1964
My heart began to beat again in 1964
(It had begun to die a deadly forty days before)
When out of gloom and pain a new Age came to me,
Offering great promise --- enough to set me free
From disillusion and confusion and such grief and sorrow
That stemmed from the assassination that seemed to kill Tomorrow.
By mid-June 1964 I started to explore
The hurt I’d felt upon the death of one I did adore;
I realized that to despise this life would be a waste,
That agony and anger just left a bitter taste,
And so I set out on a journey aimed at making better
My days and years so dazed and fears would leave no scarlet letter
To mark my soul or brand my goal to live the victim’s life;
I faced the pain and sought to gain victory over strife.
It was September of the year nineteen and sixty-four
That I began to find my call; I taught for the Peace Corps
In Africa, to meet the people who became my friends
And learn from them the lessons that my life today depends
On to function in the classroom as an unction for each kid;
It is true that serving others serves the pain of death to rid.
From 1964 two years I searched through our common corps,
My students hungered for life lessons and for them I’d implore ---
I taught; I learned; I sought; I yearned; I grew and fed my heart
And with each lesson taught there was one I’d depart
The classroom with: a smile, a guess, a brilliant try
And every day I’d walk away with an ever-stronger cry:
He did not die to make me sigh but to confer on me
The Hope and Blessing for each child, to teach them Liberty!
That is the message that I gleaned from 1964:
One I cannot set aside and one I’ll not ignore:
We are all one under the sun and share a common Fate;
Alone we are but lonely; together we are great!
My heart began to beat again in 1964
(It had begun to die a deadly forty days before)
When out of gloom and pain a new Age came to me,
Offering great promise --- enough to set me free
From disillusion and confusion and such grief and sorrow
That stemmed from the assassination that seemed to kill Tomorrow.
By mid-June 1964 I started to explore
The hurt I’d felt upon the death of one I did adore;
I realized that to despise this life would be a waste,
That agony and anger just left a bitter taste,
And so I set out on a journey aimed at making better
My days and years so dazed and fears would leave no scarlet letter
To mark my soul or brand my goal to live the victim’s life;
I faced the pain and sought to gain victory over strife.
It was September of the year nineteen and sixty-four
That I began to find my call; I taught for the Peace Corps
In Africa, to meet the people who became my friends
And learn from them the lessons that my life today depends
On to function in the classroom as an unction for each kid;
It is true that serving others serves the pain of death to rid.
From 1964 two years I searched through our common corps,
My students hungered for life lessons and for them I’d implore ---
I taught; I learned; I sought; I yearned; I grew and fed my heart
And with each lesson taught there was one I’d depart
The classroom with: a smile, a guess, a brilliant try
And every day I’d walk away with an ever-stronger cry:
He did not die to make me sigh but to confer on me
The Hope and Blessing for each child, to teach them Liberty!
That is the message that I gleaned from 1964:
One I cannot set aside and one I’ll not ignore:
We are all one under the sun and share a common Fate;
Alone we are but lonely; together we are great!
Assassination Nation
I was a senior coming home from the poor man’s Harvard that Friday,
Wondering why all those people on the subway train had been deadly silent.
I figured they were just a bunch of strangers shielding themselves in a
Cloak of indifference, avoiding making human contact with each other
But I was wrong. When I entered my apartment, there was Dad staring
At the black and white RCA . . . just staring as if hypnotized --- but not
Mesmerized in any peaceful way. The President had been shot ---
My beloved JFK, our own King Arthur who presided over Camelot and
Filled the atmosphere blanketing the U.S. A. with love was fighting for
His life at a place called Parkland, and Dad was gazing emptily and I had
Difficulty comprehending how a President could in that modern
Time of Peace be shot when he was smiling, waving, being
Cheered on by so many admirers --- but reality hit me like a punch
In the stomach followed by a shot to the head thrown by Sonny
Liston when Cronkite announced that the President had not made it,
That he had passed away. And we sat there without the words. There
Was no comfort, no way to simply go on. JFK was dead. That was
Hard to fathom. Some things are truly unacceptable. Later, I’d be
Haunted not just by a reality that was beyond my imagination
And control, but by repeated images of King Arthur walking
Down the stairs of Air Force One and later smiling, waving at the
Crowds as he rode in a convertible with Texas’ governor, Secret
Service agents all in ironic black jogging so nearby, so helpless;
The images blended --- no, bled --- together, and were ended
With an exclamation mark of a photo of Johnson being sworn
In as Number 36 while Guinevere stood still in the background,
Her proud so carefully selected outfit targeted for a joyous day
Covered by the stains of blood that had so sadly left their host
And all too soon symbolized a closeness that was now
Gone forever. I cried inside and held myself together but
Wandered the rest of that evening in what could only be
Described as shell shock --- in a multiplicity of ways!
Gone was the peace I had known. Gone was the pride I’d felt.
Gone was the fantasy that we had lived in so securely.
He was no more there - - - and yet as time would come
To demonstrate to my fragile soul, he was everywhere
In his influence on my time, my life, my goals, my hopes,
My dreams, my path, my future!
I was a senior coming home from the poor man’s Harvard that Friday,
Wondering why all those people on the subway train had been deadly silent.
I figured they were just a bunch of strangers shielding themselves in a
Cloak of indifference, avoiding making human contact with each other
But I was wrong. When I entered my apartment, there was Dad staring
At the black and white RCA . . . just staring as if hypnotized --- but not
Mesmerized in any peaceful way. The President had been shot ---
My beloved JFK, our own King Arthur who presided over Camelot and
Filled the atmosphere blanketing the U.S. A. with love was fighting for
His life at a place called Parkland, and Dad was gazing emptily and I had
Difficulty comprehending how a President could in that modern
Time of Peace be shot when he was smiling, waving, being
Cheered on by so many admirers --- but reality hit me like a punch
In the stomach followed by a shot to the head thrown by Sonny
Liston when Cronkite announced that the President had not made it,
That he had passed away. And we sat there without the words. There
Was no comfort, no way to simply go on. JFK was dead. That was
Hard to fathom. Some things are truly unacceptable. Later, I’d be
Haunted not just by a reality that was beyond my imagination
And control, but by repeated images of King Arthur walking
Down the stairs of Air Force One and later smiling, waving at the
Crowds as he rode in a convertible with Texas’ governor, Secret
Service agents all in ironic black jogging so nearby, so helpless;
The images blended --- no, bled --- together, and were ended
With an exclamation mark of a photo of Johnson being sworn
In as Number 36 while Guinevere stood still in the background,
Her proud so carefully selected outfit targeted for a joyous day
Covered by the stains of blood that had so sadly left their host
And all too soon symbolized a closeness that was now
Gone forever. I cried inside and held myself together but
Wandered the rest of that evening in what could only be
Described as shell shock --- in a multiplicity of ways!
Gone was the peace I had known. Gone was the pride I’d felt.
Gone was the fantasy that we had lived in so securely.
He was no more there - - - and yet as time would come
To demonstrate to my fragile soul, he was everywhere
In his influence on my time, my life, my goals, my hopes,
My dreams, my path, my future!
ResoNation: The Early Days
I wandered alongside my sister Ida, mind filled with grief
For the promise never to be fulfilled, staring without purpose
As we strolled robot-like through the aisles of the Korvettte’s
In her neighborhood. I just didn’t want to be alone that day.
