Who Is Matt Eicheldinger and Why Does He Make Me Cry Every Day?

 

Seriously, I don't know how his posts starting coming up in my Instagram feed, but suddenly one morning there was this earnest-looking dude holding a coffee mug, apparently sitting outside his house, and with a friendly wave he began a short chat with, "Hi, my name is Matt, I'm a teacher, and today's story is called...." I don't remember which story I heard first, but Matt already had me at "I'm a teacher...." Plus the coffee mug. Plus sitting outside. Plus... Well, you just have to hear the sincerity in his voice.

Anyway, Matt isn't just a teacher (although if that were his only gift, being the great teacher that he is--just listen to some of the stories from his classroom--we would be, as a society, super-blessed). He is also a terrific story teller. And a writer. And an artist. And now an author. But that's not why he makes me cry.

I mean, not yet. His books haven't made me cry yet. I will confess that as soon as I started seeing Matt's daily heartfelt, inspirational videos on Instagram, I became a full-on fangirl, so when Matt Sprouts and the Curse of the Ten Broken Toes released, I immediately bought a copy, read it, and reviewed it. Yes, it's a middle-grade book. So? I love children's literature (and I write it, so there's that). And it's the kind of book my youngest son would have absolutely loved when he was that age--lots of hijinks and mayhem and not much girlie stuff. So yeah, five star review for Matt Sprouts. Oh--and did I mention it has illustrations drawn by the author himself?

But as I said, that's not what makes me cry. Although Matt does have a book coming out soon entitled Sticky Notes that I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to read with a box of tissues next to me, such is the tender Irish heart in me.

Matt makes me cry nearly every day because he tells stories (often originating in his classroom, though some are lessons he's learned in life) that are simple and true. About kids learning how to be better humans. About kids demonstrating empathy. About kids who thought they failed but succeeded in coming away with a wider, wiser perspective. About striving as a teacher to get through the toughest days while still being kind and compassionate. These aren't smarmy stories. Mostly, they're touched with a bit of humor and Matt's goofy expressions as he mimics the way kids talk. (And they're spot on!) But his stories always have some take away, some thought-provoking message that touches my heart, reminds me of my best days teaching, and of course, brings me to tears.

In recent years, as I have learned to overcome that childhood sense of shame instilled in me for crying or exposing my emotions, I have been more open about how often I cry. (Daily. Sometimes hourly. I buy several boxes of Kleenex tissues--thank you, Kimberly-Clark--every week.) The way I figure it, I held back tears for decades, so there clearly must be an ocean full of tears just waiting for the tide to turn (coupla times a day, no?) to be released. Okay, maybe not an ocean. Maybe just the Salton Sea. But still.

So, as a storyteller myself, and wanting to leave you with some satisfying take away, I will (almost) end with this: Find Matt Eicheldinger and follow him. He's on Instagram and now Facebook. There are some YouTube videos. He's probably on Threads by now. (Isn't everybody except me?) Possibility Twitter, but I'm no longer a partner to those shenanigans, so I don't know.

Anyway, follow him. Get your daily dose of "we're gonna be okay" stories. Keep a tissue handy if you have any Irish or Italian in you. You can thank me later.

Addendum for readers who don't know me personally: This review of Matt's work is wholly unsolicited. I received no compensation for spending 45 minutes writing this when I could have been doing something fun like pulling weeds. In fact, by now Matt Eicheldinger probably thinks I'm stalking him because I feel compelled to comment on nearly every story he tells. (What can I say? I'm a writer; I can't help myself.) But... this is what I do. Like Madeleine L'Engle, Matt tried for years to get his first book published, but it wasn't like other books out there, so he had no takers. (Boy howdy, I've been there!) Truly, though, that first book deserves all the attention it's finally getting, and I'm here to help with that however I can. But also I love you (whoever you are), and I think your life might be enriched by Matt's storytelling. So get it. It's free. And it feels good. And who doesn't want that?  

Graduating

 

When I had my vinyl floors put in recently, I had to empty the guest room closet. It’s tiny, but it gets stuffed with all the holiday decorations plus clothing I only use on occasion (like my snow jacket).

One of the items I pulled out was draped in a plastic garment bag, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what was inside. Was it the killer-sexy formal black dress I bought to chaperone prom years ago? No. It was my cap and gown. From 1988.

