Stories of Springtime
“The constant happiness is curiosity” wrote Alice Munro, the Canadian short story writer and Nobel Laureate who’d died earlier in the month. Micah put it on the Judson bulletin and preached about it. Curiosity is more appealing than critique, said Micah, sermonizing. There are so many ways to be alive and look at the world. Look at the stories out there, the people, see yourself in them.
Look and listen, springs rolling our way.
After church, Wendy met me by the tree in El Jardin del Paraiso, 710 E 5th St. Poem after poem, we read, stories and dreams, cats and love, a few regrets, hopes and seeds in the garden, stories about bees and avocados, lost love and prince, the curiosity of our wondrous moment, poetry in motion under the big tree, something to plant as spring came our way.
“ I Would Not Recommend Love”
Ray read Harold Norse,
“my head felt stabbed
by a crown of thorns but I joked and rode the subway
and ducked into school johns and masturbated
and secretly wrote
of teenage hell
because I was “different”...
Ducking into the bathroom for some relief, we’ve all been there.
Brennan pointed to the current moment.
“Its not a conflict,” he said, quoting from Kathryn Levy. “Its an occupation.”
Still,
“You become,” said Brennan, paraphrasing from Margery Williams Bianco, from The Velveteen Rabbit. “It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
Our friends understand. Mom used to read me that story all the time, I recalled, looking up to watch as kids ran about us, scrambling into the tree house.
JK showed us the herbs in the garden, chatting about avocados and Mexico City, and Visceral Realists hell bent on taking out Octavio Paz. “..the Work journeys irremediably alone in the Great Vastness” Roberto Bolaño put it. “And one day the Work dies, as all things must die and come to an end: the Sun and the Earth and the Solar System and the Galaxy and the farthest reaches of man's memory. Everything that begins as comedy ends in tragedy."
The school year was ending, not so much as a tragedy as a testament to impermanence.
Mom and I met for a rainy lunch, chatting about her days, the art that still inspires her. She showed me a book by one of her favorite students and we talked about seeing Caspar David Friedrich paintings last year in berlin. She adores his haunted landscapes. The conversation turned to her beloved Ghent altarpiece. 'It tells me about the power of faith and the genius if the artist,' she said. The raindrops falling outside about us.
All week, students presented on their research for the term. They all had to write about the history of sex. Several wrote about works of literature related to this topic. One on the Color Purple, another on Lolita. Another drafted a somewhat personal reflection on the Scarlett Letter. There is love and there is obligation. And there is shame, followed by stigma, that hasn’t quite been vanquished, she explained, referring to both the novel of Hester Prynne’s illegitimate pregnancy, as well as the stories of her life in an arranged Marriage in Ghana, before she moved to the US, to get away from it all. Here, she found a Latino boy, became pregnant, and had to fight the same forces Hester took on, finding her own humanity and common cause with the outsiders and those on the margins.
Another student, who’d spent time prison, wrote about the social mores of the Jamaican dance halls off Flatbush, where he spent his youth, learning about reggae music, unpacking the sexism that was everywhere. There is always something to learn along the way.
In Diversity class, students unpacked issues of entanglement and intersectionality, wondering about peace. “You kill my kid and invite yourself to the funeral,” said one student, speaking about the current conflict in Gaza.
Others spoke about Edward Said or Bayard Rustin.
They all listened to each other.
And the semester came to an end.
But not without a flurry of final union meetings and actions, a zap at the CUNY board of Trustees meeting at Bronx Community College. Some of my favorite people were there, friends from Judson, from Occupy Wall Street, Stanley groupies, Bollano readers, city tech faculty, there all afternoon talking about our lives, sharing stories, waiting for the cuny board of trustees to do the right thing. “The @psc_cuny says it's time for a fair contract for #apeoplescunyin2024”. “It's been over a year without a new contract. We've been patient and polite.” “Contract now!”
I walked the teenager to the subway the next morning, chatting about Suddarthra. My buddy Trey read it in high school and again before he shuffled off two years ago.
We talked about the stories they ‘d been reading, the shows they’ve been going to.
And said goodbye for the day.
Only a few more weeks left in senior year.
I rode back home, the old Rod Stewart song, handbags and gladrags, playing in my head,
“So what becomes of you my love” I wonder, looking at them, thinking about those years of walking to school in the morning, day after day, morning after morning, jogging on the beach in Long Beach with them in a stroller, meeting the bus on court street, day after day for 18 years.
Their first year of high school Aunt Gladys greeted them, walking them around the neighborhood. They even attended one of their art shows. By senior year, Gladys was in a hospice. We visited a few times before she finally left. So many fun times with her, showing up at book group with one of my students, read Jean Genet, coming to the teenager's art show and Thanksgiving in Garrison, new years day movies, on and on, moments passing. RIP Aunt Gladys.
By Friday, I turned in my grades and started an end of the academic year journey out west to Portland. What a strange and gorgeous city, I thought crossing Columbia River basin, looking at the city, full of funky shops, gorgeous trees, great burritos, history, activism, street art everywhere, lots to look out for, on this odd perch at the Northwest corner of our continent.
Later that night, we all joined my neighbor Leslie getting married to an old college friend. I thought of a visit he’d made to Texas after Freshman year, in June of 1989. After arriving, he made friends with SE, who took care of our house, chatting with her when I was at work. She made him an omelet. By the time I got back, they were the best of friends. And Rob was on his way. I thought there’d be many more such moments ahead. But the following term, he went to England. I was in Italy when he returned. And we only overlapped one more term. I guess the lesson of the story, this was a friendship that would come and go, drifting in and out of my life, like many, with those of encounters, slings and arrows. In the years to come, we’d meet in Marina Del Ray where he had a condo, or Long Beach, to watch football with Dad. I really never knew when or in what direction our friendship was moving in. Still, there would be meetings to watch football games in Philly or drink in Praha or Hong, or Poughkeepsie, as well as neighbors who took an interest in him. Leslie read about friendship in Moby Dick and the two tied the knot. And for a moment, we danced into the Portland night, friends from college, from Brooklyn, and elsewhere, reveling in being alive. 
