My Hometown

 

 

I wrote this piece in November of 2004. Just short of 3 years clean off drugs. I lived in San Francisco and worked in a rehab. I was afraid to re-enter life. I’d been getting high for so long I didn’t know how to live without drugs. The world around me was new and scary. I wanted to be a writer. I had dreams of writing a book and one day getting published. I had absolutely no idea what any of that entailed. Two years later I enrolled in grad school. Two more and I moved to L.A. My first book was published in 2013.

San Francisco just isn’t the same.

Neither am I.

 

This carnival of bad experiences just keeps setting up and playing in my hometown. I’ve paid my admission and bought the tickets, hell, I’ve bought the whole roll and these hellacious rides will not stop. But some how, the view from up here, up side down and all, is preferable than the one on the ground looking up.

***

Three guttersnipes on bikes are congregating down below outside my window, they’ve been out there for the last hour, sitting in the sun, drinking beer and tinkering with their bikes. It’s not like I’m stuck on staring at them, but as I look out the window and across the parking lot they’re in my view and I can’t help but see them. They see me too, and look up wearily as if to check me out for some reason, like they presume I am checking them out, checking to see what it is they’re up to, just what crime it is they are going to commit, who’s bike they’re going to steal next, which one of them will be ducking into the doorway to shoot up and how soon they’ll run out of beer and have to stumble the few steps down the hill to the liquor store to buy another one. I sort of meet eyes with the tallest one, the one with the unruly red hair and we exchange acknowledgements, like yeah, I know you, we’re both here – here in this part of the city, only I’m inside, I’ve come up a little from him. But nonetheless, we both live here, in this neighborhood, under the freeway.

It’s not the worst and it’s not the best part of the city, it’s one of the ugliest, that’s for sure. Right outside my window runs the elevated on and off ramps to the Bay Bridge; four lanes of traffic on each and never a moment goes by that there isn’t a million cars, trucks and buses driving hard on their way to some where fast. The concrete and steel on-ramp is directly across from my window, I could almost reach out and touch it except that I’m four stories up and the off ramp is a couple of more stories above me. But I look right at the cars driving onto the bridge, right into their windshields, seeing the details of the drivers and if they turn their heads as they are driving and look out to their left they can see me as I watch at them. From my view here at this window it looks as if all of humanity is on the go, going somewhere, driving somewhere, all except me and the people that live on my street.

The rain has stopped and it’s sunny, I’ve got the window open and all I can hear is the noise of the traffic, either on the bridge or down on the streets below. When I first came to see this room, this room where I live, the women who was showing it to me said that after awhile the noise starts to sound like the waves at the ocean. Yeah, waves honking horns maybe.

High above the freeway there is a helicopter hovering, the whump of its roto-blades adding to the noise level as it drops down almost on top of my building. Then there’s a lot more noise, the noise of people bumping into walls as they’re running down the stairs and in the hallways and I can hear all the windows closing and the toilets flushing as the crackheads in the building in one collective spaz of paranoia are flushing their last rock, tossing that glass pipe, thinking that the cops are on the way. Oh yeah; like as if today would be anything special, anything out of the ordinary, were the cops would actually come down here, under the freeway to look for crackheads.

The women directly below me, well, it’s the afternoon and she’s cooking dinner, no helicopter or the fear of the man shaking down our building is gonna affect her. It’s getting late and its time to cook dinner, just like she does every night and her window is always open and tonight she is cooking fish. The odor is filling my apartment, this one room if you want to call it that, an apartment. The clouds are trying to hide the sun and it smells like heavy oil, and spicy fried fish.

The shadows are growing and the guttersnipes have faded away and in their place are the three dudes who live in the alley across from me, still under the freeway, only on the other side of the parking lot. They’re down there all the time, day or night, they never stray too far. The little dog that one of them owns is begging for whatever it is that one of them is eating. I don’t know them too well, as we never talk and the only time I really run into them is when I have to park my car in their alley on the nights that the city supposedly sweeps the street out in front of my building, and then they are usually drunk and screaming and not really approachable, or that is at least so in my opinion. We have not really communicated, other than acknowledging each other as inhabitants of this place, co-conspirators in existing.

