That's how it can feel, anyway. Though what I consider candor seems like throat-clearing compared to the firepower brought to the game by Scott Raab. EGD readers met him last October, when I wrote about his philippic against LeBron James, "The Whore of Akron," as a On the Night Table feature.
Usually that would be it. He thanked me for my kind words, and that is where people typically move on. Only he did something unusual — he asked for my phone number. We spoke last week ... for over an hour. He sent me his story in the March Esquire — you can read it here, if you are a subscriber.
Just that act is ... well, it's a very me thing to do. I'm always pushing my work on people — how would they ever read it otherwise? — handing books to lunch mates who accept them between thumb and forefinger, squirming, as if they hadn't touched a book since high school. I also send relevant columns to random readers who write in.
I read the essay Raab sent, "New Dad: What Happens When You Suddenly Have a New Family at 71," about a couple of the kids he fathered as a sperm donor 30 years ago who track him down and ... well, whatever you imagine the outcome would be, this is different.
I started writing poetry in sixth grade. It was the early 1960s, and my subjects included the JFK assassination and the still-unsolved murder of a young woman in suburban Cleveland, my home town. I was a scared, helpless kid alone in a world full of tragedy and secrets--especially my own family’s. Writing was feeling. It was also a shield, a sword, a creed, and the only path to truth and freedom I could see. Lord, I was a hurting kid, and writers thrive in manure all over the world, and folks imprisoned by secrets live lives of fear and ignorance, and there is no freedom in it. As a writer, I take no prisoners and keep no secrets.
“Nothing human is alien to me,” said Terence. Good enough.
Remember hearing him on Cleveland radio, back in the day, and he was a turn-off...he seemed snarky and abrasive and not very likeable. His books haven't changed my opinion much. But admitting that you wrote poetry about a 16-year-old girl who was murdered when you were 12? That revelation takes guts, because it sounds...well...sorta creepy.
ReplyDeleteBeverly Jarosz was pretty and quiet and wrote poetry and wanted to become a Latin teacher. She listened to classical music, not the Beatles. In December of 1964, she was strangled and stabbed to death in her suburban Cleveland bedroom. The case has never been solved.
Wasn't here then, but my wife was, and she has always identified with the victim.. They were close in age, and very much alike. She once recalled what Beverly wanted for Christmas— the complete works of Shakespeare. A great many Clevelanders of a certain age remember her tragic story, just as older Chicagoans remember the Grimes sisters, who went off to see an Elvis movie one day---and never came home again.
Poetry about such a sad subject indicates, as the writer says, a good deal of inner pain. Maybe it's the only way to ease that pain. Hell, I actually wrote a poem about the OLA school fire for an English class, in ninth grade. And then had the balls to recite it aloud. Most of my classmates seemed bored. The ones who paid attention? They thought I was nuts.
If you haven't read it. Here is a link. https://archive.ph/8Gf6p He had a pretty bad childhood. It took a pretty long time to get to the place he is now.
DeleteWas messing around on the Esquire site and somehow got in. Don't ask me how...probably couldn't tell you, or do it again. Yes, his growing-up years in Cleveland were horrible--pure hell. But the excruciating details made for fascinating reading.
DeleteOn the other hoof, when he snapped us back to the present-- and his most recent interactions with his new-found "family"---the story quickly bogged down, and the narrative became like a slog up a steep hill, through deeper and deeper snow. By the conclusion, it really didn't matter anymore.
Perhaps that's because of the absence of kids and grandkids from my life. Knew by my teens that I would never willingly become a father. Regrets? Not really. Still, there's one catch. Nobody ever expects or plans to become isolated and detached in their declining years. But with time, and age, our few remaining family and friendship ties have become increasingly tenuous, or estranged, or have just faded away. So it goes.
People can change though. Time can mellow a man, sometimes.
ReplyDeleteSome of them get nicer with age: Time heals all wounds...
DeleteSome get even meaner with age: Time wounds all heels...
Unrelated to anything, if there's an occasional paywalled article that is very compelling, but not compelling enough to pay a subscription for the entire publication, especially in a difficult financial situation, try this paywall remover: https://12ft.io/proxy
ReplyDeleteHow does one use that URL? I get a server error when I try to access it.
DeleteI already read the article last week. It was a gift article on the Sunday Long Read. Highly recommend subscribing. It is free. You do get some unpaywalled articles. I don't read everything unless they seem interesting and some of the articles are really long. I tried your link for the heck of it it didn't seem to work for me. For anyone who wants to read it here it is. https://archive.ph/8Gf6p I discovered this earlier this week. I had been using the chrome extension pocket to read paywalled articles but you can't link to them.
DeleteWhat is that picture?? Not the man, the beast above.
ReplyDeleteA banded mongoose, at the Central Park Zoo in New York. And I picked it because ... well, I got tired of looking for something relevant, and I like the color. It's almost green.
DeleteThank you. A nice relief from all the noise.
ReplyDelete"Nothing teaches you to love harder than not getting any when you need it most."
ReplyDeleteI don't know if that's universally true. Maybe for many. But I don't think most abusers received much love when they needed it most themselves - pre or post the abuse.
Loved the Esquire piece as well - the transformation of which we are each capable is evident here:
ReplyDelete“Time is fragile, irreplaceable, not for sale at any price. It’s better not to think about this until you’re aging or ailing or very high. We are animals who swoon into love, who cry and laugh and study quantum physics and massacre each other, all to hold at bay the dread certainty of our common fate.
What can we do to help? Whatever can we do?
Don’t ask me; know thyself.”
Well said Mr. Raab.
Man, that's a hell of a story. The part about his grandfather being the only one who got out in 1944 -- "If that guy doesn’t get on that boat, I’m not me and you’re not you.” -- probably fits into the stories of other families, as well.
ReplyDelete