Saying “Yes” --by Matthew Dicks

The author, Matthew Dicks

The decision to take on the role of President of Phi Theta Kappa at the

very moment when it made the least sense became the model for

all of my future decision making. I

learned the value of saying yes. I discovered reserves of energy and

fortitude that I did not know existed.

_____________________________________

Community college attended: Manchester Community College Location: Manchester, Connecticut

Date success story essay was submitted: 14 May 2017 Community college sponsor/mentor: Patrick Sullivan, English Department,

Manchester Community College Key search terms: Returning adult student, changing careers, retraining, seeking a better future

Academic major: General Studies

My arrival to Manchester Community College in the spring of 1994 was the realization of a dream come true for me. I desperately wanted to attend college after high school, but because of a lifetime of poverty, a broken home, and a school system that abandoned me, I found myself living on my own, struggling to keep a roof over my head (and eventually finding myself without one). My first steps onto the campus of Manchester Community College represented the conclusion of a five year post-high school struggle to survive before finally making my college dream a reality. Manchester Community College was the first school of higher learning that I attended, and it will always be the one that means the most to me. I have since received degrees from Trinity College and St. Joseph’s University and attended several other schools for the occasional class, but the three years that I spent at Manchester Community College were the most rigorous and productive of my academic life. The first class that I took at MCC was On Death and Dying – a class that was held on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. I took a total of three evening classes during that first semester while managing a McDonald’s restaurant in Hartford and launching a small business with a friend. But that class on death and dying, chosen because my Tuesday and Thursday evenings were free, was the first time I set foot in a college classroom. I was nervous. I hadn’t been in a classroom in more than five years, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready. I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready. With a family to support, I couldn’t stop working to focus solely on my studies, so I didn’t know if I would ever have the time to be a successful

college student. I decided to use the spring of 1994 as my testing ground before going to school fulltime in the fall. Oddly enough, I remember that first class well. I learned about Elizabeth Kubler Ross for the first time. I joked with classmates at the idea of beating a mattress with a rubber hose as a means of processing grief. I studied the funeral rituals of various cultures. I memorized the five stages of grief and scoffed at the idea of acceptance, arguing with the professor that I was more of a Dylan Thomas man. “Rage at the dying of the light!” Most important, I discovered that my ongoing, almost suffocating existential crisis (the result of two near-death experiences, an armed robbery and a decade-long battle with untreated post-traumatic stress disorder) was not something that I suffered with alone. I was not unique.

My office For the first time in my life, I felt like I could speak about these feelings openly. It was a turning point in my life. Though it would be years before I sought treatment for my PTSD, the ability to speak openly about the challenges that I was facing was an enormous step forward.

So many of my experiences at Manchester Community College represented turning points in my life. In the spring of 1995, as I was walking from class on the lower campus to the Lowe Building for lunch, a friend and classmate named Chris Johnson caught up with me and said, “I’m running for Student Council, and I want you to run for President.” I had no idea that our school even had a Student Council. I had no idea that election season was upon us. I didn’t even know what issues were facing the student body. And I had never had the slightest inclination for political office. It sounded like a ridiculous request, especially given that the election was less than two weeks away and candidates were already campaigning. I said no. By the time I pulled open the doors to the Lowe Building, I had changed my mind. Chris could be very convincing. I launched a campaign based upon the life experience that I would bring to the job. I talked about my five years following high school, which included homelessness, an arrest and trial for a crime I did not commit, a career managing restaurants in Massachusetts and Connecticut, the successful launch of my own business, and my work with The Live Wire. I campaigned hard for those two weeks, handing out flyers, shaking hands, and talking to students. In the end, I lost by 18 votes to a student named Jane. Chris won his election for Executive Senator. Even though I had lost, I was pleased with the results. I had tried something new. It was something that I had never dreamt for myself, and though it didn’t end well, I learned a great deal and found reserves of confidence that I never knew I possessed. In the fall, Jane did not return to school, making my loss a little harder to swallow. Angela, the Vice President-elect, became President. Chris was named Vice President, and I was named to Chris’s position as Executive Senator on the strength of my campaign. Eventually I would rise to the position of Treasurer and work closely with Angela and Chris in crafting legislation. Though I had lost the election, I had found my way onto the Senate after all.

Working as a dj My position on the Student Senate introduced me to Alfred Carter for the first time, and I am a better man today for the time I spent learning from him. Dean Carter guided the Senate with a wise and steady head and taught me a great deal about leadership, inclusivity, and consensus building. Most important, he taught me how to shut up and listen. It is a skill that has served me well ever since. Dean Carter accompanied the Senate to a leadership conference in Washington, DC, where I met fellow students from around the country who would remain important parts of my life for years to come. Dean Catrer spent hours talking about the importance of establishing life goals, setting high expectations, and serving those in need. As a member of the Senate, my confidence and leadership skills blossomed. I did all of the driving to and from Washington for that trip, through blinding thunderstorms both ways. I remember driving the van north on the New Jersey Turnpike on a late afternoon with the eight other people in the vehicle (Dean Carter included) all fast asleep. In this moment of quasi-solitude, I felt like the luckiest man on the planet. I was a college student, returning home from a leadership conference, with a van full of new and diverse friends. It doesn’t seem like much today, but back then, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Between my roles as a full time student and a full time manager of a McDonald’s restaurant, I don’t know how I managed to devote as much time to school politics as I did, but I somehow found a way. It was an incredibly busy, incredibly rewarding time of my life.