 

 

Cyndi’s coming home, she waves up at me from down in the parking lot, the wind blows moving the dirt and trash and her black hair across her face, but she looks up at me and she’s happy. Cyndi was a hooker until she found god: that was after years of shooting dope, after waking up in the hospital from her hundredth OD, after she contracted flesh eating botulism, after the doctors cut away parts of her body and afterwards it looked like parts of her were scooped out with ice cream scoopers, just whole parts of her arms and hips, but she’s happy now that she’s found god. Where he was she won’t say, but she found him somewhere, like at an AA meeting or something. Cyndi always has a smile for me and I wave back.

Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, in the afternoon, as I was coming out of my building I looked up and walking towards me through the hole in the cyclone fence was my old cellmate, or “cellie” as we all called each other in the joint, well anyway, it was my old cellie Jessi walking towards me. It had been years since I had last seen him, about 4 or 5 I think. He looked the same, but I guess I looked different because when I stopped and gestured to him he just sort of tried to keep on going past me until he recognized something in me, maybe something of the old me, of when we were locked up together, I mean we did spend a year and a half sharing a 5 by 8 foot cell, him on the top bunk and me on the bottom. Jessi was in for murder, but I think that all they could pin him with was involuntary, so, of course he did more time than me, but I never did really ever expect to see him again and sure as hell didn’t think that we were going to wind up neighbors. It’s kind of typical of where I live and just who lives in this neighborhood of mine. Forgotten souls, derelicts, parolees and the poor are all that you will find here on Third Street under the freeway.

It’s getting cold now, the sun is almost all the way down and my neighborhood is starting to wake up. The brothers are congregating in front of the liquor store, everybody’s yelling greetings and stomping their feet against the on coming chill of night. I’ve got to close the window as the wind is picking up; even closed you can still hear the traffic, still hear the screams from the street, still hear the ambulance sirens as it races down Third Street invading my window with the flashes of color from its lights. Always in a hurry to take somebody out of here, to save them and then bring them back like a cruel joke being played on us all. Another OD, another casualty, or maybe this time someone that just isn’t going to get up off the concrete once the sun rises.

Came home a few nights ago and there was an ambulance parked all sideways at my building’s front door, no flashing lights, no sirens. Paramedics were here with the coroner, body bags and the poh-lees with their flashlights. Knocking down room 425’s door because some punk rock Asian girl with bright dyed red hair had OD’ed on black tar heroin, maybe like a couple weeks before and no one knew, until the smell. The building’s manager put a few fans in the hallway and kept the front door open all night and no one said anything, not a word. It was like we all knew and after all what was the point. A few weeks later some workmen came around and tore the carpet out and cleaned up the room while their radio blasted heavy metal dirges. At lunch time they were smoking cigarettes and drinking beers out front on the sidewalk, so I walked down the hall and took a quick look inside but it all looked normal, almost the same as my place only in reverse, and the cars kept right on going outside what used to be her window, going onto the bridge on their way to somewhere, somewhere fast.

Occasionally though, the sights around here border on the hilarious and I have to laugh out loud at what I see going on, like Ted-E-Boy pulling up in a shiny black BMW, flashing of all things the peace sign and grinning with a full set of new teeth. I mean Ted’s a toothless pool hustler from way back and to see him smile with a full set a bright white choppers, well, I was taken back a little, like witnessing some spell of black magic or more than likely a little bit of that old Voodoo. I don’t think Ted-E-Boy ever had a real job before, hell, he never even had a real social security card or at least one with his own number. In fact he was a non-person as far as the government was concerned, and now here he is tooling around town in a BMW, with new teeth and from what I hear he’s gainfully employed and obviously with a dental plan. Works over at the Salvation Army, which is probably where he got the BMW, donated by some rich folk and somehow scammed into Ted-E-Boy’s hands. Seeing that is kinda cool though, at least somebody is doing good and it might as well be Ted-E-Boy. He’s been through it, back and forth like we all have and it’s obviously his turn to be all right. Though how he affords to keep his ride in that private parking lot is another story, probably another scam, another hustle.

