I had no idea how to write a mission statement. I know Mr. Blok wanted it sharp, so I searched for some language to make it official. Here were my initial beginnings:
Club Dead exists to provide service to people in need to discuss death…
Club Dead is dedicated to promoting an awareness of death…
The Mission of Club Dead is to complement the service and education objectives of young people interested in death…
Club Dead’s aim is to stimulate and nurture children’s natural interest in all things dead…
Club Dead focuses its attention on death…
Club Dead is committed to the traditions of death…
Our vision is to be the most articulate advocates of death…
Our mission: to inspire and nurture the human spirit’s understanding of death…
I pledge to offer the highest quality of leadership in the study of death…
I will contribute positively to this community by talking about death…
Since Mr. Blok believed that an immersion in a club would be good for me and by extension, good for Blissfield High School, I went with the last one. Here was my rough draft.
I will contribute positively to this community by talking about death, listening to others talk about death and come to better understanding about death.
I wondered if that was long enough.
I wondered if Jesse James would attend my club.
I wondered what Uncle Grant would think about this.
He would have hated it.
No, he wouldn’t have hated it. He wasn’t a hater. But he’d smell some mighty BS ’emanating’ from this. He was sensitive to emanations. Before I knew what they were, I’d asked Uncle Grant – who mentioned them all the time - “what’s an emanation?”
“Depends where it comes from?” he answered.
“From mom - your sister?”
“She emanates snobbery.”
“My mom’s a snob?”
“You didn’t know?”
“He’s a control freak.”
“I can see that. But you’re biased.”
“You were his little brother.”
“Is Emma hegemonic towards you?”
“We’re twins. She has no control over me.”
“She did come out first. I was there.”
“As I am reminded of too often.”
“I never told you I was there are your birth.”
“No, I mean Emma setting the stage for always being born first.”
“Second isn’t that bad.”
“How about the trees?”
“Is that with a big ‘b’”?
“Oh come on!”
“Help me. What do you think I give off?”
“You know, what does the world say when it senses your Uncle Grant?”
“How about me?”
“Innocence. Purity. The Best.”
Never did I tire of talking with my Uncle Grant, even if I didn’t understand everything he said.
I was looking for people to talk to about emanations. Who knew, maybe I’d meet some talkative people at Club Dead.