Shortly after being appointed to the Senate, Patrick Sullivan, my English professor, approached me about taking over the Presidency of Phi Theta Kappa, the national honor society for community colleges. Considering the responsibilities already on my plate, my first reaction, as it was with Chris’s offer, was to say no. But Pat thought that I was the right person for the job and asked me to reconsider. I agreed to spend an evening mulling things over and went home to weigh the pros and cons of the decision. I didn’t have any parents in my life at the time, and I was bitter about their absence. While so many of my friends are able to turn to their parents for assistance and advice (and even a roof) when needed, I have never experienced that level of support. Ever since I was eighteen, I have been living without a safety net of any kind, and the constant state of vigilance that this requires has taken its toll. I’ve often felt abandoned, alone, and one step away from disaster. In response to the absence of parental support, I had developed several strategies to help me get by over the years. When faced with a difficult decision and wishing for the wisdom and experience that a mother or father could provide, I would often formulate an imaginary version of my father or mother in my mind and ask them for advice. In this case, I imagined my father sitting across from me at my dining room table, listening as I describe my litany of school and work responsibilities, and nodding thoughtfully. “So?” I asked him. “Should I do this thing? I don’t think I can find the time. I’m swamped already.” Imaginary Dad paused a moment and then said, “People who succeed in life don’t find the time. They make the time.” Imaginary Dad is a smart guy.

My family I went back to school the next day and told Pat that I would accept the position. When he asked what changed my mind, I told him about the advice that my father had given me, leaving out the fact that the father in question was not real. Pat would later compliment me for my willingness to ask my father for advice in a recommendation letter. I never had the heart to tell him the truth. This ended up being another turning point in my life. The decision to take on the role of President of Phi Theta Kappa at the very moment when it made the least sense became the model for all of my future decision making. I learned the value of saying yes. I discovered reserves of energy and fortitude that I did not know existed. My imaginary father was right. Successful people make the time. Ever since that day, whenever I am presented with an opportunity of almost any kind, I say yes, and I especially say yes when it makes the least sense. This has led me to many unexpected turns in my life, including becoming wedding DJ, a minister, a playwright, a comic book writer, and most recently a storyteller.

In many ways, I owe much of my storytelling success to Pat Sullivan, too. The single greatest class that I have ever taken in my life was his public speaking class in the spring of 1995. It was the class where I learned to write concisely, argue persuasively, take risks, speak effectively to an audience, and most important, feel more confident about my abilities than ever before. In that class, I defended O.J. Simpson while arguing about the importance of the presumption of innocence until proven guilty. I argued against the death penalty. I argued in favor of procrastination. I proposed that women be denied the right to vote until they accept inclusion in future military drafts, arguing that women do themselves a disservice when they do not fight for equal responsibilities in addition to rights. I stood in front of my class and argued in favor of inflammatory ideas and ludicrous notions, and after each speech, Pat responded with thorough, insightful notes on the talk. I still have these notes today. The level of instruction and feedback that he provided was astounding. Pat turned me into a public speaker. Every time I speak before an audience today, I think of him and the lessons learned in Effective Speaking 213. When it came time to say yes to storytelling, Pat had made it easy, and my life has truly changed for the better as a result. Today I tell stories for audiences numbering in the thousands for organizations like The Moth, This American Life, and many others. My stories have appeared on The Moth Radio Hour, which is listened to by millions throughout the United States. They have been published in places like Reader’s Digest. I have performed throughout the country and am one of the winningest Moth slam champions in history. I owe so much of this to Patrick Sullivan. Today, my wife and I run our own storytelling organization called Speak Up. We produce and perform in shows throughout New England and teach storytelling throughout the country and around the world. I have taught storytelling skills to lawyers, teachers, salespeople, business leaders, performers, professors, executives, grandparents who want their grandchildren to listen to them, people who want to improve their dating prospects, and many more. It’s a business that has helped make it possible to keep my wife at home with our children for the last six years. It’s a true labor of love for us.

My website homepage: http://www.matthewdicks.com/ In each of these cases, I was asked to say yes to something that I had absolutely no business doing, and my life is better for it. Each time, I think back upon that afternoon in Pat Sullivan’s classroom when he first asked me to be the President of Phi Theta Kappa. Patrick Sullivan and an imaginary father taught me a life changing lesson. It turned out that despite my five year absence from the classroom, I was more than ready for the demands of college. When I look back on that time, it’s hard to imagine how I managed to work more than 60 hours a week while attending school fulltime, but the truth of it was that I loved learning and wanted a college education more than anything else. The sacrifices that I made during those years seemed meager in comparison to the benefits that I was receiving. Credit also goes to many of my MCC professors for my enthusiasm and willingness to persist despite the enormous demands on my time. During that first year, Jacqueline Leblanc, an adjunct English professor, the aforementioned Patrick Sullivan, and Mary Ahern, my algebra professor, played important roles in my academic success. Jackie inspired me to pursue writing seriously. Though I had dreamed of being a writer (and specifically a novelist) since I was in high school, that dream had become more and more implausible as the years had rolled by. Jackie rekindled my love for writing and convinced me that a career in writing, while difficult, wasn’t impossible. She did this by serving as both my teacher and a fan of my work. I filled journal after journal with thoughts, ideas and stories from my life, and Jackie read every word and commented on every entry. I still have and treasure those journals today.

