The Wrong Way to Save Your Life: Essays

by Megan Stielstra

She sounded worried as she told me a friend of Pete’s had died. She didn’t know who. Someone from before us. Someone he loved. “He went into his room and turned on the music,” she said, taking back the cigarette. “I tried to talk to him, but—” she stopped because truly, what do you say? We hold our friends’ hands as their hearts break: lost lovers, lost children, divorce and illness and addiction. There are no perfect words. We can be there. “How can I help?” we say. We say, “I’m sorry.”

“Pete!” I’d yell through his door and over the music. “Can I get you anything?” and “Do you want to talk?” and “The music is really loud!” But what I meant was: How can I help? “No,” and “No,” and “I know,” he’d yell back. But what he meant was: Leave me the hell alone.

“I wanted to get it out of me,” he said, and even though it would be years before I understood what he meant, before I put my own heart in the open and looked, really looked, I still nodded like I understood. “You can’t fix it if you can’t see it.”

“What songs or albums could we hear if people weren’t being told they aren’t supposed to be here?” Hopper told the Guardian. What songs or albums— What technological innovations or scientific discoveries— What policy advancements or philanthropic endeavors— What artistic or athletic achievements— What stories or essays—

You are supposed to be here. You are needed. We need you. We’re imagining the world. What if you’re the one who saves us? The one who finds the cure? Deactivates the bomb or gets us to Mars or unites us as one? You’re an Ultimate Fighter. You’re Ronda Rousey and Judit Polgár and your genius is off the charts. You design the tech to protect us from bullshit and the drugs for pediatric cancer and a moon-size magnet that sucks metal into space. You play Symphony no. 9 in D Minor and we remember the beauty in the world. You read aloud from “The Girl in the Cabinet” by Melissa Chadburn: “There is a child somewhere — a girl — and maybe she will pick up a book or peruse the internet and she will find your words. And in your words she will discover a world of the possible and she will climb out of the cabinet and she will put down the razor.” You read us poetry, like this from Joy Harjo: “But come here, fear/ I am alive and you are so afraid/ of dying.”

At some point, our education no longer belongs to our teachers. It belongs to us.

I teach writers. It’s on me to show them the weight of words, how they can perpetuate or elevate. Privilege isn’t blame or shame or fear. It’s responsibility.

We had to kick the culture shock; a single trip to an American grocery store proved panic inducing. There were so many products, so many options. Do you know how many brands of cereal there are in the United States? It’s too much cereal. Who the hell needs that much cereal cereal cereal cereal.