 

 

It’s getting darker as it gets a little closer to twilight and at night all the clubs open up down here in the old warehouses, dance clubs for the kids from the East Bay, all of them coming over to the city for a night of fun and the parking lots under the freeway fill up. Sexy looking young girls walk huddled in groups, half naked and dressed for the dance floor as they hurry to get into the club and out of the cold. Gangs of young dudes decked out in baggy clothes stand out in front of the liquor store and for the time being replace the locals as they drink out of paper bags and smoke, yelling at the passing girls and acting all dangerous like, though in the shadows watching are the brothers who live in this neighborhood, watching, always watching and waiting. Waiting for some fool to leave all his CD’s and shit in his car, waiting for that guy who got lucky to leave his car parked overnight and then it’s their time.

Hell, that’s why I don’t leave a goddamn thing in my car. It wouldn’t take a second thought for one of the brothers to bust my window for that cigarette lighter lying on my dash if theirs ran out of flame, though why they would waste the time of breaking and entering when they’ve jimmied the doors so many times that I’m sure that they can do it in they’re sleep, I don’t know. But the thoughts of what their actions would cost me just don’t come up into the equation, and they know me, well, at least my car on a stormy night they know. Some mornings I come out and the sidewalk is littered with tiny chunks of safety glass and I know that a lot of people’s cars were broken into last night, and as I walk toward my car I’m mumbling a quasi chant – almost prayer like, that all the windows are intact, the battery is under the hood, the wheels are still on the axel and that there isn’t someone fast asleep, all curled up and snug, that I have to awake.

Now if you were to know this neighborhood of which I live in and am telling you about and your thinking, well, it just ain’t that bad, I don’t know what it is in hell that he is going on about. Well, just maybe you are right, it’s not like it’s the worst hell hole known to mankind, it’s not like it’s so hard core as to be un-livable and just maybe I am describing only the non-positive side of it all. But what it is, is another of America’s forgotten neighborhoods, almost next door to nice, yet you don’t expect anyone with cash to live under a freeway, under the bridge, like without a view. Two blocks in either direction are better neighborhoods, neighborhoods with corrugated metal wrapped lofts sparkling with 20 foot tall windows. Artist’s live/work spaces next door to trendy condos with balconies overlooking the city’s skyline, health clubs and Thai restaurants on the ground floors mixed with parking garages and liquor stores.

Outside my front door you have the choice of strolls, one direction is a Ball Park and the bay, the other a Modern Art Museum and all of downtown. But right here, well, there is nothing, nothing but littered covered, pot holed filled parking lots surrounded with masses of bent cyclone fences half battered into the ground. The occasional hardy weed, dirty dark green and sprouting out of the concrete and like another roof above us is the freeway raining fine black soot everywhere. If I don’t move my car for any length of time it gets so covered in this dark dirt that I literally have to scrap off of the windows to see out well enough to drive. This is not a neighborhood of affluence, of money or prestige. It is another of the city’s desolate and depressed neighborhoods where somebody has to live and until all the wealth squeezes it into oblivion it will remain, with all its inhabitants, the homeless, the street dwellers and people like me, one step up in a room with a view of it all.

 

 

This evenings’ haze is wearing off, tonight’s clouds are parting and the full moon’s illumination spreads over the ground, like reverse ghost shadows casting an eerie pale and it almost, almost, turns these few derelict blocks into something that just might be mistaken as beautiful. A million shards of broken glass glisten like gems on the ground bordering dark recesses hidden in shadow that usually broadcast a sense of foreboding as a place to fear but now look softer, almost comfortable, under the pilings and columns holding up the freeway which in this light could pass as gothic architecture, tower like structures in the waning ethereal light and still the vehicles roar by at sonic speeds high above my head like some unseen missile on it’s way to hitting a predisposed target. Their sound reverberates against all the steel and concrete, echoing off in all directions, phantom trajectories leaving me here to witness the noise, which from down here below is the only evidence that they exist.