My hero President had been destroyed the day before by a
Lone loser whose life was empty, and so I grieved and I
Considered how tenuous life was, how fragile, if our leader’s life
Could end abruptly, without purpose, leaving Camelot and our
Hearts so empty and our wounds so raw.
I heard, echoed in my mind, his call for fellow citizens to serve.
I’d planned to serve indeed, having passed exams to be a navigator
In the Air Force, but I was never called, and so I was positioned to
Recall JFK’s exhortation in his inaugural address for us citizens to
Ask ourselves what we could do for our beloved nation. It was at
This day of mourning an overwhelming question - - - but the response
Came the week which followed in the guise of Kennedy’s Peace Corps
Chief visiting my campus, giving a patriotic and agonizing recruiting
Speech not only as a member of the JFK government but also as the
Brother-in-law of the murdered President. I didn’t hear a calling but I
Felt service was my response to those words which echoed in my
Mind: “Ask not!” I signed up; my answer to irrational violence was
Rational peace: I became a member of the Peace Corps.
Chose to teach in Africa starting in 1964 because that continent
Was rich with newly independent nations and I wanted to be
Part of it all. I was assigned to a nation I had never heard of, a
Former British colony. Its original European name was “Serra
Lyoa, given by 15th Century Portuguese explorer Pedro de Sintra
Because he felt the hills surrounding the harbor of what would be
Called Freetown looked to him like lion mountains. I remember
Taking mass transit down to the main Barnes and Noble on
5th Avenue not far from NYU and searching through dusty shelves
And finding a volume more than a century old, with a few chapters
About British Sierra Leone, written in dry and unattached language
In some misguided attempt to write historical geography. The store,
Overwhelmingly large, had nothing else on that mysterious place.
My next preparation destination was the Sierra Leone Pavilion of the
1964 World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows, a long but doable subway /
Elevated ride from my home. It was there that I heard the new nation
Filled with hope referred to as The Future Flower Spot of Africa.
In my innocence, I smiled, not knowing that that future would
Long after I had left include a vicious civil war with child-soldiers
And devastating Ebola. I recall being greeted by a Sierra Leonian
Wearing many-hued garb and a gigantic smile full of pride
For his recently freed country. I would soon be part of educating
Future citizens. My two-year journey had begun. My desire for
Building freedom for a Black nation coincided with violence in the
Form of civil protests demanding Black equality in my home nation,
With street protests against our ever-deepening involvement in the
Was in Vietnam . . . but I was determined to do my share in helping
JFK’s movement for peace. We PCV’s were selected to show the
World that we wanted peace, that we were not the obnoxious Ugly
American bullying and spending his or her way across other nations.
Life is complicated. I am satisfied that two years later, when I completed
My service, I left behind dozens of students in Salon who, when discussing
Americans, would smile and have pleasant positive images of those of us
Who chose the path of peace.
I wandered alongside my sister Ida, mind filled with grief
For the promise never to be fulfilled, staring without purpose
As we strolled robot-like through the aisles of the Korvettte’s
In her neighborhood. I just didn’t want to be alone that day.
My hero President had been destroyed the day before by a
Lone loser whose life was empty, and so I grieved and I
Considered how tenuous life was, how fragile, if our leader’s life
Could end abruptly, without purpose, leaving Camelot and our
Hearts so empty and our wounds so raw.
I heard, echoed in my mind, his call for fellow citizens to serve.
I’d planned to serve indeed, having passed exams to be a navigator
In the Air Force, but I was never called, and so I was positioned to
Recall JFK’s exhortation in his inaugural address for us citizens to
Ask ourselves what we could do for our beloved nation. It was at
This day of mourning an overwhelming question - - - but the response
Came the week which followed in the guise of Kennedy’s Peace Corps
Chief visiting my campus, giving a patriotic and agonizing recruiting
Speech not only as a member of the JFK government but also as the
Brother-in-law of the murdered President. I didn’t hear a calling but I
Felt service was my response to those words which echoed in my
Mind: “Ask not!” I signed up; my answer to irrational violence was
Rational peace: I became a member of the Peace Corps.
Chose to teach in Africa starting in 1964 because that continent
Was rich with newly independent nations and I wanted to be
Part of it all. I was assigned to a nation I had never heard of, a
Former British colony. Its original European name was “Serra
Lyoa, given by 15th Century Portuguese explorer Pedro de Sintra
Because he felt the hills surrounding the harbor of what would be
Called Freetown looked to him like lion mountains. I remember
Taking mass transit down to the main Barnes and Noble on
5th Avenue not far from NYU and searching through dusty shelves
And finding a volume more than a century old, with a few chapters
About British Sierra Leone, written in dry and unattached language
In some misguided attempt to write historical geography. The store,
Overwhelmingly large, had nothing else on that mysterious place.
My next preparation destination was the Sierra Leone Pavilion of the
1964 World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows, a long but doable subway /
Elevated ride from my home. It was there that I heard the new nation
Filled with hope referred to as The Future Flower Spot of Africa.
In my innocence, I smiled, not knowing that that future would
Long after I had left include a vicious civil war with child-soldiers
And devastating Ebola. I recall being greeted by a Sierra Leonian
Wearing many-hued garb and a gigantic smile full of pride
For his recently freed country. I would soon be part of educating
Future citizens. My two-year journey had begun. My desire for
Building freedom for a Black nation coincided with violence in the
Form of civil protests demanding Black equality in my home nation,
With street protests against our ever-deepening involvement in the
Was in Vietnam . . . but I was determined to do my share in helping
JFK’s movement for peace. We PCV’s were selected to show the
World that we wanted peace, that we were not the obnoxious Ugly
American bullying and spending his or her way across other nations.
Life is complicated. I am satisfied that two years later, when I completed
My service, I left behind dozens of students in Salon who, when discussing
Americans, would smile and have pleasant positive images of those of us
Who chose the path of peace.
Overview of an Adventure
I. The Rain
The never-ending rain pounded the aluminum roofs,
the corrugated angular roofs above our heads,
as we remained prisoners of the classroom
and of the merciless rain
and every drumbeat brought me memories
of our postponed landing
of our detour to Dakar
on the night which was to be our first
spent in our two-year home:
Freetown in Sierra Leone
(which I’d been told would be the future
Garden Spot of Africa
when I’d visited the New York-based
World’s Fair).
We could not teach, and later there would be
a two-month recess as the rains of July and August
would hold dominion over all our cherished activities.
We could not curse the rain,
the mother who gave birth to lush growth which fed
the animals, human and other.
There are some forces in nature which you simply
bow to and accept as stronger than yourself
and for a time more vital.
Praise the rain not as the enemy
but rather, alma mater.
There would be other times to learn from books;
Now was the time to learn from the unstoppable force
that was the rain.
II. The Students
I loved the students who hungered to be there
learning lessons that would make their lives
and give them respect-filled paths past the poverty.
They came to study and build skills, but at the same time
showed their love of what they learned
(No immature wasting of the time or petty grievances).
They treasured stories that we read together,
calling classmates by names stemming from the classics
which we studied. One would become Pip for his naïveté
and his eager style; another; Joe Gargery, for his goodness
while a third, a less than polished persona, would be termed
Magwitch --- all inhabitants of Dickens’ world of Great Expectations
And now of ours,and Shakespeare gave us living characters as well,
As did Chinua Achebe, Father of Modern African Literature,
author of Things Fall Apart. And the learners as well would quote lines
from the poems
(mostly British, for there were still the threads of a connection
With the Colonial Empire --- the nation having recently regained
its Independence) --- yes, they loved the learning that lived
in my classroom, from writing down their thoughts
to what they termed boxicalizing
(Their version of diagramming sentences),
--- and they loved questioning
some of my ideas --- but always with respectand curiosity.