In many ways, Jackie Leblanc was my first reader. I can’t imagine a more important person for a fledgling writer. Patrick Sullivan was one of the first positive male role models in my life. He was the kind of man who I wanted to be. Pat lived and breathed the life of a reader, a writer and a thinker. He was knowledgeable and passionate about literature and encouraged me to write just as Jackie had done a semester before. Most important, Pat was a master teacher. He understood that effective instruction requires high expectations, engaging material and an educational leader who students want to follow. Even the most reticent students struggled to maintain their purposeful apathy in Pat’s classes because disappointing him was not an option. As a teacher today, I think about the lessons that Pat taught me often. I never wanted to miss any of his classes, and I strive for that goal with my students. In 2007, I became a published author with the release of my first novel, Something Missing. Three other novels have followed, and there are more on the way. If you read the acknowledgements to Something Missing, you will find Pat Sullivan and Jackie Leblanc (now Jackie Dailey) thanked for my success. Deservedly so.

My latest novel (2015) Mary Ahern convinced me that a writer and a lover of literature can also fall in love with mathematics. She was the first teacher who made algebra accessible to me and made me think of

myself as a competent, confident, creative mathematician. Before I met Mary, math was shrouded in a veil that I assumed was impenetrable by liberal arts-minded people like me. Mary made math fun. She changed the way I looked at it forever. These are just three of so many outstanding educators who changed my life. I remember them all so well. In September of 2007, I returned to an MCC campus that I did not recognize to deliver the convocation address. The lower campus – where I had spent so much of my time as a student – was gone. A green field of tall grass and wild flowers stood in its place. The yellow arc sodium lamps, the crumbling walkways, and drafty, temporary buildings had disappeared. Those so-called temporary structures were terrible places for students to learn during the winter months (and not much better in the fall and spring), but I loved them just the same and miss them to this day. Gleaming, arching structures of metal and glass now obscure the sky above the once solitary Lowe Building, making the campus nearly unrecognizable to me. The auditorium, where I had once won the state debate championship two years in a row, is now a gymnasium. Our former Student Senate offices are now a bookstore. The former offices of The Live Wire are part of an on-campus high school. The stone path where I learned of my Presidential election loss from a fellow candidate named Timmy is now a gallery space.

One of my official author photos

I took the stage that day and spoke about three people who changed my life: Dean Alfred Carter, Jacqueline Leblanc and Patrick Sullivan. Dean Carter and Pat were in attendance that day. I stood on that stage – a graduate from ten years ago – and urged these incoming students to find their own Pat, Jackie and Dean Carter. It was easy for people to dismiss the quality of an education from Manchester Community College when I attended the school in the 1990s. From an outsiders’ view, the school consisted of a gray, industrial, cube and a collection of classrooms on the Lower Campus that looked more like an ancient trailer park. The facilities were less than impressive. But the strength of Manchester Community College went far beyond the drafty classrooms and crumbling sidewalks. The strength of the school, and the reason it has made a difference in the lives of so many students, has always been in the people who work and teach there. Teachers like Patrick Sullivan, Jacqueline Leblanc, Alfred Carter, Mary Ahearn and the many more who have gone unmentioned in this piece. These are people who did not rely upon modern facilities and cutting edge technology in order to change their students’ lives. They performed their miracles armed only with their love for their teaching, their expertise and passion in their field, and their desire to do right by their students. For the past four years, I have brought my fifth grade students to Manchester Community College to show them where I came from and where they could go. While many of them will eventually find their way to traditional, four year colleges, others will find themselves in shoes similar to mine after graduating high school, with the desire to learn and excel but lacking the resources to do so. I bring my students to MCC to show them that there is a place where the education that they seek and will need is available and affordable. As they step off the school bus, they marvel at the glass and steel that rises into the sky. They wander the halls of the school, peeking into television and art studios, creeping through a vast library, impressed by the state of the art facilities that the school now offers. Many are planning their future at MCC long before we board the buses for home. But a small part of me can’t help but miss the days when the magic of Manchester Community College was hidden to the outside world, known only to those brave enough to descend the treacherous concrete staircase to the Lower Campus, wander down poorly lit paths into crumbling buildings, to have a chance to learn from some of the finest professors in the country.

The cover from one of my first novels. “An incredibly captivating novel about the wonder of youth and the importance of friendship, whether real or imagined. Delightfully compelling reading.” ―Booklist