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the deafening silence of muffin Read essay Listen to the essay it's a live ball Read essay Listen to the essay the favorite Read essay Listen to the essay
the fix is in |screenplay|
Screenplay · In progress the fix is in College professor and political strategist "Big Game" Nate Turner navigates faith, family, and the seedy dealings of Texas politics. Explore the project
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Whether at church camps as a teenager, on international trips as an adult, or even that time I ended up in the White House Economic Council’s office discussing healthcare policy, I have been known as “John from Dallas.”
So it surprises many friends and colleagues when they discover that I am not a native Texan. To be fair, I act as though I was born in my adopted state right up until the point of lying. Then I tell the truth: I was born in Louisiana, just outside New Orleans.
We moved to Texas over Christmas break during my second-grade year. At the time, our family consisted of my mother, my father, my younger brother James, me, and our dog, Muffin. My sister, born later, would be the only native Texan among us.
But before she was born...
On an unusually cold morning during our first Texas spring, James and I were playing in the front yard of our new suburban home in Irving, just outside of Dallas. My father walked out the front door toward us, which was enough to make both of us immediately stop playing.
Without context, he asked, “Did you notice that you didn’t hear something this morning?”
Remember, I was seven years old. My brother had just turned four. The question made even less sense to us in the moment than it does to you now.
“No, Dad,” I replied, having no idea where this conversation was going.
“Muffin,” Dad said plainly. “Did you hear Muffin this morning?”
My brother and I looked at each other.
“No. Is everything all right with Muffin?”
My father, Owen DeWitt, replied, “You didn’t hear Muffin because Muffin died last night. And Muffin died because you did not love him enough.”
Let that sink in…
Okay, like most stories, this one has good news and bad news.
The bad news is that no amount of therapy will ever make me a normal person after hearing my father tell me that.
The good news (which I discovered in high school and put to extensive use throughout college and my early twenties) is that whenever I told this story to members of the opposite sex, they found me devastatingly irresistible.
But the real treasure of the story lies in the lesson my father was trying to teach, I just did not grasp it at the time.
What I heard was: “You killed the family dog.”
What he was actually saying: “John, pay attention. There are people in your life who need to be loved. There are people around you who need to feel love. And when they don’t, bad things happen. Pay attention, man”.
Yes, sir.
My brother James is quite the athlete. During his junior year of high school, he was named MVP of the baseball team.
When we were young, our father would say that James had the looks girls wanted and I had the charm. Then James grew up, refined his preaching skills, and ascended from Vacation Bible School teacher to children’s pastor to senior pastor. Meanwhile, I have yet to acquire an impressive job title. Ask anyone I work with what my title is, and they will stare at you blankly. At some point, it became clear that James had successfully cornered the market on brotherly attractiveness. That is why I prefer stories from his freshman year of high school, when I could still claim some charisma.
On this particular day, James was playing first base, and our whole family was in the stands.
The opposing batter hits a routine ground ball to short. The shortstop bobbles it, recovers, and fires the ball to James at first. The throw and the batter/runner arrive at exactly the same time.
A violent collision follows.
The ball popped out of James’s glove, and we watched him hit the ground.
Hard.
Sitting beside me, my mother whispers, “Oh no. James...”
My father is on my other side. He realizes that the runner is safe, no one has possession of the ball, and, most importantly, the play is not over.
He jumps to his feet and yells, “It’s a live ball!”
James (as though I have not bragged about him enough at this point) hears our father. My brother gets up, finds the ball, and somehow manages to throw it across the diamond. “Somehow” is important because we can tell that something is very, very wrong.
The collision broke my brother’s arm.
Like every childhood story about my father, there is what I heard him say and the more important truth he was trying to say.
What I heard him say was: “A silly baseball game is more important than a broken arm.”
What I now know he was trying to say: “There is life to be lived. There is a kingdom to serve. Do not be the wicked servant who buries his talent.” My father used to tell my brother, “James, the word ‘retirement’ is not in the Bible. It’s not biblical.”
Constant motion. No wasted gifts. No wasted time. No sitting this one out.
Yes, sir.
Growing up, my father gave nicknames to each of his three children.
As the oldest child, with a passion for both politics and cars/clothes/experiences outside of my price range, I was known as “the politician” or “the prodigal son.”
My brother James, the middle child, would eventually enter the ministry. He was “the preacher” or “the good son.”
And finally, there is the youngest, my sister Anne.
She was simply “the favorite.”
For Anne’s eighteenth birthday, my father wanted to do something special. During the winter of her senior year, he took her and my mother to New York City. He spared no expense: a carriage ride through Central Park, dinner at Le Cirque, and stays at extravagant hotels.
I would love to tell you about the trips James and I took with our father when we turned eighteen. But, alas, dear reader, there were none.
As if that were not enough, when my sister (an adrenaline junkie and thrill-seeker) turned thirty, my father arranged for the two of them to go skydiving. Dad was sixty. And, yes, for the love of his thirty-year-old (and favorite) daughter, my father jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.
We were all there to watch them skydive…it was a beautiful display of love and a nauseating display of favoritism.
As with so many stories about my father, there is what I believed he was communicating at the time and what I now understand he meant.
What I heard was: “Hey, in case there is any confusion, your sister is my favorite.”
What I now understand is that my father, who had the spiritual gift of prophecy, was communicating something else: “John, you and your brother are going to have six daughters between you. No sons. If you want them to become strong, brilliant, Proverbs 31 women like your sister, then treat your daughters the way I treat her.”
Yes, sir.
john dewitt · essays | creative writing