Preface

A Chapter by D

The first crucial part of my still-unfolding memoir.

This book is dedicated to my parents and siblings. They have had a hand in each of my successes.

Barely a year ago, I was telling my father that my plans as a teenager to write a memoir would have to be postponed indefinitely. There were two reasons for this decision. First, I was busy. Maintaining a successful academic, work and family life proved more difficult than expected, and I’m more known for quiet intensity than physical tenacity. Homework especially robbed me of my creative energies.

But I had another reason for refusing to take up the pen. It felt arrogant to even consider a memoir, to assume that someone would want to examine the life of a twenty-four year old man. Plenty of young people have engrossing stories to tell, but a long life has always seemed necessary to give those stories a unique and savory significance. At the very least, I’d need another thirty years before a book would even seem timely. Even though my experiences have convinced me of the incredible potential in human action, they have also taught me that an appreciation for existence is most powerful when we consider the vast scope of being beyond ourselves. I have done some amazing things, sure, but other lessons and wisdom have only come after I’ve managed to stifle the urge to make myself the center of it all.

During the events discussed in this book, I often felt as though all eyes really were trained on me. To understand what I mean, try to remember a moment in your life when you’ve felt the hot shame of careful scrutiny. Maybe it was when the teacher you hated ousted your misbehavior in class. Maybe it was when your friends questioned your decision to ignore their suspicious suggestions for fun. Now imagine that during this moment, a journalist or television camera was recording the event for the rest of the world, or that you were being pressed to explain how you really felt about it all so that others could know what you were experiencing. This reality was inescapable to me for almost ten years, a fact made even more dizzying when I recall that for much of that time I hadn’t yet become a teenager.

Growing up in this sort of environment has made me extremely reluctant to throw my weight around in passing conversation. How could I participate in chats about battle scars when some of my greatest badges bear resemblances to cannonball wounds? Unless I’m speaking with a roomful of war survivors, it’s easier for me to relate to others when I remove myself from my past. The plan for many years had been to let my memories simmer until they had reached a universal relevance, and that’s why my adult life thus far has consisted of numerous attempts to fade away into the scenery of small-town affairs. All that attention can be blinding. It hardly makes for lucid accounts of bygone days; sometimes I think I understand what movie stars must feel.

So why recall my life now, when the world beyond still beckons and my secretive instincts still compel me to keep this book shut? I think the greatest encouragement has been the recognition that we all share a little something in common. Even if there isn’t the slightest connection between two strangers, somewhere inside they both feel and think on the same wavelength. Their sensory organs react similarly. They entered this world on level terms. They will exit it in much the same way. It really doesn’t matter that only a small handful of people will know what it’s like to shatter both ankles (it is discouraging to say the least). Most everyone will be able to infer that during such times, family and friends make all the difference. I don’t think it’s reasonable to remove that type of perspective from the public sphere, especially not when it could help someone cope with the enormous gravity of human experience. And sharing these stories in no way cements them into history. They’ll always be a part of me, but I can be forgiven for some shifts in view. I watched the world from a bubble for many years. I plan to dirty my hands in it for many more.

This book should be read with two warnings in mind. First, much of my story exists in the curious and powerful realm of childhood memory. When a little boy tells a story about something important, you’d probably expect that some of his details are fuzzy, or that some of them seem a bit more colorful then necessary. Similarly, I can only recall some events with my eight-year old senses, which were probably so overwhelmed at the time that the incidents have since been mythologized. The story is true, albeit with a few creative touches added for emphasis. I have done my best to corroborate the incidents in this book by providing multiple accounts from family and friends. . Second, my studies in literature have predisposed me toward making the creative touches mentioned above really creative. Maybe not so imaginative that I end up writing complete fiction, but at least inspired enough to make my feelings on the subject apparent. I hope obvious departures from the road I’m paving are forgiven.

My ultimate goal is to entertain. The moral of this story can only be inferred by you, the reader. If the following chapters are understood to be essays on determination and relentless optimism, I will consider my job complete. I write from many perspectives – that of a boy, that of a man, that of a student, and that of an outsider. If each set of eyes can contribute to a cohesive whole, the entire better.

The journey is far from over, and with any luck I will have the energy to begin this process all over again in thirty years.