If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable.
A Man Without a Country—Kurt Vonnegut
Several colleagues of mine and I put on a literary event the other night in the newly-finished theater on the South Campus of Broward Community College (BCC) in Pembroke Pines, Florida. As the MC, I pointed out to the audience that this was an annual event. The previous one was 10 years ago.
I called the event
English Plus One. The English part was that almost every one of the nine who read teaches English at BCC. Seven teach at our South Campus, and one teaches at our North Campus in Coconut Creek, Florida. The seven were Elisa Albo, Patrick Ellingham (me), Debbie Navarrete, Barbra Nightingale, Neil Plakcy, Lourdes Rodriguez-Florido, and Ricky Smith. Vicky Santiesteban is the one from North. The “Plus One” is Gary Kay, who teaches reading on South but has been at least an honorary member of our department for years. All of us are published writers. Several have had books published. Neil Plakcy has a new mystery novel out, called
Mahu. It’s about a gay detective in Hawaii. It definitely is a one-of-a-kind book. Missing from our group was
Vicki Hendricks, who is the most successful writer in the group. Hopefully, next semester will see her well and ready to rejoin our ranks. Her fifth novel will be out next year. She also writes like no other.
This isn’t meant to be a review of the reading, but it’s worth saying a few things about. The idea was to give some expression to our creative voices. Too often, students think of their professors as people who drone on about subjects they (students) don’t understand, give difficult papers as assignments (which they would just as soon not do), and spend hours at night grading those papers. One student wrote about me in rateyourprofessor.com that “He talks about people we don’t know or care about.” This was someone who praised me as a teacher. Because self-expression (even if it is relatively inarticulate) is something our students do value, they do like to know that we also create things. While often not in their language or mode (hip hop/rap/slam—everyone wants to be on Def Poetry), they will give us our props. The closest to come to the popular (read: Def) style is Vicky Santiesteban. Sexy, smart, and hip, her words are powerful, her delivery sharp. She has done slam poetry. Her poem about what one could do to birds did disturb two children of one of the other readers who were sitting up front. I had the distinct pleasure of watching her early development as a writer as her first creative writing teacher some 18 years ago. Now she’s teaching English and creative writing. Someday (fairly soon), I hope she takes over as the faculty advisor to
P’an Ku, the college’s student literary/arts magazine, which I have been advising for starting on 16 years now. The last reader (we did it in alphabetical order except that I went first) was Ricky Smith. He was also a student of mine and several other of the faculty at South. Ricky started late on his writing career already being 40 when he came here. His creative energy had been channeled into music much of his life (as well as a lot of other things you can read about someday in his memoirs which he is working on now), so his ability to write came as a surprise to him. He even served a stint for a year as student editor of
P’an Ku. Never one to back away from an argument, Ricky writes with passion and often a hard edge but still exhibits a vulnerability that makes you care about him even when you want to slug him. He read part of his memoir, which he is working on as he achieves his MFA from Florida International University (FIU) while teaching prep English for us. I predict the book will be a best seller. You read it here first.
The whole point of this entry is to put in the poem I read that night (the point of the blog is to try and rekindle a desire/need to write in me, after all). Two other readers I wanted to mention are Elisa Albo and Lourdes Rodriguez-Florido. Elisa has been at BCC for many years. She has at least two master’s degrees, one of them being an MFA in poetry from FIU (she also has two beautiful little daughters, from Jeff). Elisa was born in Cuba but came here at a very early age. She has had a chapbook accepted for publication, and they are poems about Cuba and her Cuban self (heritage/family/customs, etc.). She read some of those that night, and they were moving. Maybe I can persuade her to let me put one here. Beautiful, talented, and extremely-likable, Elisa seems to be totally in control of her craft. She is also an excellent teacher. Lourdes was also born in Cuba but kind of followed a different route than most who left the island 90 miles south of Florida. She grew up in a Cuban community in Kansas. Yes, you read that right. I definitely want to learn more about that. One of the things she read was an essay called “Cuban Me.” It was written for Elian Gonzalez when he was still the centerpiece in a major power struggle here in Miami. She has very different ideas about her island home and what it means to her to have been from Cuba. It was a thoughtful and thought-provoking piece. For those who are familiar with the book,
After the Wall: Confessions From an East German Childhood And the Life That Came Next by Jana Hensel, a bestseller in Germany, they will see similarities. Maybe I can get a link to that article.
