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| Xavier, West 16th St., NYC |
The
notices come almost daily now, announcing my 50th high school
reunion in April. A few of the names on the email trail are recognizable, but I
can match very few of the names to 17-year-old faces. I imagine other graduates
of Xavier High School class of 1966 have the same problem bringing me into
proper focus.
One afternoon, a reunion
email came with a junior-year English assignment from my old homeroom teacher Mr.
Makuta attached. He taught Latin and English as a Jesuit scholastic,
hence the “Mister” and not "Father," since he had not yet been ordained.
“Looking back over the last
three months, have you grown in your understanding of poetry? Do you know what
the poet is trying to do? How he differs from the scientist in his quest for
the REAL? WHAT DOES LITERATURE HAVE TO DO WITH LIFE? BE BOLD AND GENUINE IN
YOUR RESPONSE!!! The “Red Badge of Courage” will be distributed Wednesday.
Please have your $.35 at that time.” A signature note at the bottom of the page read, “Bully for
us.”
I
didn’t recall the assignment, but the language seemed just right, pure Makuta.
He came from the Pittsburg area, a Ukrainian-American if I recall correctly. He
could belt-out a mean “Summertime” when coaxed into it at school dances, called mixers. He was one of the bright lights
that continue to shine from those days, along with my tennis coach, “Pat”
Rooney – mostly famous for running the US Open ball boy operation for many
years – and a few close friends and teammates.
Away from the tennis and basketball courts, I was an indifferent student in a demanding all-boy military Jesuit school, a
redundancy of the first order. I have no idea how I ever got through doing so
little work, remaining largely uninspired and uninspiring. In fairness, teachers would say I
was an underachiever, and they would be right. I simply wasn’t paying
attention, and my parents didn't seem to mind.
I
wondered what Makuta would make of my eventually becoming a newspaper editor, writer,
reporter, and photographer. After all, I did no writing at school beyond what
was mandatory; this, despite the fact that my Cooter test scores at the time were off the charts high in the literary category. I never wrote for the occasional edition of the school paper or
the literary magazine, if there was one. Pity, I have occasionally thought, perhaps I would have developed an early career as a sportswriter; maybe not a Dave Anderson
of the Times, a fellow “Cadet,” but maybe good enough for a Wimbledon or Roland Garros byline.
Would he be pleased at some of the poetry titles on my shelf today? A.R.
Ammons, Eliot, Franz Wright, Tu Fu, Kay Ryan, Szymborska, to name a few, plus
dozens more in boxes downstairs. Am I showing off? Yes, why not? Of my classmates who received “A” on the assignment, I wonder how
many read poetry regularly?
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| Poetry Shelfie |
Our
Latin class (Cicero?) came under a sneak attack one day. We were joined in
class by the headmaster, who observed for a short time before usurping the
class himself, obviously set on embarrassing our teacher in front of us. I
recall his storming around the class barking questions, nearly becoming unhinged at our slow responses, and
getting so red and excited while doing it we thought he would have a stroke.
Makuta, although clearly miffed, stood by observing. We may have sensed that he would be voicing
his displeasure later instead of in front of us. The headmaster’s tantrum was
classically non-productive. It proved only that fear is a short term motivator
at best. He certainly didn't exhibit great leadership skills.
Why
did I choose to go to school there? At thirteen, I was attracted to the dress blue uniform; it was the best school to admit me; and they had a tennis
team. How were any of us able to predict the Cuban Missile Crisis, JFK's assassination, and that mid-way through our time there, The Beatles would
emerge and “advisors” would be sent to Viet Nam. All at once, being in a strict, all-male, Jesuit military school would place us right in the vortex of the cultural and
political changes exploding around us. Yet, we persisted.
What
does literature have to do with life? To a writer, that’s like asking what
does oxygen, or protein, or blood have to do with life. As Albert Einstein
said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” Googling “relativity” or
having a film director tell us what Ahab or Atticus Finch should look like
(remarkably like Gregory Peck) may be informative or pleasing experiences, but
they are not the same as when a scientist, author, or reader actively uses
her/his imagination to invent. Readers and writers, after all, are co-conspirators in the invention of characters and places.
The
assignment is dated December 9 – that would have been 1964. That was an auspicious date for me, since a week or two later, attending a holiday dance, I fell hard and
fast for my first real girlfriend, the most important event as it turned out during those high school years.
I have heard many people say that they have no regrets in
life, but I often think that’s because they may not have been paying attention.
Where would poetry be without regret, without wondering, not so much about Kipling's “If”
as “What if?” A question.
I do have regrets about high school. I could have done so much better – as, later, all three of my children did. But, I don't lose sleep over it, after all, I was a late bloomer.
And
what of Edward Makuta? We can download his novel, “Would She Lie About Turtles?” and other titles from Amazon and read for ourselves. I wish him well wherever he may be.