Way up the hill where the ground approaches the freeway and the dirty asphalt almost meets the gray concrete there are a few anti-crime arch lights shining down, put in by the parking lot’s owners no doubt in an attempt to take the fear out of parking so deep in the bowels of the bridge’s under belly. On nights like this you can see the bed rolls laid out up under these lights like sets on a stage for some urban play as people make their camps and prepare for sleep. Up out of the way and off the streets, too far up to be bothered by the cops and too far in to be bothered by anyone who isn’t going to be there for any reason other than staying the night. I can only guess that being under the light adds a measure of safety, adds something to make them feel that this is their home. I don’t know if it’s the same people up there every night or different folks, but for some reason I think it is and I take some comfort in seeing them there every night, like they’re somebody that I can count on. It’s good to know that those people are at least safe and dry when it rains, like neighbors who come home every night and seeing them gives you that feeling that you and they are part of a community. Some night on my travels as I wander around in the dark checking out every part of this neighborhood, I may have to walk up there and see, see if they’re like me, see if they are locals.

Someone is setting off bottle rockets, I can see them flare up and arch over the freeway and I think it’s the natty haired tattooed rockers in the apartments above the liquor store. I wonder just how well this goes over with the rest of the neighborhood. At least it isn’t as nerve jerking as when someone is letting lose with a nine millimeter on one of those off nights when the club kids get a little too out of control trying to emulate their idols, or worse when it’s 4 am and someone is really out for blood. When its late the sound reverberates, becoming the dominate noise as the ricochets go careening off the freeway overhead and echo out to oblivion as some unknown lives are threatened. But all in all it is just another part of the symphony of sound that plays continually through out the day and night. I wouldn’t know what to do if all of a sudden it was quiet, if the traffic stopped dead, if the sirens refused to wail, if it was just truly quiet even for a minute. In that respect I have gotten used to it, though it hasn’t turned into crashing waves at the beach, it is still what I have come to expect from my home.

 
 
 
 

This entry was posted on Thursday, June 11th, 2020 at 5:40 pm. Leave a comment. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.

Teaching In Increments*

 

*Disclaimer: due to the coronavirus, and in support of social distancing, and against the numerous false misleading claims and actions propagated by their insane leader and members of the republican party. I want to make it perfectly clear that these “events” happened years ago and in no way am I suggesting to disregard the safety and health of those around me by insinuating that I was teaching in person and in real life.

 

My day consists of saying: “this is a run-on sentence, an unneeded comma, capitalize proper nouns, common nouns need not be capitalized, stay in tense, has vs have, that vs which, this is a comma slice, your modifier is dangling, subject-verb agreement, please stop abusing your thesaurus, semicolons aren’t commas, possessive nouns need apostrophes, so do most contractions, use punctuation with quotation marks, period with abbreviations, make pronouns and antecedents agree, this is a sentence fragment, this is a sentence fragment, this is a sentence fragment, maintain consistent verb tense, use a comma before a coordination conjunction joining independent clauses, this is a wordy sentence: avoid unnecessary repetition of words, and cut empty or inflated phrases, use spell check, use spell check, use spell check, proofread your work…” And none of them seem to be listening.

 

Annoying Student: “how am I doing?”
Me: “meaning?”
AS: “am I passing?”
Me: “how do you feel you’re doing?”
AS: “don’t know, its why I’m asking.”
Me: “you’ve done the work, submitted all the assignments?”
AS: “missed a few.”
Me: “what’s a few?”
AS: “four or five, maybe six.”
Me: “so that’s at least 250 off the minimum 1000 points needed to graduate.”
AS: “man, that’s totally harsh.”
Me: “what is?”
AS: “the way you doing me like that.”
Me: “what’d I do?”
AS: “took those points away.”
Me: “I didn’t take away any points.”
AS: “you just said you did.”
Me: “you didn’t do the work.”
AS: “so I don’t get the points?”
Me: yeah, that’s how it works.”
AS: “totally harsh, man.”
 

