s a different story. Teachers, however, were an example that I looked up to on a daily basis. Granted, in the early and mid-90’s when I was entering the world of public education the vast majority of teachers in Tazewell, Va. were female, by the time I made it to middle school I was happy to find myself under guided instruction of some very positive male educators. Likewise, in high school I made the acquaintance of two or three men who were essential to my education and who influenced me to consider taking on the mantle of teacher myself.

Being who I am, though, I still told myself I would do better focusing on my writing because “who would want me as a teacher, anyway?” I fought that bug for several years before listening to my wife and accepting the drive I had been putting off and seeking to finish the education path I had already started in undergrad. As you all know, I started my path as a teacher of high school English in 2020, at the height of the Covid-19 epidemic. During that time I met several students who would show me how wrong I had been.

Coming to my students in an impoverished area, many of whom did not have a positive male role model at home, I saw myself in their eyes a lot. Some of them, naturally, were a bit apprehensive coming into my classroom. In this region if a student makes it to high school not liking to read, English classes are something of a sore subject for them. However, I was able to show many of them a type of literature that they did actually enjoy. By taking the time to speak to my students and get to know them, I was able to show them there is more to English and Language Arts than writing essays and reading giant British Literature novels. There is a whirlwind of education floating in the ether and, by approaching students at a level of respect and understanding, I taught them an appreciation for, if not exactly a love of, literature. More importantly, though, I showed them there is someone who cares about them.

That, to me, is the most important lesson a teacher can impart to a student, regardless of what subject they teach. Life lessons of love and appreciation, just knowing they can come into the building and have someone genuinely care whether they got a good night’s sleep or ate breakfast can make or break the day. Many of my students from my first teaching job have gone on to graduate and start families now, and I am still in touch with some of them. Knowing the things I heard some of these students being told – that they could never graduate, they wouldn’t make it in the real world, they would be better off getting a GED (and worse) – makes me disgusted. Yes, I know what you are thinking. “Did those things come from educators, from school staff, from people those students should have been able to trust?”

The answer is yes. And it is pathetic. For a student fighting to make it in this weird world life is hard enough without having someone they should be able to trust constantly beating them down. I am now in the first year working at a new school, in a new county, and it is honestly like night and day. The staff here truly cares about the students. These kids might not get the support they need at home, and they might not have expectations of getting that support at school, but I do my best to make sure they have it here. Some days, being a teacher is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but the rewards so far outweigh that struggle it’s not even comparable. Knowing a student will come into my classroom and get a smile, have a kind word, and hopefully figure out there is more out there than what they’ve dealt with so far is a lesson I couldn’t have learned if I had continued to deny my own voice.

The biggest point here, really, is simple. Kids need you. If you are considering going into education, make sure you are listening to that urge. If you are a first year teacher worrying about whether or not you can do it, whether or not you will do a good enough job – you will. The fact that you care shows you have the heart for it. If you are a teacher experiencing burnout, listen to that inner voice, but also remember all the good you have done. Students are alive and well today, excelling through this world, because of the influence you had on them. That is a lot to be thankful for. In my experience, it is the student who doesn’t realize how much they need a teacher that will gain the most from a positive one. Some days may look dark, but the real light comes from knowing you made a difference. I thank God for putting me a situation where I can do just that.

Anchoring in Hope

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

One of the hardest things about a tired morning, especially a tired Monday, is maintaining (or even finding at all) a positive outlook on the day. We all know the weekends are never long enough and the idea of a 40+ hour work week seems longest after we crawl out of bed on that first day. Granted, I won’t for a minute pretend that I’m not a morning person, as my wife will sleepily remind me of as I’m chattering away ere the sun deigns to show his fiery face over our lovely mountains. I also might point out that I tend to be even more of a night owl, with the occasional bout of mid-afternoon lethargy, but that’s a whole different story. This morning was no different.