And when it came the time for the fearsome GCE’s,
Those exams remnant of the British Empire White Man's Burden
Superiority, the horrid nasty Pressure cooker-time for make or break
at school year’s end,
they studied in their dorms
by candlelight
past curfew
and little did I comprehend the weight they placed on
one week of exams (or was it two?)
--- but now I am in awe of efforts I misunderstood.
I have taught six decades now and those were easily
among the best, for effort and caring and living with
our subjects and lessons.
I remember when I first corrected and graded
sets of compositions --- and I cried
figuratively
at the vast number of mistakes
and wondered at the road for them that seemed to lead
nowhere
and felt self-pity at the work ahead of me until
I grew and realized that these young men
were not writing in their second language
but in their third (and sometimes in their fourth:
Temne, Krio, Hausa, English)
and who was I, so mono-lingual, when I was
in the presence of the future human garden?
I was a college grad but had so much to learn
From my students and from life; it was
A marvelous two years; it shaped my teaching
And my education and my view of people.
Of course, we had athletics. They loved their football
and we taught them basketball, having one of four courts
in the nascent nation and we coached and cheered
and once a year, we teachers played them in our game and won
but then the soccer ball replaced the basketball, and it was
our students who became the teachers.
III. The others
Pa Bundu was nonpareil. He swung his machete hour after hour
under blazing, relentless sun
and breathing heavy air as a Man whose
scoliosis left him bent at forty-five degrees
BUT I never heard him say
A word about his fate or his condition.
Personify the dignity of
physical work and it has Pa Bundu’s face.
He was also my barber
and I valued his caring
and gentility and the way he carried himself,
upright in every way that really mattered.
The others, the ones who cared for us, who cleaned
and cooked and shopped, were honored
as they were honorable. The storekeepers in Port Loko,
affable and full of life, greeted us enthusiastically
when we would walk the two plus miles from campus
to the town. There were a joyous crowd of smiles each time
for people still surrounded us
in a place with no TV or cell phones or laptops
for this was in the 1960’s
And technology had not yet tried to overbear our lives
And ratings had not yet become tormentors of our souls
And people just enjoyed each other’s time.
I can remember the ex-pats who shared my time there,
from the English banker and his very proper self
to the Chief Engineer and his wife, pleasant and polite,
and the two British missionaries, women who would
more than once join us and spend an evening
playing a harmless round of a card game called canasta.
Occasionally we were visited by a traveling trader
selling hand-made rugs and carved ebony faces
and even a monkey (which a fellow teacher bought).
I also tutored a man in English but refused the offer
of money from one not rich . . . who, in his pride,
repaid me with a snakeskin which I mailed home
to my sister as a souvenir inside a large envelope
covered with many gorgeous gleaming multicolored
Harry Winston stamps: my sister saw the snakeskin,
screamed, threw it away and when the mailman asked
for the envelope with the many stamps, she gave it to him,
and there went my good-intentioned souvenirs.
There were the VSO’s, English and Scottish, sharing
the teaching load with us, sharing their differences,
livening our lives,
but above all were the students – Baimba, Abu Bakar, Sam,
Mohammed, so many others – filling my life with wonder and joy,
with struggles and pain, but always with a hope for the future
(in the days before Ebola and a civil war,
which would curse them decades after I had left).
IV. Animal Life
Where do I start? Insects, wildlife, pets? We were not so alone.
Life flourishes in Africa. And we had contact with so much:
army ants, giant roaches, dogs, cats, chickens, monkeys,
a tarantula, snakes --- even a chameleon and a leopard.
Human life was born on this continent and humans have never
had to be alone.
In high school, I read a short story by Richard Connell, called
“Leiningen Versus the Ants” which was set on a plantation in Brazil
and I never conceived or believed that I would gain first-hand
contact up-close-and-personal with these creatures --- but I was wrong:
These ants: army ants, thus named because they travel together
sometimes in the thousands, each having an assigned duty
to follow when they attack, often first going for the eyes
and blinding their victim, then devouring it quickly
(which happened to my kitten once
inside an open drainpipe).
The first sighting and attack occurred one evening
during a card game when we noted our veranda
had turned black and had motion.
I, from the Bronx, reacted instinctively and sprayed
insecticide, killing a few on the front lines
while others crawled up my legs and began biting;
I began brushing them away (sometimes the body fell but the head
remained, jaws shut tight); then Mohammed told us
what to do . . . and we boiled much water
and poured it along the first several rows
of the ravenous, voracious beasts –-
finally convincing the survivors to turn and march away.
Let me give honorable mention to the roaches,
three inches long and crawling quickly behind antennae
swaying and searching. I hit one and it seemed to want to
hit me in return but in my fear I dodged and returned fire
till I had won.
(I even entertained one found inside mosquito netting
as I went to bed, prepared to read a novel till I drowsed off;
The shock brought me to alertness much too late.)
The ugliest scene I witnessed was the day when I discovered
one titanic bug on kitchen table. I reacted with weapon at hand,
and held a shoe and smashed it in half . . . only to witness
a long tapeworm slithering straight up to see who had
interrupted its meal. It was a double victory for me.
We briefly hosted a tarantula which came to us
with a banana plant, a gift that kept on giving, and it
was speedily dispatched.
One day, not to be forgotten, as I taught I lost my students
amid their noise: a snake was crawling among the rafters
holding up the ceiling. It fell and there I was, at one end
of the room, cheering on the student body which killed
the misplaced reptile and proceeded to cut off
and bury its head (to keep away the poison
strong enough to injure even after death).
Our science teacher, one having undergone training
in Indiana as I had, kept a dog and leashed it well
except once when it ran only to be killed by our
headmaster, who did not love dogs, driving over it.
Next came the cat. Understand that cats are not dogs
so when the science teacher tried to walk the cat
by dragging it along with neck inside his leash,
I recognized this crime against nature and the cat
became my own, no longer to be leashed. I called her
KrioCatra (Krio being a language spoken based on
English; the remainder, self-explanatory.
This cat and I bonded well, with her showing love
to me by bringing into my bedroom field mice
captured outside, to play with them and crunch
on their heads, waking me up with this sign of
affection. Then one day, she came to me
straight from a hunting expedition,
eyes swollen shut, having received the spit
of a cobra, clearly. What was I to do?
I picked her up and bathed her in my
bathroom sink, using milk to cancel the
acidic nature of the irritant
(following the advice of the cat’s
erstwhile possessor, science major that he was),
and all the while, Krio stood there patiently,
relying on our bond and full of trust . . .
and it did work.
Earlier, I mentioned the trader who sold a monkey
to a neighbor. I learned so much about the simian:
Her fear of shadows of planes
which, to her, were the possibility of
birds of prey seeking her out; her small
human fingers grasping my hand as would a child;
her rambunctious nature using me as a plaything
when in the library she would bounce around the room
and smack me in the back of my head repeatedly
but more with affection than hostility
as I created index cards for a misjudged
card catalog in the days before we went online
forever, when things were still so simple
and dependable:
simian and human thriving alive.
