* It
is difficult to put the emotions I’m feeling right now into words. With the following series,
I want to express how the recent events have really left me conflicted,
confused, and saddened.*
*With that said, I am NOT
defending the actions of Michael Kazecki. To put your hands on someone is bad
enough, but to put your hands on someone you love, there is no defense for that.*
*Although I do not defend
Kazecki’s actions, I do not believe he is the psychopathic monster everyone
believes should burn on a cross. He should face legal justice, yes, but we
should not turn him into something he was not for the majority of his life*
*This is NOT a defense
piece*
I’ve always found writing to be a therapeutic thing
for me. Time and tragedy again, those of us who write, and, more importantly, write
for the people, pick up our pens and paper, in an attempt to express what needs
to be said, and what needs to be read. However, every so often we hear of
something that is so surreal, so unimaginable, that it is difficult to express
the emotions of those who bear witness to such events. I was met with this conflict
on the night of August 7th. I had just come home from a movie, ready
to begin editing a draft for an upcoming post when I saw my phone was flooded
with messages and missed calls. I replayed some of the voicemails, and was
shocked at what I heard.
“Did you hear about Kazecki??”
“He fucking killed his wife.”
“What a psycho!”
“What is wrong with him!!?”
“He’s a monster”
My initial reaction was disgust. I
was angry. I was angry at Michael. How could a man do something like this? Why would
a man like him do anything like this? Before continuing, I believe now would be
a good time to explain my association with Kazecki.
Following the death of a teacher
during the summer between my seventh and eighth grade year, we were informed we
would be receiving a new instructor for language arts and social studies. I’ll
admit, upon first glance, I was not very impressed. He seemed too laid back,
too casual. At the time, I was an eighth grade kid who was too full of himself
to think he “deserved” something less. That all changed within the first month
of being in his class. He was eccentric, and he had the tendency to become
passionate very quickly, but it was always over something I couldn’t appreciate
until recently in my life. When he was not teaching, I remember he spoke of his
fondness for classic literature and film, and his distaste for big corporations.
Perhaps he was just playing devil’s advocate, going against what we deemed “cool”
for the sake of capturing the interest of those unique few who would become
intrigued by such things. He also spoke of his son, Roman, and how he was trying
to put him through little league football (soccer) and how frustrated he would
become whenever he would make a mistake on the field. The comments were made in
jest meant to keep his classes intrigued. I even remember his unconventional
way of approaching famous works of literature by putting the works into a more
contemporary style.
He coached our school’s academic
bowl team, making sure we worked hard day in and day out, while showing us that
being intelligent or a “nerd” is nothing to hate about yourself. It isn’t
anything to beat yourself up over. He taught me to embrace the gifts and
burdens I was given, even if it meant giving up on trying to fit in.
The most memorable thing about him,
however, was the manner to which he treated me. I knew he was someone who had
very high expectations for his students and his children, but it’s as if he
knew of my potential, and he would tell me he knew that me and my siblings would go on to do great things. I
always gained a great deal of confidence whenever he would begin talking about
college. “When you get into college”.
Not if, when. With the exception of a
handful of instructors in the past, no teacher before him ever used the term when, and that meant something to me. It’s
one thing to have a family to support what you do, it’s another to have a outsider,
someone who doesn’t know you personally, know your potential, and support you
in that way. As idiotic as I was in those days, he still held those expectations
for me, and I cannot hate the man for that.
To conclude this misguided rant, I will say the following: Prior
to his action of killing his wife, I knew Michael Kazecki as Mr. Kazecki, Coach
Kazecki, and Mr. K. I enjoyed his class so much. He made my last year of middle
school something memorable that even today, when I see an old classmate, or
speak with my sister about the old days, we can look back at the good times,
and see him. I suppose that’s what
makes this so conflicting for me, so surreal, and so depressing. I got to know
the man as someone I could confide in. He was someone who believed in me. He
was someone who has gone down in my memory, and has impacted my life in a positive
way, despite this terrible tragedy.
I do not pray often, and when I do,
I never know what to say, but I know with certainty that I will say something
tonight, for his wife, for his children, and for his conscious.
Thank
you.
Rodolfo
Perez
P.E.N.T.C.I.
