I was flunking out of high school.
In fact I rarely went to class.
Most mornings found me
in the back of someone’s car in the parking lot
smoking, with three or four other guys
out of about two thousand kids
who didn’t fit in. We sat
in Roger’s 49 Olds
or Kenny Moots’ black primered 48 Ford --
our sanctuaries, listening to Ray Charles on KDIA
where we could smoke Pall Malls and laugh
in peace.
But one day I went to English class
surprised because we were going to the library that day.
We bobbed weaved and pushed down the corridor
past the hospital green poles
to get a book to read for an oral report
and were released
into the library, animals who had to be quiet
ducking the librarians’ wary glances
told to just walk around and view the shelves
and shelves of books
to pick one
any one
but just one.
I loved the feeling
moving throughout the room, all of us
moving past each other, as if in a trance
each kid trying to discover the book
he knew he would like
before he opened it.
Some kids went for the thinnest books
but I felt sure of myself for some reason
I took my time
weighing all the titles within myself
until I found it, the book meant for me:
The Wanderer
by Mika Waltari.
It turned out to be an apt book
set during the Crusades
about a European who was a passenger on a ship
that was taken over by Arab pirates.
Everyone on board was given the option
of joining the world of Islam
or having his head cut off. There were those
who chose death
rather than betray their faith
away went their heads and bodies into the sea.
For them, the book was over.
But this guy, who was a doctor but not a doctor
like now, you know, with status,
he was more a delinquent, like me
invisibly observing things
didn’t really care about being Catholic
so easily became a muslim.
His ease at such a change
for he had already gained my affection
caused me to ponder Loyalty.
What should you be loyal to?
Loyalty to one thing
betrayed another,
like seeing two friends fighting—
not an unfamiliar dilemma for me.
I often saw both sides.
Class wisdom said let them fight it out
but in the case of religion
I felt up against a sort of coerced belief
versus a more tolerant curiosity
that was natural to me. I began to sense
some danger in my reservations.
After this man’s conversion
things weren’t really so different for him
in fact life
got a little more interesting;
suddenly he was headed for Africa
began learning Arabic, which he enjoyed.
He was still herded about but
ignored mostly, which I identified with.
Eventually his doctoring skills came to light
along with his language abilities.
A ruler of some kind took a liking to him
he ended up the physician
he could walk around in sunlit courtyards
think, notice the different little birds, practice his Arabic.
I don’t remember if he got laid
which might have been a deficiency in the book.
There were periodic moments of danger and crisis
which he navigated
not being too attached to what he was.
He was beyond being European or Arabic
he was a wanderer.
He played the appearances
like fish, when you’re fishing
hide in reflections.
What helped me
was that he seemed to be an opportunist
but in my opinion wasn’t. I was hung up
on whether or not I was an opportunist.
It was a word my mother used, for her it
indicated a hopelessly corrupt character.
I resented the implication
despite the grain of truth it might contain.
“You’re selfish!” she would say.
“And you never finish anything.”
Of course, I rarely did finish anything
but her vehemence puzzled me.
I looked at her.
Something had happened. Her firm betrayed eyes
beseeched me, ordered me, dared me even
from within her marvelous reserve
to be an ally in a cause I didn’t understand.
Naturally, I didn’t like doing things I didn’t want to do
I felt it compromised me. When something got boring
I quit doing it— normal behavior for a kid, really
but a it provoked a serious judgement from my mother.
I realize now of course my mother
came of age in the early days of the Depression
which seared her with fear and worry. Plus
World War Two no doubt
contributed to her attitudes and exclamations—
inexplicable attitudes through which I seemed to pick up
traces of a world that had maimed those who had come before me.
I felt for that lost world at times as if for some sort of explanation
of effects that hit me second hand.
When I got up to give my report
all the kids looked at me
somewhat curious
because I never participated in anything.
The girls looked like they felt sorry for me—
but it was phony—
they were practicing their mothering look. In high school
everybody’s trying out masks, hoping to get them straight.
“She’s got a good personality,” they’d say.
Girls often rehearsed façades
unsure of their effects. You had to let their temptations play out.
But one girl, who spoke to me after my report, stood out.
She had these blue eyes that tended to mesmerize you
blue like glacial ice— softly promising another world
but so far away you might never reach it.
At any rate
I laid out how I liked this guy
who made every decision
to stay alive
disregarding religion and national identity as if they were clothes
wandered through various circumstances
seeming to always opt for his own advantage
but was just navigating illusions. He accepted
being perceived as an illusion.
That was the difference between us.
He appeared to be a self-concerned opportunist
but wasn’t. Whereas I wasn’t so sure about myself.
I even remember saying before the class
all these years later
“You might think this guy’s two-faced
just out for himself, but he really isn’t”.
I understood this character in the book.
I understood how he felt.
And was also was standing up for myself.
After the report you had to go over to Mrs. Weiner
to huddle up with her in secret tones
to get a grade on your report
while some other kid was getting ready.
I was beyond grades by that time.
But the intimacy kind of excited me.
I felt that I had done all right
because I had gotten carried away
just said what I said. I was out there.
I actually felt part of the class for once
even though it was too late.
I remember Mrs Weiner’s
pellucid brown eyes.
She said to me, “Gene
it would be a real shame if you never went to college,”
which the way I was going seemed unlikely.
I felt grateful for her compassion
and never forgot it. She was a good woman.
Were she to know me now
she would be gratified, I know.
We could have some good discussions.
This poem is a thank you note to her.
Her compassion, her recognition of me as a human being
came at just the right moment.
Being ignored had been getting to me.
I was beginning to really feel I wasn’t there.
I was experiencing a kind of murder
my parents dutifully colluding in it.
As we filed out of class
the girl with blue eyes, said,
“If you quit high school
you’ll end up pumping gas your whole life”.
She drove a new Corvette. It was a rich school.
I was there because they’d redrawn the lines
that happened to include my block.
I knew from The Wanderer what she said was bullshit.
you never did anything your whole life.
you never even were anything your whole life.
But I still kind of liked the tone of what she said,
the no-nonsense tone of it
You’ll pump gas your whole life! I realized
she was really trying to talk to me
I was grateful, but felt sorry for her also.
She was too scared. I could hear the voice
of some adult in her warning, probably her father,
trying to scare her. She was a good girl
with the burden of beautiful eyes
that I suddenly realized could be a liability for her.
So I felt even more sorry for her— her having to talk to me
confronted her with a dangerous recognition:
She’d decided to be good
as I had decided to be bad.
We shared the experience of that decision
looked at each other as if across a widening river.
She knew to be good you had to be scared. Somehow
I wasn’t scared in that way. I was more scared of how
the whole crowd of my classmates
cued by school authorities
could pretend I didn’t exist. When the bell rang
I watched them
as if they were heading toward a cliff
I didn’t know how to tell them was there.
Grass Valley, 2010
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