Annoying Student #2: “What can you say that’ll make my writing better?”
Me: “nothing I haven’t already commented on in your work. Which you seem to have ignored.”
AS#2: “surely, there’s more? Fast track instructional procedural information, unsystematic definitions, the discourse of analysis, cultural preconceptions?”
Me: “unsystematic? …what exactly are you asking?”
AS#2: “how do I achieve an A?”
Me: “so, like what’s the secret to writing a college essay?”
AS#2: “yes, absolutely. The formula.”
Me: “what do you think we’re doing in class?”
AS#2: “assignments.”
Me: “and they’re just sort of arbitrary, going in no real direction, serving no purpose other than to make you do work you find boring?”
AS#2: “yes, yes. It’s like make believe. I want to write real essays.”
Me: “but that’s different then what you asked. So what’s a real essay?”
AS#2: “you know, important stuff.”
Me: “ah yeah. Such as?”
AS#2: “I don’t know.”
Me: “you don’t know what you want to write about, or what’s important?”
AS#2: “just want an A in the class, and if you could, just tell me how.”
Me: “pay attention to my comments, revise you work using said comments, and push yourself trying harder with each assignment.”
AS#2: “I can’t believed you won’t help me.”
 

Last night, 2 English 101 classes back to back, three hours, me lecturing on MLA style: formatting and citing sources – and I only said fuck once. New personal best record, ever!
 

Creepy Student Lurking in Campus Bathroom: “hey, man.”
Me: “oh, no.”
Creepy Student’s Equally Creepy Friend: “hi.”
Me: “just once I’d like to piss in private.”
CSLiCB: “what’s your opinion of the classics?”
Me: “the classics?”
CSECF: “you know, Moby Dick, Heart of Darkness, Catcher in the Rye.”
Me: “um… why?”
CSLiCB: “don’t think we should have to read that crap.”
Me: “because?”
CSECF: “it’s old.”
Me: “what you wanna read instead?”
CSLiCB: “Odd Interlude.”
CSECF: “World War Z.”
Me: “what the fuck are those?”
CSLiCB: “Dean Koontz.”
CSECF: “Max Brooks.”
Me: “future classics, I’m sure.”
CSLiCB: “you don’t read Koontz?”
Me: “don’t think anyone reads Koontz, it’s more like connect the dots with a crayon.”
CSLiCB: “whad-a-ya mean.”
Me: “prefer to read someone that knows how to actually write.”
CSECF: “that’s cause you’re old.”
Me: “yeah, I’m a classic.”
 

Today’s back to school special: “fuck me, am I really going into the classroom again?”
 

Creepy Student in Classroom: “Dude, we need to talk.”
Me: “did you just call me dude?”
CSiC: “ok, ok, Mr. O, I’ve ishes.”
Me: “ishes? What’s an ishes?”
CSiC: “issues.”
Me: “sayin’ issues is too much, ya gotta go txt on me?”
CSiC: “whoa, Mr. O, all I wanna know, am I gonna pass this class?”
Me: “remember that thing we had last week called spring break?”
CSiC: “yeah?”
Me: “remember that announcement, make up missed assignments over the break?”
CSiC: “yeah?”
Me: “did you?”
CSiC: “no, I was on break.”
Me: “then you’ve answered your own question.”
CSiC: “I don’t get it.”
Me: “I know.”
CSiC: “so, am I gonna pass?”
Me: “think you’ve too many ishes.”
CSiC: “what’s that mean?”
Me: “hell if I know?”
 

