The Wingos Are Poets At Last

I went to school for a long time to get a degree in Creative Writing. Nearly six years of college, with side trips and diversions into Studio Art and Film History. And binge drinking. The total package. When I graduated, I stood up near the back of a section of the basketball arena in which commencement was held, along with a thousand of my closest friends and associates who were also being granted their Bachelor of Arts walking papers that day. After an evening of celebration with friends and family, I was back the following day at my job: Working at a video store.
My Creative Writing degree provided me with endless opportunities, and when I say endless I mean the video store owner ceded control of the monthly newsletter to me. And I crafted endless short stories and poems from the mind of a brooding and sensitive man of letters. That no one seemed very interested in publishing. Which did not keep me from describing myself as a writer, because that's what I did. When I wasn't recommending the latest hits on VHS to customers who would not hold still to listen to my dissertation on the films of Terry Gilliam.
Somewhere in there, I let slip to a friend of mine that I was working on a script for the TV show Northern Exposure. She was very impressed. So very much so in fact that she ended up accepting my proposal to marry her. Even though at the time my job was assembling and moving modular office furniture. I was waiting for my big break. Until then my wife and I agreed that should one of us should break out in any creative way that meant fame or fortune, the other was more than welcome to the coattails of stardom.
I went to work in a book warehouse, where I moved stacks of books by authors who I often felt had much less to offer than myself, but it kept the lights on and had some pretty tremendous healthcare benefits. Which is how we were able to have a baby boy. And all the while I kept that writing muscle from atrophying completely. As our son grew up, he would often see both of his parents hunched over keyboards, trying to make sense of the world in which they lived. He must have been watching closely, or maybe there were genetics involved because a few weeks ago, he was offered a job writing. Professionally. I got a to a place in my life where I was teaching children how to write, and lo and behold my progeny seems to have taken my dreams and made them a reality.
There aren't words to describe how proud I am of him, which is unfortunate since this is an expressly verbal medium. I can say that in addition to the pride is a sense of relief: My son is going a step further than I did, and after just four years of college. Giving me the opportunity to write this piece. That Creative Writing degree just keeps on giving.