Editor's Notes

The similarities are uncanny.

I’ve always loved the film Forrest Gump. I was never really sure why I had such an affinity for it. I assumed I just liked it the same way everyone else did. Tom Hanks was awesome and the story was entertaining. While struggling to find a cover for this issue I popped the DVD in and looked for an escape from magazine work. Then it hit me; we’re basically the same dude, Forrest and I.

I remember what it felt like. I can remember why I did it. I remember the sting, the immediate regret, the emptiness, the hopelessness. I remember it all.

Yeah, I remember when I felt so desperate that I put a towel over a light bulb and smashed it with a sneaker. I remember when all the pills I took started to take effect. I remember going numb, the feeling, both physical and mental, just disappeared. I remember the blood. I remember getting nauseous when I saw the inside of my wrist. I remember the drunken-like walk down the steps to the living room from my room in the attic.

If I am nothing else, I am an honest dude, completely transparent. There are a few reasons for this, but the main reason is memory; I haven’t got one.

I mention that because last month I wrote about what water has meant to me since starting the magazine. Well, as I write this, crickets are chirping, water is gently pressing against the grass as the tiny waves feebly attempt to make the shoreline and bullfrogs are serenading me on a warm spring night.

I’m back at my favorite pond with the weight of the small world I have created on my shoulders.

This is a heavy gig. Lots of directions to be pulled in, lots of folks need something from me, lots of places to go. The bulk of the folks I deal with are well established at this point in the game but I do interact with a lot of current foster kids and alumni who haven’t quite shaken foster care out of their hair yet. It’s these interactions that remain the toughest.

It’s no secret: I want to save everyone. I’m completely aware that this is an impossible task. Doesn’t lessen the fire to try. When I can’t help, it crushes me. When the person I want to help is someone I know, it kills me.

Last week I found out some good news followed by some devastating news. Turns out, my very first foster brother, Jaime, had been released from jail. I didn’t know he was in jail, Jaime and I lost touch when he aged out a few years before I did. I liked him. He seemed like a good kid with a bit of badass in him. A lot like me. We got along. We lived together for a few years.

Jaime was sad. Not just sad in the sense that he knew his life was going to be tough but sad in a way you can’t put into words. He’d already been defeated when I moved into his room. Desperate quotes from desperate bands lined his wall. He’d lost his hope.

I can say with 100% certainty that Jaime only smiled a dozen times in our entire time together. We’d found a set of abandoned apartments in the heart of our tiny borough’s downtown. I don’t condone this type of behavior, but I’ve always been a curious person and nothing satisfies the curiosity like exploring an abandoned building. While we explored this apartment that seemed to be left in a hurry, maybe a drug raid, rifling through boxes and drawers to find pictures and cool trinkets, he let a smile slip.

I asked him a few hours later about the smile, what got him so happy? He replied, “Pictures of the family, they looked happy”. That’s about as deep as we got, conversation-wise. He was a quiet kid. Most sad kids are. He had a way of drawing people in though. Whether they wanted to take care of him or just be around him, he had a kind of quality about him. But the things I remember most about him were the sadness and the wanting to be free.

Jaime WANTED to be a street kid. I know a lot of people like this now but back then it was a foreign concept. He didn’t like being told what to do or where he could go. Maybe that’s a life in the system or maybe it’s the sadness but Jaime’s thinking was; if I have to be stuck here, I’m doing it on my terms. He was a cutter, a way to combat all that he couldn’t control. And the scars were everywhere. Everyone tried as hard as they could to reach him. He was grateful but had no desire to be reached,

"You just call on me, brother, when you need a hand
We all need somebody to lean on
I just might have a problem that you'll understand
We all need somebody to lean on."
~Bill Withers "Lean On Me"

There are a number of reasons why I decided to run a double issue instead of two monthly issues. Some were logistic, some were financial and but the main reason for the double issue is...I’m swamped! No joke. There has been a boom in sales and visibility. I’ve had the good fortune to win a couple awards (Oh, I’m gonna talk about it!)  and I have been running all over, getting to know some important folks and making some important connections that should help the magazine elevate to the next level.

I’ve been lucky enough to spend a lot of time near water since I left care.

Confused? Good, I knocked you off kilter. You are now in the perfect place to read words written by me!

The town I grew up in was a dry town. No water in sight, except for what we called the “sh*t creek” and the occasional spring that would shoot up from the old coal mines we played near. Not what you would call a water world.

Last month I wrote about not being able to write the Editor's Notes first anymore. I jabbered about how it used to set the tone for the issue. Well, much to my delight, I've been forced to start the issue by writing this section first.

As I write this, I am sitting on the roof of my Dodge Durango overlooking a set of ponds in a secluded area just off the highway by my home. I think they meant for it to be an industrial park, but stopped in the middle of development for some reason. It now plays the part of sanctuary for a road weary Editor.

This used to be the first thing I did every issue. I would sit down, crack my knuckles and think of the best way to explain what I do day to day. It would set the tone for the issue, as far as I was concerned. It would get my juices flowing and the work would just pour out of me. That isn't the case these days.

Here’s the thing about me. I underestimate and under appreciate myself. Weird, right? You would think if I work as hard as I do and put forth more effort than a staff of eighty people, that I must have my stuff together, huh? Wrong. So wrong. You have no idea how wrong.

There's a lull that occurs when I finish an issue. It's a strange feeling, you've got the nerves. Was it good enough? Did any mistakes make it through? Will I be able to get it mailed on time? What else could go wrong? (I don't ask that last one anymore, it's just asking for trouble)