Thug-Lite Student: “ain’t feelin’ assignments.”
Me: “ok, what about them you don’t like?”
T-LS: “they’all jus whack.”
Me: “yeah, got that. But is it the type of writing, essay format, subject matter?”
T-LS: “subjects be hella lame.”
Me: “alright, now we getting somewhere.”
T-LS: “stuff jus ain’t be no affectin’ on my life.”
Me: “you don’t think writing about the economy is relevant?”
T-LS: “hell no. Thas fo folks gots jobs, and houses.”
Me: “ahhh. So what’s your interests?”
T-LS: “wanna write ’bout ol’ school hardcore hip hop.”
Me: “like Public Enemy, NWA, Geto Boyz, Wu-Tang?”
T-LS: “nah, nah, nah… Nelly.”
Me: “say what?”
T-LS: “Nelly.”
Me: “what’s a Nelly?”
T-LS: “Nelly hella ol’ school.”
Me: “ah, no. No he’s not.”
T-LS: “he like, at least forty.”
Me: “whoa.”
T-LS: “see, thas-wha-Im-talkin-bout.
Me: “the answer’s no.”
T-LS: “wha-chu mean?”
Me: “no Nelly, no way.”
T-LS: “hows ’bout Chris Brown?”
Me: “how about you stick with economy, then maybe a three page paper on why you don’t have a job.”
T-LS: “always keepin’ a brutha down.”
Me: “Bob, you’re white kid from the valley, only down thing in your future is failing this class.”
T-LS: “but…”
Me: “just keepin’ it real, dude.”
 

He said, “dude, what kind of English teacher are you? All you do is swear.”
Me: “fuck you.”
 

Hotel Front Deskman: “what brings you to 29 Palms?”
Me: “teaching a workshop in Joshua Tree.”
HFD: “oh, photography?”
Me: “no, writing.”
HFD: “usually they’re photography.”
Me: “really? That’d be hard, I’m not a photographer.”
HFD: “well, yes. Just never heard of a writing workshop out there.”
Me: “maybe it’s never been done?”
HFD: “maybe? You a nature writer?”
Me: “ah, no.”
HFD: “history?”
Me: “memoir.”
HFD: “concerning?”
Me: “drug addicts and bank robberies.”
HFD: “you should fit in quite well out here.”
 

Annoying Student: “don’t think I’m gonna make it this semester.”
Me: “that makes two of us.”
AS: “no, mean I’m not going to be alive.”
Me: “really?”
AS: “been diagnosed with a terminal disease.”
Me: “sorry to hear that. What disease, if you don’t mind me asking?”
AS: “it’s complicated.”
Me: “well, none of them are exactly simple.”
AS: “rare blood disorder, genetic mutation, Y chromosomes, X factor…”
Me: “seriously? That sounds like the Hulk, or Wolverine.”
AS: “my brain hurts.”
Me: “ok. So, you’re telling me this, why?”
AS: “don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to do homework.”
Me: “ahhhh, ok.”
AS: “may have to be excused, last few weeks.”
Me: “like, during finals.”
AS: “unfortunately, it appears that way.”
Me: “well, don’t know what to tell you…”
AS: “isn’t there a hardship plea?”
Me: “this isn’t a court of law.”
AS: “what about, medical deferment?”
Me: “definitely need a written statement from your doctor.”
AS: “I’ve this.”
Me: “uh huh… your mom’s a doctor?”
AS: “well, no.”
Me: “don’t mean to be rude, but she misspelled your name.”
AS: “she’s illiterate.”
Me: “that would mean she couldn’t write at all.”
AS: “I’m dying here!”
Me: “yeah, and you’re killing me.”
 

Overly Stressed Student: “what if I can’t write a final paper?”
Me: “what do you mean?”
OSS: “might not be capable.”
Me: “in what way?”
OSS: “I’m overwhelmed, just don’t know…”
Me: “what’s overwhelming about it?”
OSS: “putting words on paper…”
Me: “what have you been doing all semester?”
OSS: “yeah, but those haven’t been ‘final’ papers.”
Me: “oh… so is it the ‘final’ aspect of it?”
OSS: “yeah, it’s so…”
Me: “final?”
OSS: “exactly!”
Me: “Ok, so let’s say you don’t hand in the final paper…”
OSS: “yeah?”
Me: “then you don’t pass, or get an incomplete, have to do it over…”
OSS: “um…”
Me: “then you’ve another semester dreading this exact same moment.”
OSS: “that would totally suck.”
Me: “just putting it in perspective.”
OSS: “maybe final’s not so bad.”
Me: “final says no more English 101.”
OSS: “final’s sounding pretty good.”
Me: “final is your friend.”
OSS: “ok, Mr. O’Neil, thanks.”
Me: “aren’t you glad we had this final moment?”
 

