1. JJ House
Dear Whoever,
I could address this letter to God, but he, not god, my subject, would probably scoff at
that. So dear whoever this may concern,
I don’t think I’m entirely ready to write exactly what it is I want to say in the way that will do
my inspiration justice, but he’d probably tell me I sounded like a “stupidly stupid stupidface” just
now for admitting that, so here goes for you, Mr. Van.
“Who knows how to pitch a tent?” Only one boy raised his hand, and Mr. Van ushered
him forward to show everyone else how it’s done. The kid failed miserably and left the mess of
canvas and metal pipes and wire in the same state as before, except now all tangled up in a pile,
for he had made up all his tent­pitching knowledge. Mr. Van did not look angry, his face instead
showed his humorous understanding of the idiotic eagerness of 8th graders. He stared at the
shambled tent parts and without turning his head, cast his eyes towards us and incidentally
directly into my eyes.
“Who wants to know how to pitch a tent?” A few boys raised their hands, but I was the
only that said “I do.”
Mr. Van dismissed everyone else and told them to go entertain themselves for a while.
He then showed me in great detail how I was to pitch the tent, because he said I was to then
teach everyone else how to do it. He was tired and did not want to manage 8 groups of kids
struggling to hammer a wedge into the ground ­­ I was to do that, and he was to sleep. He
thanked me for putting up his tent for him and that was the first time I met my 8th grade english
teacher, Mr. Van.
Specific, witty memories of he and I are almost all gone to me. It’s as if my memory was
a phone­line and his voice could whisper in my ear, and remind me of that one time and I could
laugh and say “Oh yeah, I almost forgot about that, Mr. V.” But he’s hung up and now I’m stuck
on an empty line too. I know this, though: Mr. Van is the most important educational mentor that I
have ever had.
But I do remember the general everything about his class. Even though we were in a
standard classroom it felt really grown up because our chairs were those ones with little mini
retractable desks attached to them. We sat in a big O formation, lining the walls, facing inward.
The walls had carefully selected terrible student artwork which he’d pin up for about a month
then replace with some other piece. He always loved talking about the “hidden meaning” in each.
He’d say just a few thoughtful words about a painting, then just stare in silence, maybe even for
thirty seconds at it, while all of us watched him or did the same. Mr. Van was the kind of man that
had everyone’s full attention, and it was because he had your full curiosity. There were at least 3

2. swedish workout balls in the room at all times. The first two lucky students to class could claim
one ball each as a nice little ottoman for the period. Mr. Van was always sitting on one and
instead of standing and walking, he’d sit and bounce around class to wherever he needed to go.
He never walked. He mostly sat, but when he was fully upright and in motion he was
hobbling, not walking. Mr. Van used to be an ice climber. His desk was covered with small
photos of sheer ice cliffs, all with some small person or group of people harnessed and clinging
onto the glowing blue cold. He was in every one. He and his buddies used to always be out there,
somewhere, climbing up icy cliffs. His buddies were still out there, but he couldn’t be anymore. A
scary fall left him with a completely shattered left foot, so he could now only climb normal rock
face, because you have to kick to climb ice and he could no longer kick hard in to grip.
That shattered foot, though. That was the reason he hobbled and the reason he had an
excuse to bounce around on a workout ball. That shattered foot that could some days make him
the most silently angry person on the planet. That shattered foot that made so many things a
greater challenge for him to fiercely take on. That shattered foot that ruined him.
I have no idea what happened. I never stayed in touch with Mr. Van after middle school,
but whenever I would think back to my Shipley days something about him would always pop into
my mind.
The beginning of junior year, at a bonfire party at Dawejko’s house, I saw my old friend
and classmate, Lia for the first time in a while. We talked and laughed about hilarious middle
school memories, but then I brought up Mr. Van’s class. A dark look went over her face. “Oh my
god, have you not heard? Mr. Van got fired. Apparently he came into school really high. Yeah,
people were saying his doctor prescribed him a heavier pain medication for his foot, like
oxycodone stuff. Well he got addicted to it and things got bad. We talked about it a little in school,
the oxycodone led to a heroine addiction. Yeah, like Mrs. Van left him and took their daughter with
her and then shortly after the school got rid of him. I actually ran into him a few months ago,
before I knew anything about it. He completely didn’t recognize me and said ‘I’m sorry, I went
through a tough time and now I can’t really remember anything before it. I’m sorry, I guess you
were one of my students I’m sure you were great and I bet we had a lot of good memories.”
I stared at Lia in disbelief as she told me this. I couldn’t comprehend it. Mr. Van, the
beacon of my influence as an english student, the man that taught me how to be funny and how
to recognize whit and to put thought to paper and to see the bigger picture and literally everything
no other english teacher had taught me up until that point, but that I desperately needed to learn. I
just got up and sat, staring into the darkness by myself for I don’t know how long, the gravity of
what i had just learned slowly pushing down on me. Terrible, ruining thoughts stacked inside my
head like a hastily crafted house of cards, stacking until it collapsed and so did I and there, in the
dark, cold silence away from the fire I cried by myself.
An opioid destroyed him, and in that destruction, all the specific memories of his

3. influence dissolved away in my tears. I hate it, I can’t believe it, and I hate it. Only a few, select
memories remain and I will never, ever, forget them, because for you, Mr. Van. They are either
too damn hilarious or too damn awesome to ever fade away.
On the last day of the Woodlands Trip in West Virginia, a lot of kids had been
complaining too much or had just been bad, so there was going to be some revenge from the
chaperones on all the students. Mr. Van informed my friend Jeremy and I this was happening,
though because we had been happy campers and eager activity participants. The last morning
we were going to wake up at 4:30, pack all our gear up and hike the 12 miles to base camp
where the buses back home would be. The camp was really only half a mile away, but the camp
heads decided we would loop around the border of the land the opposite way as punishment.
Jeremy and I didn’t even think of this as punishment, though. We were excited to hike through
the woods in the dark with a bunch of gear on our backs because that would feel like real military
stuff and that was the coolest thing to us.
The next morning, when we were all ready to go, Mr. Van was walking alongside Jeremy
and I. We only went a few yards though when Mr. Van stopped and harsh loud “FUCK!” rang
through the forest. Jeremy and I stopped and turned. Mr. Van was still standing but he was
hunched over, grabbing at his left shoe. “My damn foot” we heard him mutter. He stayed there,
staring at it for a moment. He then lifted his left leg and hopped on one foot over to a tree. He
picked up a tall, thick stick, about as tall as he was and looked at the two of us, grinning. “I’m so
glad I’m not a monkey,” he said, “or I would have never thought of that! Let’s go!” We carried on
on our unnecessary, but exciting adventure, and Mr. Van never missed a step the rest of the
way.
So Dear Whoever,
That’s my hero, and that’s my favorite man. I don’t want to try and see him again,
because a recent memory could further tarnish all the old. I wish for him to be all that he was, but
I know that can’t happen, so I hope he is well now and is clean and back on track and most
importantly, happy. But I want my last real memory of him to be at 8th grade graduation. The
procession is over, but he finds me and pulls me aside and shakes my hand then hugs me and
pulls back, looks right in my eyes and says, “Good job, JJ. Good job.”