V. Beautiful Nature
Nothing not a human was more pleasing to the sight
than on a quiet, tranquil evening
when for no better reason than
deep desire to enjoy the night
I would walk on the grass and stand,
quiet and still, and peer into the past
above me, viewing the crystal night sky
alive! with stars that I had never seen
in all the years before,
Some stars that had by then ceased to exist
But whose light still blessed me as it reached its destination
In my eyes and soul.
Here, in the non-Industrial clime
was the sublime,
the paintings of the light that glowed
and glittered in the night:
both light and dark
make bright the spark!
and so it was that I could touch the stars
and feel their majesty, their tender glow,
and know the past in ways before
that simply did not make themselves
aware to me.
And the moon! That same clear
sky, introduced by air that knew
The purity of prehistoric times
entertained the moon as elegant
and welcoming as ever known by me
or any other; I could see
and almost touch each crater,
communed with the Sea of Tranquility
in such a way that I knew from
inside what placid meant
for the first time ever!
This luminescent moon that would
in just four years play host
to members of my species
but they would see the rocks
and know the science
while I appreciated so much more
(ask Whitman when you see him)
and thanked my temporary place
in a world too soon about to change.
Even in the day
the azure skies comforted me
with their oversight and their quiet might
and when at night the lightning bolts
would seem to shatter visions of perfection
this was not so for those true zags in sight
were not a threat; they were a treat
of sharply defined light, an emphasis
of contrasts to the blackness,
streaks against the jet of the sky
pleasing to my eye,
while down on Earth the lush
verdant shrubs, the gentle tufts of flowers
(the multicolored hibiscus dotting
so much of our campus) supplied me with
a hint of the Future Garden Spot
that was sadly not to be
though in the innocence of my youth
I did not understand that what is promised
does not always bear the fruit it promises).
VI. Malaria
Six days ill out of two years: one, a tooth in need
and soon repaired in Freetown, but the other five!:
my ignorance and poorly employed sense
of immortality (eschewing the prescribed single pill
a week) led me to my membership in
The White Man's Graveyard
(as was the region named in the centuries of death,
the welcoming agent of invaders . . .)
and so I dwelled within alternating
days of freezing from without and
days of blazing from within: five days
of weakness, loss of appetite and haze,
of absence of all energy,
of weariness and emptiness until
the child of the anopheles grew bored
and sought another host
and so returned I to the classroom grateful
to be home again and whole again
at last.
VII. Lessons Learned
Do not judge people by your own experience
and background but rather by their own.
Love and enjoy life in its basic form and
do not criticize that which you do not yet
understand.
Love people for they in return
will value and appreciate what you
might have to offer them.
Understand that time goes too quickly
and appreciate the time while it abounds
for too soon it is gone.
Value friendships in their simplest form
for when complications enter
understanding is the saddest victim.
Enjoy what is before you. If you look
too far into the future, you’ll get lost
and you will lose a treasure.
Smile . . . for such a look is welcoming
and translates to the universal tongue.
Treasure memories that keep the young
and eager from the harm and disappointments
that may haunt them in the future.
Value each unique experience, for as you age
they present themselves so much more rarely.
THE JOURNEY TO
We met at the end of August ‘64
In New York City (my home)
At a crowded ante-terrorist JFK
(Replacing Idlewild less than a month after the shot
That ended Camelot),
A gaggle of innocents desperately holding onto idealism
And a dream of a better world with no
Ugly Americans.
We had shared ten weeks of experiences during training in Indiana
And now at last reality was facing us,
The awareness that in a matter of hours we would
Be in a barely independent nation in West Africa
(Leaving behind our taken-for-granted childhoods and
The comfort of homes filled with loved ones and well-wishers).
We were ready to share the lives of those waiting for us
In “The Future Garden Spot of Africa”
(A bill of goods pushed at the recent World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows ---
Which turned into Ebola and a civil war years later,
But that’s a subject for another time so let’s continue with
Our idealistic help the world one American at a time
Just before we started sending soldiers one at a time
To Vietnam and to Kent State)
And we were filled with trepidation for the unknown and love
Of citizens of the world in the shadow of the memory of JFK
The all-too-mortal Man
And so we flew in what was then the latest passenger jet, the 707,
But we switched planes in Morocco simply because our host nation
Had no airport capable of landing large and eager jets
And then we soon approached Freetown in our smaller noisy
Propeller job flown by a student pilot guided by a Russian instructor
And filled with about 70 of America’s finest youth
In the middle of what was called the Cold War
But which was filled with too much heat
Of banging shoes and Cuban / Soviet missiles (of blessed memory).
We could not land because, you see, the rainy season was in full bloom
(One hundred and forty inches of rain in two brief but mostly moist months
And not much foresight before our flight you might observe)
So soon we landed in Conakry in Guinea and heard French all over and
Then were shepherded into our motel rooms for that single night
(And I stared at the bidet and had no idea what I was looking at ---
I told you we were innocents, did I not?)
But early the next day we found ourselves setting foot on soil and tarmac
Of what would be our home for two fulfilling years.
That evening for the first time (but not quite the last) I went to bed
Surrounded by mosquito netting hoping to ward of the attack
Of the female Anopheles mosquito, carrier of malaria,
In an area once known as The White Man’s Graveyard
For that very reason (ironic when you stop to consider
The role Freetown had in fostering the slave trade until it
Woke up and earned its name).
(And yes, I did contract malaria in my second year but caused more
By stupidity than a mosquito, as I neglected the preventive Aralen pill
Once a week because it required too much effort)
So there we were for a few days at Fourah Bay College
(Founded in 1827 and giving Sierra Leone the nickname
The Oxford of West Africa)
Being introduced to life in real and practical terms for the next two years.
But of the journey to the airport and the journey to Morocco
And the journey to Dakar and the journey to Freetown
The one that stands out is the journey to Port Loko
And its secondary school campus that first time:
It was a place that welcomed me with great potential and
With growth for five forms of students and for me, a novice teacher.
Pristine and almost shiny buildings;
Eager and ambitious students who had no trouble
Seeing the connection between their lives and their education,
Their futures and their learning.
I was immediately greeted by one of the boys living in a dormitory
And eager for classes to begin, smiling and telling me of a PCV
The previous year who was “Black like me” (said Baimba Tambedu)
With not a hint of judgment or suspicion and that is when I knew
That I was home.
In New York City (my home)
At a crowded ante-terrorist JFK
(Replacing Idlewild less than a month after the shot
That ended Camelot),
A gaggle of innocents desperately holding onto idealism
And a dream of a better world with no
Ugly Americans.
We had shared ten weeks of experiences during training in Indiana
And now at last reality was facing us,
The awareness that in a matter of hours we would
Be in a barely independent nation in West Africa
(Leaving behind our taken-for-granted childhoods and
The comfort of homes filled with loved ones and well-wishers).
We were ready to share the lives of those waiting for us
In “The Future Garden Spot of Africa”
(A bill of goods pushed at the recent World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows ---
Which turned into Ebola and a civil war years later,
But that’s a subject for another time so let’s continue with
Our idealistic help the world one American at a time
Just before we started sending soldiers one at a time
To Vietnam and to Kent State)
And we were filled with trepidation for the unknown and love
Of citizens of the world in the shadow of the memory of JFK
The all-too-mortal Man
And so we flew in what was then the latest passenger jet, the 707,
But we switched planes in Morocco simply because our host nation
Had no airport capable of landing large and eager jets
And then we soon approached Freetown in our smaller noisy
Propeller job flown by a student pilot guided by a Russian instructor
And filled with about 70 of America’s finest youth
In the middle of what was called the Cold War
But which was filled with too much heat
Of banging shoes and Cuban / Soviet missiles (of blessed memory).