On this incredible Monday morning I found myself waking up to a few images from my cover designer (the ever incredible Mollie Estep) for the upcoming Blood and Moonlight, and looking forward to the prospect of my second full week in the return to teaching high school English. With the plan to decorate my classroom with some old and new items as well as introduce some of my students to the dark and twisted works of Edgar Allan Poe, I was feeling pretty darn good. I realized last night while preparing for the week that, for the first time in a long time, I was not feeling any of the dread or questioning that had followed the last year and a half or more of my previous teaching job. I loved the students I worked with at that school, and the difference I made in their lives is something I am so thankful for I can’t put it into words. There were, as always, underlying factors, however.

With the job I have just started, my (hopefully) triumphant return to the world of secondary education, I feel a new and powerful positivity. I feel almost certain that I am in the right place. I love feeling that way with a job or with any task I am working on. It makes it that much easier to put your all into something you feel RIGHT about, doesn’t it? That’s kind of where my mind was as I rode the beautiful, rain-damp roads into Wise this morning, my current audiobook humming right along. I felt good. Right. As the drive went on, carrying me closer to my current home away from home, my eyes looked to the right of my vehicle, almost unguided. There, less than a mile away from me, I saw the absolutely stunning sight of an early morning rainbow. I hadn’t realized while I was driving that in the valley ahead of me, which I was about to drive into, was experiencing a rain shower. All around me the sun was beaming down on the world in wonder and magnificence, and to my right glimmered this incredible symbol of hope, meaning, and love. It couldn’t have been a better sign for me.

If you’ve been around for a while, you know I’m a big believer in signs and guidance from God and the universe. I give all credit to God for my gifts and talents as a writer and a teacher, and I can’t express enough just how thankful I am to have the blessing to be able to do these things with my life. Seeing that rainbow this morning made an incredible peace come over me and reminded me again that I am on the right path. Sometimes we all need that reminder. I’ve been hard on myself lately about how little I have been able to write this year and how some things haven’t gone the way I planned. But that’s life. I’ve always heard if you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans. Whether you are a believer in God or not, one thing we can all relate to is that the universe is not always one to fall in line with our intentions. Regardless of what purpose we have behind our motivations and hopes and dreams, sometimes it just doesn’t happen. And there is nothing wrong with that.

As soon as I was able to come to a quick stop I snapped a photo of the now-fading rainbow as a reminder of the powerful feelings in my mind. I’m keeping that rainbow with me this morning as I ponder over all the things that have gone not exactly according to plan to put me right where I am today. Between job changes, family issues, even changes in my education plan, things have not stayed the way I had them mapped out in my mind for quite some time now. But I have been blessed beyond measure. I have my best friend by my side every day of my life, and I could not be more thankful for the experiences we have shared – even if they have been surprises to us both at the time. Looking at all of that, and looking at the hopeful plans I have for the rest of the year I can’t help but keep thinking of that rainbow. That promise. That image that holds so much meaning and so much love for so many people around the world. In my heart and my mind, that sight always tells me I’m going to be OK. No matter what is thrown at me, no matter how hard some days may be, if I keep that image of hope and love in mind everything will be fine. I think that’s why the rainbow means so much to so many people, as well. The merging and unification of so many colors in the spectrum, so many things that nature combines so perfectly, is intended to remind us that it’s OK. Whatever is going on, it isn’t going to hold us back or hold us up forever.

What I’m trying to say with all of this is that we all need our rainbow. Whether we’re feeling positive or negative about whatever situation we’re in, we need something to remind us that good is coming or that it is OK to allow ourselves to be happy. That’s something that sometimes seems hardest of all, I think. With the amount of things that go wrong every day, with all of the trauma we all have seen or been through, the idea that it is OK to be happy can be hardest to grasp. Take it from someone who has struggled to find that permission within himself on and off for decades. Whatever is going on and whatever you have been through, it really is OK to be happy. It’s OK to have hope. Find your rainbow today, whatever it is. The world isn’t always a horrible place. I hope this message can reach someone who needs it, whether it’s today or 100 years in the future. The point remains the same for me. You matter. You are allowed to feel what you feel. And you CAN make it through the hard times. The sun will always come back out eventually.