Nervous Student: “how many classes do we have left?”
Me: “today and then next Wednesday.”
NS: “so, two?”
Me: “ah, yeah.”
NS: “when’s the semester end?”
Me: “June 2nd.”
NS: “no class that week?”
Me: “2nd’s a Tuesday.”
NS: “so when’s my final paper due?”
Me: “June 2nd.”
NS: “and I can’t hand it in during class?”
Me: “you submit online.”
NS: “really?”
Me: “ah, like all the other assignments this semester?”
NS: “ok, so about those other assignments…”
Me: “yeah?”
NS: “what if I haven’t handed in some?”
Me: “what’s ‘some’?”
NS: “like, ah, most.”
Me: “try and give me a number that best describes ‘most’.”
NS: “none?”
Me: “really?”
NS: “I was sick, a lot.”
Me: “for four months?”
 

Academic Recruiter: “we’ve a position open that you’d be great for.”
Me: “really? That’s awesome.”
AR: “tenure track, assistant professor, specializing in nonfiction.”
Me: “ok, like I said, awesome.”
AR: “and the ability to teach in multiple delivery modes would be preferable.”
Me: “multiple delivery modes? What ‘mode’ do you mean, besides nonfiction?”
AR: “the emphasis is nonfiction with poetry as a secondary field.”
Me: “did you say poetry?”
AR: “you’d be facilitating one to two poetry classes each semester.”
Me: “um… not really sure I’m qualified for that…”
AR: “all part of the creative writing workshops and technique courses.”
Me: “uh huh, I understand. But that’s the problem.”
AR: “ah, in what way would that be a problem?”
Me: “couldn’t really tell a student whether their poem lacked technique.”
AR: “content is content, and the rules of grammar apply as well.”
Me: “really? Like don’t capitalize that word. Oh and here, leave out all punctuation?”
AR: “Mr. O’Neil, I’m not an educator, teaching writing isn’t my forte.”
Me: “exactly. And poetry isn’t my forte. It’s not even in my vocabulary.”
AR: “but you had a book that was published in France!”
Me: “um… yeah?”
AR: “French! It’s the language of amour. Poetry.”
Me: “you know I didn’t write it in French.”
AR: “no? Hoping you’d also takeover the French literature courses as well.”
Me: “don’t think we’re on the same page here.”
AR: “how about teaching Haikus? Three lines. How hard can that be?”
Me: “um… I’m hanging up now.”
Academic Recruiter: “no wait, hold on…”
Me: “seriously, I can’t teach poetry.”
AR: “ok, ok, how about fiction as the secondary field?”
Me: “well, yeah, I could work with fiction…”
AR: “post apocalyptic, dystopian, alternative history?”
Me: “speculative fiction?”
AR: “yes, I do believe that is the term used.”
Me: “um… how did you decide to recruit me?”
AR: “the department head reads your Facebook posts.”
Me: “ah… that’s it?”
AR: “think he’s on your twitter feed as well.”
Me: “what, no pinterest?”
AR: “pinterest? I’ll have to ask.”
Me: “I was joking. Don’t actually do pinterest.”
AR: “oh, ha ha. Ever known the beauty that is upstate New York?”
Me: “you mean like a Syracuse kind of beauty?”
AR: “actually, Fredonia.”
Me: “what’s a Fredonia?”
AR: “quaint little village on Lake Eerie.”
Me: “I don’t really do quaint…”
AR: “the Bills and the Braves both have training camps there.”
Me: “not even sure what that means.”
AR: “perfect locale for the outdoorsman.”
Me: “um… I’m not really big on nature.”
AR: “craving the big city? Buffalo’s an hour away.”
Me: “honored that you’d consider me, but…”
AR: “there’s a state of the arts Walmart for all your shopping needs…”
Me: “um… I’m definitely hanging up now.”
 

