What Tyler Taught Me
The people from the before version of your life teach you about the after version, if you let them.
Tyler || Resolution || Past || Growth
Tyler Chase joined the debate team as a non-competing observer in March, which was an unusual arrangement that Mrs. Callahan permitted with the particular flexibility she applied to students who were genuinely motivated rather than fulfilling a requirement. He came to the Thursday practice sessions and sat in the back row and watched with the attention of someone studying something they wished they’d started earlier. We had, by March, arrived at the specific kind of friendship that was possible between two people who had known each other at fourteen and had grown significantly in different directions before converging again. Not close in the way Priya and I were close. But real — the kind of thing that had honesty in it and no pretense.
He talked to me after a Thursday session in mid-March, when everyone else had left and I was gathering my notes. “Can I ask you something?” he said. “Sure,” I said. He sat on the edge of the nearest table. He had been working something toward, I could see — the expression of someone who had been building up to a question for a while and had decided that today was the day. “When you gave the constructive at state,” he said. “The personal argument. About knowing the cost of not being authentic.” He looked at the table. “Was that about — was that about you? Specifically?” I looked at him. The question was careful, not prying — he was asking about shared territory, not about me alone. “Yes,” I said. “Among other things.” He nodded. He looked at his hands. “I’m getting there,” he said. “With some things. About who I am. I’m not — I’m not where you are yet.” “I wasn’t where I am two years ago,” I said. “Or eight months ago.” He looked up. “How did you — what made the difference?” I thought about it. “People who asked me good questions,” I said. “And waited for the real answer.” I thought about Jamie’s do you actually believe it in the first library session. “And having something I wanted to be honest for,” I said. “Someone,” I corrected, which was more accurate. He looked at me with the complexity that had been in his face since he came back — the thing that was doing its work, slowly, the way growth did its work. “I’m glad you won,” he said. “The state tournament. I’m glad it was you up there.” “Thank you,” I said. He stood. At the door, he turned. “You know, in eighth grade,” he said. “I knew it was real. What was happening. I just didn’t — I wasn’t ready to know that I knew it.” “I know,” I said. “I wasn’t either.” “Are you now?” “Yes,” I said. He nodded once. He left. I stood in the debate room for a moment, with the afternoon light coming through the windows and the index cards in my pocket and the notebooks under my arm, and I thought about fourteen-year-old Alex who had laid in bed at two in the morning and understood something and immediately decided to manage it rather than feel it. I thought about what I would tell that fourteen-year-old if I could. I thought: the room is warm. It was always warm. You just couldn’t feel it yet. Give it time. Keep going. It’s worth it.