The others also read excellent pieces, but this is supposed to be about me (right). I only read one poem. I am starting to feel like a writer again. Since the passing of my wife, I do have a lot of time on my hands. I should be using it more constructively. This poem was written about and at the memorial to ValuJet Flight 592 that crashed into the Everglades in 1996. There are 110 pillars out there in a memorial designed by architecture students at the University of Miami. It is almost impossible to see when you drive by it on Tamiami Trail heading towards Naples. Many times, it has been forgotten and left to nature and careless vandals. It moved me to write about it. I used W. C. Williams and Yeats as sources and inspirations for this poem. The picture below is one I took of the site. After that is the poem.
The ValueJet Flight 592 Memorial
Flight 592
when Icarus fell, the earth was unmoved
fishermen cast and pulled their nets
sails were set against evening winds
merchants closed up shop and went home
seasons changed, tides shifted, and the spot
where Icarus lay was no more than a vague
heaviness in a bereaved father's heart
out here, the swamp obeys no pattern of time
when 592 fell from the sky, the sun was shining
red wing blackbirds sang for their mates
poised on cattails, bobbing in the breeze
the great blue heron slowly rose to the wind
soaring black vultures dropped their shadows
heavy across the rippling sawgrass,
egrets posed, waiting for their lunch
ignored by alligators lost in reptilian dreams
the highway hums faint in the background
bullfrog bellows echoed pointedly above the muck
signaling chaotic amphibian triangulation to havoc
for a brief moment, the swamp opened its arms
pulling 592 into eternity, barely a ripple
breaking the surface in the void of time
one hundred ten pillars of stone
mark the occasion, slanting off to the north
siting a point concealed some eight miles away
the great swamp does not give up its dead
all that remains are human memories
and the deliberate inclusiveness of nature
two woodstorks circle the bedraggled
strangler fig dancing easily in its boughs
today, a young woman stands alone, hands clasped
her husband already anxious to be gone
long neglected, the memorial lies renewed
encroaching vines have not yet reclaimed their places
a soggy teddy bear and other stuffed animals remain
nearby, silent fishermen bend over unbaited lines
collars pulled up against an unnamed dread
casting furtive glances to the vacant sky
a flat plaque bears testimony to those lost
a solemn roll twilight calls:
Captain Candi Kubeck, first officer and crew:
Hazen, Stearns, Summers, and Cushing
the passengers: Allihassen, Anderson, Archibald, and Arshad,
Bafunno and Baker, the Balandrans, Barreiro, the Bells,
poet Terri Bell, the Browns, Frances Brown, Burnett,
Cabrera, Carpenter, Carleton, Corneille, the Cryes (daughter Terri Rugg)
the Culvers, the Dabors, Ehrlichman, the Faveros: Betsy, Franco, and Laura,
Fluitt, the Gabrs, Gabriel, Gonzales, Greene, Griner, Guiler,
the Hamiltons, the Hancheys, the Haymans, Heffernan, and Hyatt,
Dan and Linda Jarvis, Kessler, Kim, Lameda, Landry, the Lanes,
Lathem, Andrew, Jeremy, and Tabitha Leonard, with their parents,
Janice and James Weimer, Lewis, the Loughneys, Marks and McLemore,
the McNitts: Neil, Judy, and the children: Laura, Lindsey, and Clark,
Judy and Robert Medeiros, Mitchell, Nevil, the Newbolds, Oliver,
Pearson, Perkins, Quinones, Ramirez, mother and daughter Rennolds,
Reitz, Sabo, Sanchez, mother and daughter Shier, the Shotwells,
Simonton, Smith, Snowden, the Stanleys, Steinbrenner, Thompson,
Tilman, Viloleta, Walker, Wilson, Wolf, and Woodus
Yeats would meet them at close of day
rising up out of a mist of constant confusion
hallowing this ground with their presence
drawn to this spot by those that can't let them go
when did they become something more than people
formed together on a certain day a certain place
a certain time suspended above the earth
in defiance of the gods confident that those
who put them there would not betray their faith
through indolence or avarice or gain or lack of love?
as the canisters ignited and spread their contagion
what were their thoughts and fears?
when the cabin filled with smoke and flames
and they hurtled into the abyss screaming "fire"
was there time for good-byes, I-love-you's
cries of mommy, daddy, mayday?
some questions are never answered
no fines or judgments can restore
what was truly lost that May day
the wind begins to whistle
as the red fireball drops into the west
one by one, the figures retreat
the river of grass draws them back
into the endless flow of dreamless sleep
the McNitt and Leonard children linger
their parents wait, beckon, they join
their shades dissolving into the illusion of the good night
on May 11, 1996, ValuJet Flight 592 crashed into the Everglades,
killing all 110 on board