We could not land because, you see, the rainy season was in full bloom
(One hundred and forty inches of rain in two brief but mostly moist months
And not much foresight before our flight you might observe)
So soon we landed in Conakry in Guinea and heard French all over and
Then were shepherded into our motel rooms for that single night
(And I stared at the bidet and had no idea what I was looking at ---
I told you we were innocents, did I not?)
But early the next day we found ourselves setting foot on soil and tarmac
Of what would be our home for two fulfilling years.
That evening for the first time (but not quite the last) I went to bed
Surrounded by mosquito netting hoping to ward of the attack
Of the female Anopheles mosquito, carrier of malaria,
In an area once known as The White Man’s Graveyard
For that very reason (ironic when you stop to consider
The role Freetown had in fostering the slave trade until it
Woke up and earned its name).
(And yes, I did contract malaria in my second year but caused more
By stupidity than a mosquito, as I neglected the preventive Aralen pill
Once a week because it required too much effort)
So there we were for a few days at Fourah Bay College
(Founded in 1827 and giving Sierra Leone the nickname
The Oxford of West Africa)
Being introduced to life in real and practical terms for the next two years.
But of the journey to the airport and the journey to Morocco
And the journey to Dakar and the journey to Freetown
The one that stands out is the journey to Port Loko
And its secondary school campus that first time:
It was a place that welcomed me with great potential and
With growth for five forms of students and for me, a novice teacher.
Pristine and almost shiny buildings;
Eager and ambitious students who had no trouble
Seeing the connection between their lives and their education,
Their futures and their learning.
I was immediately greeted by one of the boys living in a dormitory
And eager for classes to begin, smiling and telling me of a PCV
The previous year who was “Black like me” (said Baimba Tambedu)
With not a hint of judgment or suspicion and that is when I knew
That I was home.
Salone: Mirrors
I.
War and Peace
The conflict in Vietnam was in its early stages
As was the presence of the Peace Corps.
The leader wanted us to fight;
The people wanted us to share, to teach, to learn.
People died and people lived ---
Soldiers in the war did not know whom to trust:
Seekers of the peace were full of trust.
The soldiers were mostly too young
While the others were mostly young.
“It was the best of times; it was the worst of times”
Depending on who you were and what you needed ---
But this was the take of one country
Versus one nation or
Partnered with many nations.
Yes, in each case there were other nations with their own interests
But while one situation sought divisiveness,
The other sought to unite: Temne, Mende, Hausa, Krio, others.
In one, too many returned in coffins or the confines of addiction
And were jeered for their service, having been led into a fatal trap
By foolish, arrogant, destructive politicians
(old men willing to sacrifice the young on the altar of ambition);
In the other, all returned to loved ones and to jobs and to
A place of respect that both deserved.
II.
Teaching and Learning
I went to teach, to show off all I’d learned,
To brandish figuratively my recent college degree
And teach I did: English language, English literature,
Journalism, Drama, basketball, what it is to be a typical American,
What it is to be relatively free of preconceptions and of bias ---
But here’s the thing: I didn’t know it at the start but I was there to learn
More than I taught. To begin with, I leaned to recognize and to erase
Ingrained stereotypes and biases; I learned
To be a friend as well as mentor, to listen and not just hear
What was being said . . . and felt.
I learned how much education meant when it was clear
That what my students learned set the course to their future lives;
I learned to love the dance (even as a passive viewer), to recognize the joys
That give life meaning, and the blessings of good health,
Symbolized by the ability to stand up straight.
I learned the value of family and the bond that keeps us all united
Even if an ocean separates us; I learned that these my students,
Many away from their families, cared about their classes even to the point
Of addressing class mates names of characters from novels
Who displayed common characteristics --- and in my inchoate education
Did I learn not to judge too quickly
Students made to write in their third language
While I knew only one (as well as I had mastered it).
I saw that there is so much more that we all share than that divides us:
A sense of humor, feelings of love and fear and anger and excitement,
A desire to take advantage of the rare opportunities proffered us,
and the rest.
Gratitude works both ways; home is where one is; hard work is the path
To better things, and everyone appreciates the efforts made by others.
I taught with words and with examples in my life and in my days
But learned by observation and by feeling.
III.
VSO and PCV
I was one of four Peace Corps Volunteers at Schlenker Secondary School
From ’64 to ’66; We also had a woodwork teacher and a headmaster
Born in Sierra Leone, and in addition,
Two teachers who were British, serving in their Voluntary Service Overseas
For one year each (from places such as Leeds and Scotland)
And we had many commonalities: our youth, our desire to help,
The arrogance of neophytes serving in a third world country
(At least, at the beginning).
The British had a presence in this three-year-old nation
Which they formerly had colonized and run:
missionaries, an engineer, a banker.
I learned from these colleagues similar to what I learned from all my students:
That people, free from governmental policies and their obsessions and history
Are very much alike and like it just that way.
I found it interesting that though we were far from perfect in our relationships,
A sense of class division showed itself among the VSO’s
(The arrogance of one of upper level background as opposed to
The working class of one despite his comparable college education ---
But this was true of a fellow PCV and me; he carried himself as clearly
Superior with his Midwest background while I was from the Bronx
and my father owned a candy store together with my sister’s husband. Still,
We worked together for the betterment of our students’ futures
And we were supportive in our common goals
Despite our human foibles; we were real people and we fought for our kids
Because that was the reason we were there.
IV.
Watching and Playing
Some are watchers and some are players. (Often it depends on the details.)
Some want to be involved and others are just fine as observers.
We taught the students basketball and watched them play;
We coached them from the sideline and cheered them on.
The sport was new to them in 1964. To make a point, we played them
Once and beat them by a host of points ---
But then they’d play their sport (soccer or, as they call it, football)
And we would watch again and cheer the better plays but miss
The nuanced play and understated passing and the setups,
And then we’d challenge these students to play US in soccer
Only to accept defeat (not even close) because it was the fair thing to do:
Basketball and soccer; ours and theirs; and the similarities,
Appreciating teamwork and self-sacrifice, planning and execution,
Cheering on one’s teammates. Watching and playing both made us all one.
Yin and yang on the field or the court.
Of course, this was carried over to other areas,
Especially to the dramatic arts.
When we were lucky USAID came through with films
That we could view, gathered in the lunchroom
Converted to an auditorium with a screen
And watching the figures celluloid, from the black-and-white 1940’s
Version of Dickens’ Great Expectations – a visualization of the novel
Read by one of my classes (with its scary graveyard start to its
Painful love development to its grand but unexpected revelations)
To a documentary featuring Wilma Rudolph, three-time Olympic Star
African- American, one of 22 children, who overcame polio, scarlet fever
And double pneumonia to achieve her glory, a perfect model to our students
On how hard work and sharp determination can help one overcome the odds.
There were the watchers --- but there were, upon occasion, players,
Acting out a play I’d written and presenting in the nearby town; I admired their tenacity
A bit more than their talent, but I loved their freedom of spirit and their
Willingness to share. They were the stars of the show for showing up.
V.