The “flood” of memories was more like a tsunami.

True story:

In 1984 I left my awful husband who swore he would never pay child support (and never did). At age 30, with no employment experience (despite being a published author), I was having trouble finding a job. A poet friend from my writers group came over one night and read me Wordsworth’s “Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey.” I fell in love that night—not with the friend, but with Wordsworth and certainly the poem, which is still one of my favorites. (Thank you, William. By the way, I named a dog after you—but that’s another story entirely.) The poet friend had been trying to convince me that, instead of getting a job, I could go to college and study such lovely compositions as Wordsworth’s poem. That night, he finally convinced me.

Here's what happened next:

I enrolled in our local community college (Chaffey—go Panthers!) and became a fulltime student in the fall following my divorce. Keep in mind, I had four young children, so mornings went like this: Get all five of us ready, including lunches made. (“Sam, for the fifth time, buddy, where are your shoes?!?”) Drop three of them at the elementary school, then drop Sam at pre-school, then drive up to the college and attend classes all day, then pick up Sam, pick up the other three, and head home to do homework, make dinner, get everyone bathed and sorted and break up one or two or ten fights, get everyone to bed. (Shali, I see you still reading after lights out.)

Repeat every day for five, then collapse exhausted on the weekend. Begin again the following Monday.

In two years, I had a 4.0 grade point average and an acceptance to the University of California Riverside—with a scholarship that paid my tuition. I also had a longer commute to school from Chino Hills, but the kids were two years older by then, so things weren’t quite so crazy as they had been my first year but boy howdy, they were still crazy.

There was that time I went out to the car, carrying backpacks and herding kids as I went, only to find I had a flat tire on my little Toyota Corolla. I had a roommate at the time, and she helped me change the tire in ten minutes, I swear. (I think she just wanted to make sure I was out of the house for the day.)

So many memories….

But the kids were troopers and I passed my algebra classes and excelled in my literature classes and two years after I transferred to UCR I was ready to graduate. by the end of my final quarter of school, I was exhausted, having written twenty English papers in ten weeks while nursing three of my four kids through chicken pox. Shali, as a teen, had it the absolute worst. She was so sick she laid in bed for days, commanding me to stay out of her room lest I become sick and miss my graduation. As it was, she missed it, something I felt sad about until, years later, she had her own college graduation.

But I did it, damn it. I did it. Booyah!

At 34, I was the first of my mother’s children to earn a bachelor’s degree, and I did it with a 3.73 grade point average, awarding me, along with 19 other students, the cum laude appellation in the commencement program. Mom came to my graduation and quickly noted—poking her finger repeatedly into the commencement program page—that I had not graduated summa cum laude (“with the highest distinction”) as only three other students had. She wanted to know why.

“I thought you were a good student,” she said. “Why aren’t you over here?” she asked, poking her finger at the page once again.

She wasn’t kidding, y’all. Sigh. That was Mom. All I could do was stare at her.

Dr. Wayne Hubert, one of my favorite profs at Chaffey, gave me some great advice when I let him know I was headed to a career in teaching.

“If you’re going to teach,” he said, “learn how to pat yourself on the back.” He reached his arm around to indicate how I should do so. “Because you may do an excellent job, but most years, no one is going to notice.”

His words remained with me, and despite my mother’s attempt to diminish my success, I gave myself many pats on the back for being, in fact, a stellar student while raising four rambunctious kiddos and somehow keeping us afloat financially until I could get my teaching credential and get a job.

I rocked it. I am prouder of that accomplishment than anything else I’ve ever done.

So I kept that cap and gown (and the stole I received when I earned my master’s degree four years later—while teaching high school fulltime with three teenagers at home so yeah, booyah again, Kay!).

But when I slid the garment bag away, I saw that the gown and the stole had faded. With a sigh, I decided it was time to let them go. I’m retired now, and 70. I don’t want my kids to take on the drudgery of determining what should go in the dumpster after I die. I’ll get this one, my loves.

So the gown and stole were taken out to the trash. I kept the mortarboard, though, tossing it in a drawer of the same nightstand I’ve had since I was a kid. At some point, I’ll toss the cap, too. But for now, I just love remembering, from time to time, how indescribably difficult those years were—and subsequently how empowered I felt when I finally achieved what I had worked so hard for.