Dear beloved family and cherished friends,
Once again, it's that time of the year when we all look back on the past 365 day period, analyze the events that occurred, and attempt to ascertain whether they were good or bad. As silly of a notion as that might seem, it sometimes helps putting one's life into perspective. If you don't know where you've been, how can you know where you're going?
And I guess that's pretty much been the theme of 1991, for me; I've spent a fantastic portion of this past year trying to figure out where I'm headed in life. But I must regrettably report that at the close of this year, I am less certain than I was at the beginning of the year. Some of you may recall that last January I had my mind set on entering an MFA program in creative writing. I spent the first two months of 1991 building up a portfolio and filling out applications to eight universities. And over the next three months, I accumulated eight rejection letters and one hell of a depression. Added to my failures was a series of emotional arguments with my father about my being a "bum" and my needing to pay my own way in the world. In one last desperate attempt to avoid having to get a job, I dropped by the local University of Central Florida one day in June to inquire about their MA program in English. I was accepted on the spot. All I had to do was fill out an application, the program coordinator told me. Little did I know that that was only the beginning of my troubles with UCF red tape. I wish I could go into all of the comic details (which weren't quite as comical when I was living through them) but there isn't enough space to describe my name being lost in the computer on three separate occasions, being told I need to fill out a form that doesn't exist, being blamed by my advisor for things beyond my control, registrar goofs, etc. In the end, fortunately, it all worked out okay.
That is as far as registering went. When it came to my most important class, the Graduate Creative Writing Workshop, I had serious problems. I turned in three stories, yet all three were strongly criticized by the professor and the class. "Too bland," "too intellectual," "not enough emotion," "flat characters," "predictable plot," "insufficiently interesting." I expected criticism--I've always welcomed it, both from myself and others--but the essential message of that class was that my style is unpublishable. I haven't given up completely--I intend to take a few more classes in creative writing to see if I can actually learn something. But I have been quite disheartened. I understand why those eight graduate schools turned me down. I'm thinking now that if fiction falls through, I may return to old fields I know I can succeed in, like photography, journalism; I'm also considering film and video. Something's got to work out somehow. I've just got to give it time.
Though creative writing may have failed, I at least got some benefits with the other classes that went along with it. I enjoyed two literature classes that I took, worked hard in them, and received A's. I also even succeeded in a graduate contemporary poetry course where one day I taught the class about the work of Gwendolyn Brooks. My favorite class, though, was speech. I had to deliver three oral addresses; and though I was nervous, I got As on all of them. The final speech was my opinion on the war--why it was wrong. I endured five minutes of hostile questioning from intensely "patriotic" classmates; my professor said I handled the questions "excellently."
And speaking of my opinion on the war, most of you are aware of the public stands I took during the war. Those six weeks, from January 16 to February 28, were quite exciting as well as scary. I felt like I was in the middle of something important, like I was making a serious contribution to society, like I was doing all I could to prevent the unjust killings. I attended about two dozen demonstrations and helped organize a number of them. When you're standing on a street corner holding a sign which reads "Stop the war--Negotiate!" and cars driving by honk their horns (some give you two fingers, some give you one), or when you're marching through downtown Orlando "dying" in a die-in, or being interviewed on radio, or listening to rednecks shout death threats while waving American flags, or being applauded by your peers when you speak up at a meeting, or discussing a permit with the Orlando police chief, or protecting a demonstration as a "peacekeeper," you can feel so energized, so alive. For me, it couldn't have happened at a better time, as you may remember how down I felt last December with no school, no job, and no social life. Though it was never my intent, I made a number of friends at those protests and I still hang out with some. Three or four nights a week, I often find myself at their house discussing politics, playing with the computer, drinking beer, being myself. I owe a lot to these new friends who have rejuvenated me, reminded me what it is to care for a small community.
But the war was so frightening, too, when old friends tell you they're thinking about joining up, when there's talk at home about bringing back the draft. What was even scarier was how peace suddenly became a subversive idea in the minds of many Americans, and people cheered the killings. And it was sad when close relatives and old trusted friends turned against me for the political stands I took.
Yet as horrible as it was, I didn't jump for joy when the war ended. I don't know why--can't explain it. The killing had stopped, but when it shouldn't have started in the first place, it just didn't seem right to celebrate. I continued to be somewhat active after the war. I attended meetings, marched in a gay rights parade, showed videos on the Iran/Contra affair and the Ramsey Clark trip across Iraq, attended a Middle East conference in St. Petersburg, protested the celebration of the war on the Fourth of July, and, most importantly, continued to write. I was given a column in the Orlando Spectator, a local alternative newspaper that comes out every other month. My 1000-word column is called "Content of Character" and is usually about politics. Naturally, I'm very excited about it and hope to work more with the Spectator next year. By the way, the Spectator also published a poem I wrote and just recently gave me a video review column.
This year I got to do some traveling when I was not in school. Locally, I visited St. Augustine, Gainesville, and went for a canoe trip up the Wekiva River that ended with my going in the drink when both my paddle partner and myself decided to lean in the same direction to avoid a low branch. In July, I flew up to Vermont to visit my sister Sarah who was doing original research with her professor at Middlebury College. While there, I saw Ben & Jerry's ice cream factory, Robert Frost's hometown of Ripton, and lots of nature in the Green Mountains. And later in the summer I drove up alone to Washington DC to see some old friends from the Rollins Writing Center; and then drove on up to New Jersey where I attended the lovely wedding of my terminally-ill cousin, Sid. Five weeks later he died. In my shock, I forgot to do an important paper for my literature class.
I guess the worst thing to happen to me this year was a medical ailment--gout. Though rare, it's not unusual for a 24-year-old to get it, especially if gout runs in the family, which is so in my case. I just woke up one morning in October with a strong pain in my right foot and eventually it was diagnosed it as gout. The first two weeks were the hardest--extreme pain whenever I attempted to put pressure on the foot, such as when I wanted to walk. It was murder just to get around the house, hobbling around on a cane. I was put on some drugs that helped, but they made me quite drowsy for a month--I practically slept through November (which might explain the criticism on my last work of fiction). Now, ten weeks later, the foot has just about healed and my life has mostly returned to normal. Though I'm on a medication I'll have to take for the rest of my life, I'm quite thankful to be up and around again.
A brush with disability makes one appreciate the small blessings he is granted each day. And so, looking back at all the major events of the past year--war, graduate school rejections, gout, writing criticism--it may appear 1991 was a bad year for me; but there were many good things that came out of it: friends, travel, a newspaper column, returning to school. I hope each of you can look back on your 1991 and pick out the good things, not let them be overshadowed by the bad.
I'd like to hear about them. I am interested in the lives of each person receiving this letter. And I am also wishing you all a very happy new year, hoping that 1992 will be a better year for all of us.
Peace on Earth,
Jonathan Chisdes
(407) 260-1029