Tennis and Basketball
Before we had a headmaster born in our host nation,
There was one from England --- and he loved tennis.
The year before I came (and I don’t know much about it but there is a point)
One PCV promoted building a basketball court, which would be
The fourth such court in the entire nation (It was 1963 and basketball
Was little played outside the USA, relatively speaking).
The headmaster favored construction of a tennis court.
Want would they do? Tennis court or basketball?
Can such sports in some way co-exist?
Can nations co-exist, even allies, when both required the same piece of land?
It didn’t take a League of Nations or United Nations or the Iroquois League:
All it took was common sense and a common cause
And there it was: a concrete court for both,
With tennis lines drawn out and backboards that could be raised and
Opposing holes drilled for poles that held a tennis net and there you were!
Basketball nets and a tennis net existing close enough and sharing space
And why can’t nations of the world make similar arrangements and work out
In such a way that they can share the land instead of fill the land with blood
Of future generations.
Perhaps that is why a tennis game begins with love
And there is no I in basketball.
VI.
Harmattan and the Rainy Season
We had no snow, tornadoes, earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis.
There was no drama in the climate there but we had patterns recognizable,
Predictable, and of two ends of the weather spectrum.
We had the harmattan and the rainy season every year.
Harmattan was a time of dryness and wind.
It hit us and we dealt with it and we survived and taught: no problem;
The antithetical occurred every July and August: the rain poured down,
Seventy inches a month (if snow, it would have been seven hundred inches
Times two) and school was closed, not for some antiquated non-agrarian
American summer vacation but for a more practical and realistic reason,
That we teachers and students could not possibly be heard
As the pounding water fall hit the corrugated metal roof of the classrooms,
Drumming thunder into our student-teacher heads.
(Little did I know that the thunder of the rain foreshadowed the shots
That would destroy lives and my beloved school in the years to come,
In a civil war that wasn’t civil in any way, when children of the same age
As my students --- and younger --- would be coerced into illegitimate
But just as deadly armies
Fighting for the dust and for no dream of glory anywhere.)
VII.
Dog and Cat
My roommate had a dog he loved to walk and play the lord upon,
Channeling his rigid rules of living onto that poor unknowing canine
Until an accident --- questionable in nature --- put an end to that relationship,
And so, one day, at the end of the same leash that had easily controlled the dog,
There appeared a kitten, struggling by her nature to defy the autocratic ruler
Trying to lay claim to her domain. But a cat is not a dog. One is a follower;
One walks (struts?) alone: member of the pack and lone wanderer.
I witnessed this epic battle for a day or two and then pronounced
(Cat lover that I am)
That I was now the owner of the cat (as if a cat could ever be owned).
I took the leash, resisted the temptation to put it on my friendly neighbor,
And did no more --- but I apparently had gained a friend, and for the rest
Of my two years, we were Batman and Robin (but which was which?)
And I pronounced that henceforth would this feline have the name KrioCatra
(Krio being the name of a common language in the land
--- Derivative of English ---as well as
A group of people living mostly in Freetown, descendants of freed slaves).
We shared good times; she’d often greet me in the morn with a present ---
A field mouse she had caught, which she then proceeded to devour
At the foot of my mosquito-netted bed. (I never thanked her, but
Felt the grand connection when she would gently close her eyes at me.)
Later, reacting to her screams as she returned from foraging,
I washed the poison of a cobra from her eyes
And shared her grief and happiness as she gave birth and one died young
But one flourished, undersized, and thus named Runt.
It’s not unusual for inter-species friendships to evolve
If each fulfills a need the other has
And there are limits placed but unrestricted ties of real affection shared.
It’s sad that humans haven’t figured out the way to get along,
To avoid impressing wishes and demands upon each other,
Eschewing any sense of superiority in the name of equity,
Forever substituting for hugs, punches, smiles for sneers,
Life for Death.
VIII.
Bat versus Bat
This was ridiculous. It was a form of prejudice. One day a bat flew
Into our living room, intending no malice, not seeking to lay claim
To some new territory --- it must have made a left when it meant to go right ---
but it touched a deeply held prejudice inside me,
Culled from associations with Dracula and the dark unknown of caves
And thus, I found myself comically but tragically chasing the flying invader
Around my living room swinging a baseball bat wildly,
Missing my target, until at last --- for its sake and for mine --- it escaped
Out the open space created by my retracting doors
And finding solace in the light of day,
Unaccustomed as it was in such a realm.
We ought to be aware of our biases
For there is no way to counter them if they inhabit the darkness of our souls.
I.
War and Peace
The conflict in Vietnam was in its early stages
As was the presence of the Peace Corps.
The leader wanted us to fight;
The people wanted us to share, to teach, to learn.
People died and people lived ---
Soldiers in the war did not know whom to trust:
Seekers of the peace were full of trust.
The soldiers were mostly too young
While the others were mostly young.
“It was the best of times; it was the worst of times”
Depending on who you were and what you needed ---
But this was the take of one country
Versus one nation or
Partnered with many nations.
Yes, in each case there were other nations with their own interests
But while one situation sought divisiveness,
The other sought to unite: Temne, Mende, Hausa, Krio, others.
In one, too many returned in coffins or the confines of addiction
And were jeered for their service, having been led into a fatal trap
By foolish, arrogant, destructive politicians
(old men willing to sacrifice the young on the altar of ambition);
In the other, all returned to loved ones and to jobs and to
A place of respect that both deserved.
II.
Teaching and Learning
I went to teach, to show off all I’d learned,
To brandish figuratively my recent college degree
And teach I did: English language, English literature,
Journalism, Drama, basketball, what it is to be a typical American,
What it is to be relatively free of preconceptions and of bias ---
But here’s the thing: I didn’t know it at the start but I was there to learn
More than I taught. To begin with, I leaned to recognize and to erase
Ingrained stereotypes and biases; I learned
To be a friend as well as mentor, to listen and not just hear
What was being said . . . and felt.
I learned how much education meant when it was clear
That what my students learned set the course to their future lives;
I learned to love the dance (even as a passive viewer), to recognize the joys
That give life meaning, and the blessings of good health,
Symbolized by the ability to stand up straight.
I learned the value of family and the bond that keeps us all united
Even if an ocean separates us; I learned that these my students,
Many away from their families, cared about their classes even to the point
Of addressing class mates names of characters from novels
Who displayed common characteristics --- and in my inchoate education
Did I learn not to judge too quickly
Students made to write in their third language
While I knew only one (as well as I had mastered it).
I saw that there is so much more that we all share than that divides us:
A sense of humor, feelings of love and fear and anger and excitement,
A desire to take advantage of the rare opportunities proffered us,
and the rest.
Gratitude works both ways; home is where one is; hard work is the path
To better things, and everyone appreciates the efforts made by others.
I taught with words and with examples in my life and in my days
But learned by observation and by feeling.
III.
VSO and PCV
I was one of four Peace Corps Volunteers at Schlenker Secondary School
From ’64 to ’66; We also had a woodwork teacher and a headmaster
Born in Sierra Leone, and in addition,
Two teachers who were British, serving in their Voluntary Service Overseas
For one year each (from places such as Leeds and Scotland)
And we had many commonalities: our youth, our desire to help,
The arrogance of neophytes serving in a third world country
(At least, at the beginning).
The British had a presence in this three-year-old nation
Which they formerly had colonized and run:
missionaries, an engineer, a banker.