Never fails: every semester there’s a student who is an artist, or writer, or some beaming impressionable creative type that submits a drawing, or badly written short story, or a goddamn poem in lieu of a standard five paragraph research essay (which in truth is a format I abhor) and I have to crush their dreams of creative expression (well, at least in this class). “Dude, there’s nothing fun about the formal college essay!” And just when did this happen? Just when did I become the guardian of the standard college essay? Ugh. I’m working for the Man. No, I’m prostituting for the Man!

Yup. I’m a ho.

Of course if one of them ever handed in a really awesome bit of writing, I’d let it go, leaving them grossly ill prepared for writing a college level paper… But hey, who is really prepared for shit in this world?

 
 
 
 

This entry was posted on Saturday, May 2nd, 2020 at 12:47 pm. Leave a comment. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.

My Father, Wayne O’Neil

 

 

My father died last Sunday morning. I was awakened by the call around 3 am. His partner Maya told me he’d passed away and I couldn’t find the words to respond. He’d been sick for the last two years. Cancer and chemo and his body hadn’t reacted well to both. Final diagnosis was Leukemia—a direct result of the chemo’s radiation “therapy” destroying his immune system. My father had been despondent, tired, and detached. He felt the medical world had failed him and didn’t want to spend his last days in a hospital just to die amongst the uncaring surroundings of beeping heart monitors and endless blood draws.

Six weeks ago, another Sunday, my father called to tell me he had Leukemia and he’d made the decision not to seek treatment. I had just finished buying vegetables at the Hollywood Farmer’s Market, my usual Sunday morning thing to do. I was sitting in my car. Numb with fear and regret. My father’s voice faint and calm. “I have to come out and see you,” I finally blurted out.

My father lived in Somerville, Massachusetts. Just over the border from Cambridge, a few blocks from where we lived when we first moved to Boston. When I was nine years old he’d completed his Fulbright and been appointed professor of linguistics and education at Harvard University. It was 1965. Vietnam was in full swing. He protested the war, refused to pay his taxes, and the FBI froze his bank account. By 1968 he found his home, professor of linguistics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Ultimately becoming chairman of the linguistics program, and then head of the department for linguistics and philosophy. He was well liked, loved and admired. Noam Chomsky was his friend and colleague.

 

 

A month ago I flew out to see him. He was very sick and even though we didn’t get a chance to talk much, I still was able to tell him I loved him. He said, “I had a picture in my mind that I’d just come home, lay on the couch, people would come by, and then I’d quietly die. But that isn’t happening.” I flew back dreading the inevitable outcome.

In the darkness I fumbled for the words that weren’t coming. I held the phone against my ear well after Maya had hung up. Earlier in the evening I’d had a feeling. I’d known my father was going to die that night. Yet I still wasn’t prepared. My first selfish thought was what a fucked up horrible son I’d been. I felt the shame of my father having to come to terms with his son the junkie bank-robber. Self-forgiveness is hard. In fact it’s impossible. I cried tears. I said I was sorry. I spoke out loud to the spirit of a man that didn’t believe in the afterlife. My heart ached. I can only hope that everything I have done in the last twenty years has made up for every fucked up thing I did in the previous thirty. I’d like to think he was proud of me. The picture used in a few of his obituaries was of him reading the French version on my memoir, so I’ll take that as a sign that he was. I know I was proud of him. I hate that I’ll never see him again.

There is never enough time in this life.

Hold those you love close.

 

Wayne Albert O’Neil 1931-2020

 
 

Boston Globe Obituary

Linguistic Society Of America

MIT Linguistic Facebook

 
 
 

This entry was posted on Sunday, March 29th, 2020 at 2:10 pm. Leave a comment. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.