October 25th 2014 - Looking For My Voice

My Freshman year of college was a difficult transition from high school.  I lived in the dorms my Freshman year and made several friends, mostly acquaintances.  My grades suffered after the first two quarters.  I had expectations that college would be this amazing place where people come together like a think tank to solve the world’s problems.  I was hoping it was the collaborative environment of learning science and creative expression that high school was not.  It did have those qualities at times, but it was sparse, in the end it seemed to be an extension of high school but without the coral that parent’s provide, for better or for worse.  It was rather daunting being at a school with thousands and thousands of students.  My id number was 1659831, it was common to meet someone, connect with them and never see them again.  I felt like a number, tagged like a fish in the sea for a computer to track my actions.  I started the habit of routines: walking the same path to class; early in the morning getting coffee, same potion from the same Espresso 22; sitting in the same seat in the auditorium, hoping to see the same face near me in the hall full of 200-300 people.

I took risks, put myself out there, made myself vulnerable.  It worked some of the time, but mostly it faded.  I met people and they meant something, but it was fleeting.  I was looking for deeper connections, lasting relationships, people I could learn from and they could also learn from me in return.

Then it happened.  My friend from the dorm Ben introduced me to a group of guys that were in the process of leaving ATO - the fraternity.  They’d lived in the frat house but found a place of their own - The Ontario House.  Erik and Mike were the home plate on the baseball diamond.  They were open to people, anyone could stop by, join in on the festivities, the TV, the music, the debate.  But most importantly, it was the freedom to create and express myself, all of ourselves, it felt like a home away from home.

Often they would turn off the TV and we would do writing drills.  Poetry, prose, lyrics, stream of consciousness, it was great.  We would share and debate, less critique and more articulated validation.  These sessions would also lead to music - drumming, guitar, singing, there wasn’t anything that was out of bounds or off limits.

Then Ben gave me a harmonica, his traveling C blues harp.  I was shy at first, what did I know of keys, chords, rhythm, melody, or harmony?  All I could do was listen.  Robert entered the mix and he would play lots of music - mostly guitar, while the rest of us drummed a bongo, beat the table, or blew on the harmonica.

I was expanded by an open mike night every night at the Ontario House.  From writing, to music, to conversation and people, I felt right at home.  We read Walt Whitman, Charles Bukowski, Ernest Hemingway, and Edgar Allen Poe.  During this time, my grades improved.  My sense of humor and my outlook generally shifted.  I was happy and thriving.  As weeks passed I began to notice some things.  Mike was a natural writer and creative genius.  He shared with me once that his English Professor told him that a writer or poet needed to create 25 works from beginning to end, before considering something for submission.  “The process of creating and producing work changes a person,” Mike would say, and “this is the growth an artists needs to enter before taking his work seriously.”  Erik was a poet, he produced collections of his own poetry and shared them with us, Ben and Robert were talented musicians, and Ben especially had grace with the ladies - he could smooth talk his way through barbed wire.  Mike also wrote poems and prose that he put together, and he decided to make a literary zine.  Mike was the brains and we helped in any way that we could.  One of the best hacks that we did was to produce ‘Grume’ by sneaking into the Administrative Building on campus where the dean’s office was located.  This was a huge operation of lookouts and planning to pull of the heist.  To have the University supply the copy for our literary magazine seemed all too perfect.  We used their copy machine to print at least thirty or forty magazines.

One day it was just Mike and I at the Ontario House.  We were reading and quietly chilling when Mike could see something was on my mind.  He started talking and he something I won’t forget. 

“You have to find your voice Pete,” he could see I didn’t know what he was talking about.  “Everyone has something, everyone.  Maybe its not what you think it would be, being a doctor, or whatever.  But your voice is everything.  Once you get your voice, well…” he trailed off and never finished the sentence.

I thought for a while about what he said, never really forgot it.  I asked myself the question, what is my voice?  Later, Mike approached me and said, “your voice could be your conversation?”  He continued, “You are a great listener and maybe that’s your voice.”  I told him I like to listen to people’s stories, God knows I’d had enough therapy to know what it is like from just on the job training.

“People like to tell you their stories, and you open them up, you don’t judge them, maybe that is your voice.”  I still think about those words he shared and how meaningful it was for him to say them.

As I write this, today October 25^th 2014, I couldn’t tell you what my voice is, nor whether I have figured it out.  Maybe it isn’t something we ever really know.  But today, as I sit in my shoes, I wouldn’t be the man I am without those guys helping to pave the way for who I would become and what I would accomplish.  Thank you Ontario House and all that passed through those doors.