I learned from these colleagues similar to what I learned from all my students:
That people, free from governmental policies and their obsessions and history
Are very much alike and like it just that way.
I found it interesting that though we were far from perfect in our relationships,
A sense of class division showed itself among the VSO’s
(The arrogance of one of upper level background as opposed to
The working class of one despite his comparable college education ---
But this was true of a fellow PCV and me; he carried himself as clearly
Superior with his Midwest background while I was from the Bronx
and my father owned a candy store together with my sister’s husband. Still,
We worked together for the betterment of our students’ futures
And we were supportive in our common goals
Despite our human foibles; we were real people and we fought for our kids
Because that was the reason we were there.
IV.
Watching and Playing
Some are watchers and some are players. (Often it depends on the details.)
Some want to be involved and others are just fine as observers.
We taught the students basketball and watched them play;
We coached them from the sideline and cheered them on.
The sport was new to them in 1964. To make a point, we played them
Once and beat them by a host of points ---
But then they’d play their sport (soccer or, as they call it, football)
And we would watch again and cheer the better plays but miss
The nuanced play and understated passing and the setups,
And then we’d challenge these students to play US in soccer
Only to accept defeat (not even close) because it was the fair thing to do:
Basketball and soccer; ours and theirs; and the similarities,
Appreciating teamwork and self-sacrifice, planning and execution,
Cheering on one’s teammates. Watching and playing both made us all one.
Yin and yang on the field or the court.
Of course, this was carried over to other areas,
Especially to the dramatic arts.
When we were lucky USAID came through with films
That we could view, gathered in the lunchroom
Converted to an auditorium with a screen
And watching the figures celluloid, from the black-and-white 1940’s
Version of Dickens’ Great Expectations – a visualization of the novel
Read by one of my classes (with its scary graveyard start to its
Painful love development to its grand but unexpected revelations)
To a documentary featuring Wilma Rudolph, three-time Olympic Star
African- American, one of 22 children, who overcame polio, scarlet fever
And double pneumonia to achieve her glory, a perfect model to our students
On how hard work and sharp determination can help one overcome the odds.
There were the watchers --- but there were, upon occasion, players,
Acting out a play I’d written and presenting in the nearby town; I admired their tenacity
A bit more than their talent, but I loved their freedom of spirit and their
Willingness to share. They were the stars of the show for showing up.
V.
Tennis and Basketball
Before we had a headmaster born in our host nation,
There was one from England --- and he loved tennis.
The year before I came (and I don’t know much about it but there is a point)
One PCV promoted building a basketball court, which would be
The fourth such court in the entire nation (It was 1963 and basketball
Was little played outside the USA, relatively speaking).
The headmaster favored construction of a tennis court.
Want would they do? Tennis court or basketball?
Can such sports in some way co-exist?
Can nations co-exist, even allies, when both required the same piece of land?
It didn’t take a League of Nations or United Nations or the Iroquois League:
All it took was common sense and a common cause
And there it was: a concrete court for both,
With tennis lines drawn out and backboards that could be raised and
Opposing holes drilled for poles that held a tennis net and there you were!
Basketball nets and a tennis net existing close enough and sharing space
And why can’t nations of the world make similar arrangements and work out
In such a way that they can share the land instead of fill the land with blood
Of future generations.
Perhaps that is why a tennis game begins with love
And there is no I in basketball.
VI.
Harmattan and the Rainy Season
We had no snow, tornadoes, earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis.
There was no drama in the climate there but we had patterns recognizable,
Predictable, and of two ends of the weather spectrum.
We had the harmattan and the rainy season every year.
Harmattan was a time of dryness and wind.
It hit us and we dealt with it and we survived and taught: no problem;
The antithetical occurred every July and August: the rain poured down,
Seventy inches a month (if snow, it would have been seven hundred inches
Times two) and school was closed, not for some antiquated non-agrarian
American summer vacation but for a more practical and realistic reason,
That we teachers and students could not possibly be heard
As the pounding water fall hit the corrugated metal roof of the classrooms,
Drumming thunder into our student-teacher heads.
(Little did I know that the thunder of the rain foreshadowed the shots
That would destroy lives and my beloved school in the years to come,
In a civil war that wasn’t civil in any way, when children of the same age
As my students --- and younger --- would be coerced into illegitimate
But just as deadly armies
Fighting for the dust and for no dream of glory anywhere.)
VII.
Dog and Cat
My roommate had a dog he loved to walk and play the lord upon,
Channeling his rigid rules of living onto that poor unknowing canine
Until an accident --- questionable in nature --- put an end to that relationship,
And so, one day, at the end of the same leash that had easily controlled the dog,
There appeared a kitten, struggling by her nature to defy the autocratic ruler
Trying to lay claim to her domain. But a cat is not a dog. One is a follower;
One walks (struts?) alone: member of the pack and lone wanderer.
I witnessed this epic battle for a day or two and then pronounced
(Cat lover that I am)
That I was now the owner of the cat (as if a cat could ever be owned).
I took the leash, resisted the temptation to put it on my friendly neighbor,
And did no more --- but I apparently had gained a friend, and for the rest
Of my two years, we were Batman and Robin (but which was which?)
And I pronounced that henceforth would this feline have the name KrioCatra
(Krio being the name of a common language in the land
--- Derivative of English ---as well as
A group of people living mostly in Freetown, descendants of freed slaves).
We shared good times; she’d often greet me in the morn with a present ---
A field mouse she had caught, which she then proceeded to devour
At the foot of my mosquito-netted bed. (I never thanked her, but
Felt the grand connection when she would gently close her eyes at me.)
Later, reacting to her screams as she returned from foraging,
I washed the poison of a cobra from her eyes
And shared her grief and happiness as she gave birth and one died young
But one flourished, undersized, and thus named Runt.
It’s not unusual for inter-species friendships to evolve
If each fulfills a need the other has
And there are limits placed but unrestricted ties of real affection shared.
It’s sad that humans haven’t figured out the way to get along,
To avoid impressing wishes and demands upon each other,
Eschewing any sense of superiority in the name of equity,
Forever substituting for hugs, punches, smiles for sneers,
Life for Death.
VIII.
Bat versus Bat
This was ridiculous. It was a form of prejudice. One day a bat flew
Into our living room, intending no malice, not seeking to lay claim
To some new territory --- it must have made a left when it meant to go right ---
but it touched a deeply held prejudice inside me,
Culled from associations with Dracula and the dark unknown of caves
And thus, I found myself comically but tragically chasing the flying invader
Around my living room swinging a baseball bat wildly,
Missing my target, until at last --- for its sake and for mine --- it escaped
Out the open space created by my retracting doors
And finding solace in the light of day,
Unaccustomed as it was in such a realm.
We ought to be aware of our biases
For there is no way to counter them if they inhabit the darkness of our souls.
Away Game
It was the mid 1960’s. I was teaching English in the recently independent
African nation Sierra Leone, more than 4,000 miles from my home in
The Bronx. and the two fields which I thought of as the baseball
Centers of my life, Yankee and Shea Stadiums. I was used to the heat
But what was missing was the heat of a pennant race on my TV or
In person. Instead, I had the occasional game on Armed Forces Radio,
But the time difference made listening to games sparing and occasional.
