Date: Tue, 10 Mar 1998 17:46:30 -0500 From: Christopher Stolle Subject: FILL: BIO -------------------------------------------------------------------------- MR. LESTER -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Christopher Thomas Stolle was born to Thomas Joseph and Mary Anne Stolle on Feb. 4, 1976, at 10:38 a.m. in Richmond, Indiana, at Reid Hospital. My first memory of life is my Uncle Howard's funeral at age four. I wish, until about age 16, that was the only childhood memory I could remember. I lived in a mostly black neighborhood that was noisy, often full of cops and full of anger. We lived about three blocks from the elementary school, which was right next to the middle school. This is where I spent my early years. Nothing of great fun, to be sure. I pulled a girl's hair in kindergarten and was paddled. I learned to tie my shoes at age six. In first and second grade, I was a talker and got my name on the board with a slew of checks by it almost everyday. For this, I was paddled just once each of these years I believe. In third grade, I felt I was turning myself around. We were never given grades in these grades so far, just performance marks. But fourth grade was going to be different. I had my first male teacher. A large, husky man who my mother later contended felt we were white trash. Quite possible since we were one of the few white families in our neighborhood. We got grades for the first time this year. I got a D in math and although in other math courses I would get As and Bs, this has scarred me throughout my education. It was the first time I recall working in groups and I was made to feel stupid. I was paddled this year for fighting. Today, I am still an aggressive, quick-tempered chap, but not violent anymore. Those days are past. Alas, my fifth grade teacher, Mr. Lester, saved my live. He challenged my mind, encouraged me to study and work hard and allowed me to work in the school library if I completed my work. I loved books ... more so than I do now. I loved being around books ... reading and learning. While I worked there, I had dreams of working for the National Library of Congress. And during my sophomore year in HS, I worked at the local library, shelving books. I lost my dream ... and found the ones I have now of teaching and working for the media. But Mr. Lester was not just my teacher, but my friend. I recall one time he asked me to help him carry some books for him from the office to his room. Upon completion of this task, he called me a Good Samaritan. I will never forget that. he taught me manners, responsibilities and confidence in myself and my school work. But I began to lose touch with people. I became more concerned with my schoolwork than social things, particularly friends. But the things Mr. lester instilled in me really started to hit me while in middle school and in high school. As a seventh grader, Mr. Lester was in the hospital for lung cancer. I don't know why, but I didn't go visit him. Yet, I did something for him ... something I had done once before. On the last day of fifth grade, I presented Mr. Lester with a poem I wrote. I had written a poem in about third grade about playing Monopoly with my family and it got in the kids' page of the local paper. But this poem was more special. It was about Mr. Lester and what he did for me. What made it more special, now that many years have passed, is that my grandfather made a plaque out of wood for my poem. My grandfather passed away in March 1996 from cancer. As a side note: I hate cancer. Always will. I hope to do more with cancer and world hunger in the near future, such as literary benefits. Anyhow, in seventh grade I wrote an essay about Mr. Lester and what he meant to me. This essay won a school contest and Mr. Lester was sent a copy. I still have the original essay in my collection. Not long after, Mr. Lester passed away ... and I regret not knowing why I didn't go to his funeral. But I think I was forgiven years later ... As a senior in high school, ranked 17th in a class of 470, and a National Honor Society member, I was asked to pick a teacher who had helped me the most in becoming who I was. Where I'm from they call it Academic Excellence and I don't know if anyone else does anything like it. Nevertheless, my list was composed of a middle school language arts teacher, a high school English teacher and a math teacher (she was the HS girls basketball coach whom I kept game stats for for two years and earned a letter jacket). But in the end, I decided to honor Mr. Lester posthumously. But I was worried that they would not be able to find any of his family. So, the banquet came and all the honorees and their teachers were all gathered in the school cafeteria for a meal before the ceremony. I sat with my parents, wondering if anyone would show up. All of the sudden, an older woman and two younger women, around my mother's age, approached my table and she introduced herself as Mrs. Lester and his two daughters. It made me shudder to think they found someone to come. She knew I was in journalism ... not sure how, but someone must have told her ... and she presented me with an engraved pen and pencil. I think she knew I was into poetry at the time because ... well, the big zinger of the night was the fact she told me Mr. Lester used to come home and talk about me almost everyday. It was surprising to find out that teachers talk about us like we talk about them. And the poem I wrote him? It still hangs on a wall in her home. This is what probably pushed me more into poetry. Yes, I have published a lot, but mainly I just love to share my work. I am not an academic poet. Purely a poet for the people, but also helping myself get things out. I really don't know how else to introduce myself, so this is the best I could do. And now I will attach a poem that is completely different in some respects than this sombre story. Just one final note, in case it is not inherent in this story in some manner or another. I am a senior at Indiana University and I hope to graduate in May with a BA in journalism and education. Also, please feel free to visit my website as well as this resource page I really need to update: http://php.indiana.edu/~cstolle/links.html And I will, as I always say, be glad to answer any questions! Peace. :) Christopher Stole CANDLELIGHT PASSION I can write the words to make you feel me (i don't understand anything about women) I can paint the picture you have in your heart (i don't know what love looks or feels like) I can whistle the tune that let's you smile (i don't think we realize the power of laughter) I want to shadow the sun from your waking eyes (i don't understand why you cry in the afternoon) I want to battle your warriors when the moon sleeps (i don't know what their plan of attack will be) I want to chant the victory passages to your heart (i don't think you can hear my soul beating) I need to follow the path laid out before me (i don't understand where these hands came from) I need to lead the meek and shallow to freedom (i don't know why everyone is afraid of pride) I need to sing the song, but I've forgotten the words (i don't think anyone will miss the middle verse) I will do the things I can (you will understand) I will be the things I want (you will know) I will get the things I need (you will think) And when we hold hands in the moonlight I will kiss the smile you brought for my honesty Because when love flickers, we must shade the wind Before time blows out our candlelight passion ************************************************************************** "Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see." -- Lennon ************************************************************************** Christopher Stolle's Literary Home Page -- http://php.indiana.edu/~cstolle **************************************************************************