the writer. part 1

In high school I met a writer. A poet. He seemed so surreal to me and so enlightened. He was part of the elite “drama” crowd and I remember watching him perform onstage in awe that he could let himself go like that, without hesitation, not afraid to be made fun of.

I don’t know exactly how we began spending time together and it wasn’t a lot of time, maybe a movie here and there, but he taught me two things. I can guarantee that he never knew those lessons existed.

The first time I went to a movie with this boy (and I don’t even know the movie) when the film was over, I stood up to leave and he gently grabbed my hand and said “we wait til the credits are done, this movie didn’t happen in 2 hours, it was made by all these people and they deserve for us to know their names” I should mention we were on a double date of sorts with a “drama couple”.

At first I thought he was kidding, but they sat, watching the names scroll by and I thought it was so profound and so I sat and watched the faceless names roll in front of me and I began to see them as someone’s daughter, son, sister, brother and it affected me.

So now I sit and read the names  that scroll after the movie is over, not always, but often and it brings me back to that movie theater in high school, with the writer, who even then, was giving credit where credit was due. It affected me. It still does. That was the first lesson. Give credit where credit is due.

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