There were four basketball courts in Sierra Leone in those days but
No baseball fields. Playing baseball wasn’t possible - - - with an absence
Of equipment - - - so I, who slept and dreamed baseball, was forced to
Improvise. I reached back to my teenage years, when we took slices of
Baseball to play “Errors” - - - testing our defensive prowess and no more.
We played varieties of baseball: softball, stickball and punchball - - - but in
Port Loko, on the compound of the school I taught in, I had no partners
Teammates or opponents) to imitate the American pastime with (in any
Form). Some four years earlier, I had tried out for my Bronx Bombers in
Yankee Stadium as an ambidextrous pitcher. In Port Loko, the closest
I came to testing my pitching skills was to put a target on a wall in my
Bedroom and pitch darts at that target, racking up numbers of strikes
And balls based on which concentric target circle I threw the dart into.
The imaginary crowd roared (and perhaps even booed) with every toss
And there was the occasional wild pitch which missed the target and
Chipped some plaster from the hosting wall . . . but I had my baseball
Games of a sort and my competitive juices found a way to flow.
It’s fascinating how the human creature adapts to new or unfamiliar
Surroundings. Four thousand plus miles away, my Yankees played
The Cardinals in the World Series while my targeted series found a
Home in a garden environment, away from Bouton and Ford but
Just as valued as any series of games they ever played in. I was,
For two Peace Corps years, the pitching ace
I’d once dreamed of being.
It was the mid 1960’s. I was teaching English in the recently independent
African nation Sierra Leone, more than 4,000 miles from my home in
The Bronx. and the two fields which I thought of as the baseball
Centers of my life, Yankee and Shea Stadiums. I was used to the heat
But what was missing was the heat of a pennant race on my TV or
In person. Instead, I had the occasional game on Armed Forces Radio,
But the time difference made listening to games sparing and occasional.
There were four basketball courts in Sierra Leone in those days but
No baseball fields. Playing baseball wasn’t possible - - - with an absence
Of equipment - - - so I, who slept and dreamed baseball, was forced to
Improvise. I reached back to my teenage years, when we took slices of
Baseball to play “Errors” - - - testing our defensive prowess and no more.
We played varieties of baseball: softball, stickball and punchball - - - but in
Port Loko, on the compound of the school I taught in, I had no partners
Teammates or opponents) to imitate the American pastime with (in any
Form). Some four years earlier, I had tried out for my Bronx Bombers in
Yankee Stadium as an ambidextrous pitcher. In Port Loko, the closest
I came to testing my pitching skills was to put a target on a wall in my
Bedroom and pitch darts at that target, racking up numbers of strikes
And balls based on which concentric target circle I threw the dart into.
The imaginary crowd roared (and perhaps even booed) with every toss
And there was the occasional wild pitch which missed the target and
Chipped some plaster from the hosting wall . . . but I had my baseball
Games of a sort and my competitive juices found a way to flow.
It’s fascinating how the human creature adapts to new or unfamiliar
Surroundings. Four thousand plus miles away, my Yankees played
The Cardinals in the World Series while my targeted series found a
Home in a garden environment, away from Bouton and Ford but
Just as valued as any series of games they ever played in. I was,
For two Peace Corps years, the pitching ace
I’d once dreamed of being.
The Never Dance
I should have gone;
I was to be the guest of honor
(Oh, it wasn’t that official but I had been told)
Celebrating the caring and affection
That my one and two year students wished
To shower on me after I had shared our lives
Teaching them, living with them,
Learning from them, understanding both
Their needs and their goals
But I did not go.
I wanted to, but much as I was with them
Every day, part of me was not;
You see, the dance was more than honor;
It was an invitation to dance and I was
Not emotionally prepared; I loved my students
But I did not love myself
In one too weighty way: I had lost a mother,
And another and an aunt and both
My sisters had moved on and I was left
To breathe the heaviness of fear when in the presence
Of a girl . . . and I would have to dance!
And so I ran away to Freetown; I could not
Be at the place of music and my honor and my friends.
--- Yes, two years later I met magic in the form
Of, as they say, the love of my life,
And when the calendar turns now away from the
Fearsome year it has become, pandemic and politic,
We will celebrate fifty years since we became as one
(As they say) . . . but on that day, in 1966, I failed
My students and I did not dance
Much as my heart wanted to be there
To say a proper “Have a life of wonder
and of joy” I was not there
And I am haunted to this very day so
That I must dance with them within my
Missing memory or burst to tears.
I was to be the guest of honor
(Oh, it wasn’t that official but I had been told)
Celebrating the caring and affection
That my one and two year students wished
To shower on me after I had shared our lives
Teaching them, living with them,
Learning from them, understanding both
Their needs and their goals
But I did not go.
I wanted to, but much as I was with them
Every day, part of me was not;
You see, the dance was more than honor;
It was an invitation to dance and I was
Not emotionally prepared; I loved my students
But I did not love myself
In one too weighty way: I had lost a mother,
And another and an aunt and both
My sisters had moved on and I was left
To breathe the heaviness of fear when in the presence
Of a girl . . . and I would have to dance!
And so I ran away to Freetown; I could not
Be at the place of music and my honor and my friends.
--- Yes, two years later I met magic in the form
Of, as they say, the love of my life,
And when the calendar turns now away from the
Fearsome year it has become, pandemic and politic,
We will celebrate fifty years since we became as one
(As they say) . . . but on that day, in 1966, I failed
My students and I did not dance
Much as my heart wanted to be there
To say a proper “Have a life of wonder
and of joy” I was not there
And I am haunted to this very day so
That I must dance with them within my
Missing memory or burst to tears.
Six Minutes
The oval was dug out of the wild
Grass that was more made for soccer
But I knew it well.
I had rounded that circumference
With the rhythm of a not so finely tuned
Machine of pumping arms and legs
With my open aired school building
Visible half the race
Each lap of four
But with my opposition
My British teacher friend and foe
Trailing, I was robbed of seeing him,
His lanky strides eating up the earth
Striving unaccustomed in a doomed attempt
To pass me by and done in not by speed
But by psychology as I, leading all the way,
Slowed purposefully, psyching him
To think that he would win with one lap
More to go,
But I, with knowledge of the track
And trust in the final kick I readied,
Broke his spirit and his heart
As, footsounds fast approaching,
Set off with all the speed I had
Remaining with my rhythmic breathing
And left him, broken, to bear witness
As I crossed the oval's end
The start and finish line
Six minutes from the start:
In any competition,
The most vital structure
Is not the legs, the arms, the sinews
Eyes or the heart;
It is the mind.
The oval was dug out of the wild
Grass that was more made for soccer
But I knew it well.
I had rounded that circumference
With the rhythm of a not so finely tuned
Machine of pumping arms and legs
With my open aired school building
Visible half the race
Each lap of four
But with my opposition
My British teacher friend and foe
Trailing, I was robbed of seeing him,
His lanky strides eating up the earth
Striving unaccustomed in a doomed attempt
To pass me by and done in not by speed
But by psychology as I, leading all the way,
Slowed purposefully, psyching him
To think that he would win with one lap
More to go,
But I, with knowledge of the track
And trust in the final kick I readied,
Broke his spirit and his heart
As, footsounds fast approaching,
Set off with all the speed I had
Remaining with my rhythmic breathing
And left him, broken, to bear witness
As I crossed the oval's end
The start and finish line
Six minutes from the start:
In any competition,
The most vital structure
Is not the legs, the arms, the sinews
Eyes or the heart;
It is the mind.
