A Teaching Career (Part III)

Those years in San Diego were a miracle, despite anxieties about money & the lack of a “real,” i.e., tenure track, teaching job–something I had not fully recognized until writing about it over the last couple of days. (The miraculousness of it, I mean, though perhaps I am romanticizing it in retrospect.) I published a lot & won awards & lived three blocks from the beach. I wish I could have kept it up. But we moved to cold country & my productivity certainly slowed down, hard to say exactly why (or not so hard, really, but I’m coming to that); it turns out I was confused for quite a long time about the differences between writing & a writing career–a fairly major philosophical & personal wrong turn from which I may only now be fully recovering.

The Clarkson job was not, I suppose, what I had been hoping for in some ideal sense of the perfect job, but it turned out to have a number of hidden advantages. I had seen myself working in a fairly traditional English Department rather than in a mixed Liberal Arts department serving the needs of the Engineering & Business schools, eventually, perhaps, teaching in an MFA program. That was not to be. And while Clarkson had, especially in the early days, a fairly heavy commitment to its own peculiar version of “Freshman English,” the overall teaching load was (& has remained) only two preps & three classes each semester. Many of the jobs I had been applying for, especially at state schools, had 4/4 loads with three preps. Again, I had found myself in a situation with lots of time to write. I took advantage of this, but not to the extent I might–or should–have.

Instead, I got involved with local (Clarkson) & poetry world (AWP) politics. Neither of these realms of activity were bad in themselves, but in retrospect I think they were bad for me. I was elected to the Board of the Associated Writing Programs (a fine organization of which I am still a member, though I haven’t, with one exception, gone to a conference in a long time). A little later I was elected to the Faculty Senate & not long after that became its Chair. I spent my 40th birthday at Yaddo. What could be better? The problem was that I began to see these sorts of things as a more or less essential part of being a writer & this was a mistake. It also involved increasing amounts of alcohol.

I had been a heavy drinker as an undergraduate & through grad school, but had given it up when I returned to Seattle & remained dry through the Bellingham & San Diego years. When I came to Clarkson, thinking myself now some kind of success story, I began using alcohol again. It was a time of fairly high anxiety (Would I get tenure? Would I win that grant?) & alcohol, as a psychiatrist later told me, is a very good anti-anxiety drug. Too bad about the bad side effects.

This is not a confessional essay & I’m not going to dwell on booze. In fact, I’ll glide over the whole thing by saying it did become a health problem for me, though it never interfered with my teaching, so a little more than ten years ago, I entered my second period of sobriety & did so without any particularly difficulties. It is possible that my current health difficulties are related to my past use of alcohol, but there is no way to establish causation in a single case.

But I taught well & continued to make poems & get them into magazines. I published a book titled Static with Owl Creek Press & am fortunate that it was so badly distributed it is now impossible to find a copy, for it was physically unattractive & the poems were not as strong as those in my first book. Though I edited a book (Dog Music) with a friend and wrote the text for a book of photographs (A Dog’s Book of Truths) it wasn’t until 2000 that I published another book of poetry, a good one, I think, called Magical Thinking. That was sixteen years ago! I’ve only just finished the follow-up to Magical Thinking, currently titled River with Birds & Trees, which I have just begun sending out to publishers, along with individual poems to journals & magazines. The title is intended to imitate the title of a painting, or a study for a painting: I think the poems lean heavily toward the visual for their effects, though I hope they sing & think as well.

I have another manuscript nearly complete, even more visual, that borrows its title for Richard Diebenkorn’s Ocean Park paintings–it consists of fourteen-line syllabic stanzas in numbered sequences or “suites,” so the musical element is there at least metaphorically. I’ve always thought my own verse quite “musical” or at least concerned with sound, especially rhythm & especially at the level of the sentence, though I have never felt any attraction to contemporary formalism. I suppose my poems possess “the ghost of meter,” as someone has said of a certain kind of free verse & I am often befuddled by the flatness of much contemporary poetry.

I can’t blame teaching for my slow rate of production as a poet over the last couple of decades. Partly, I think, because of my mistake, I began to doubt the value of poetry–or that’s what I thought. What I really came to doubt, finally, was the value of all the trappings of being a writer, As I said, I had become confused about this important distinction, but I am confused no more. Perhaps it is this ongoing encounter with mortality, or perhaps just finally growing old enough to let all that drop away–all that ambition–so that I have been writing lucidly in recent months & at a pace I haven’t matched since San Diego. Of course I hope to publish this current work, but I finally cannot know what will become of it–whether any of it will “last,” as they say. Some degree of success, if not fame, was once important to me, but no longer. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care if the poems find readers–I hope they will. But beyond the usual sort of attempts at publishing, I have no control over this, so I’ve let it go.


A Teaching Career (Part II)

Without irony or apology, I can say that I have liked university teaching over the years because it left time to do other things. This of course plays into the “cushy job” clichés about professors–at least under the old, pre-adjunctification of the profession. I would have led a much less happy life had I stayed in journalism or gone found a job that required be to be on the scene nine to five, five days a week. I suspect I would have become a bartender or waiter. In any case, even working as an adjunct in Bellingham, then in San Diego (where I drove all over the county in my VW Beetle to put together a “career” of teaching gigs at San Diego State & a couple of community colleges). Some days I logged more than a hundred miles in a succession of little Bugs, and then finally a camper van.

I saw an ad for adjunct positions at San Diego State while I was still living in Bellingham & applied for it because I knew I could crash at my aunt’s house for a month before my first paycheck came in. San Diego was, after all, my hometown. My mother had lived and worked there as a young woman.  The position I was hired for also paid a bit better and offered somewhat more work, so I drove the entire length of the West Coast of the US in four days, landing in Chula Vista a few days before the semester was to begin. I loved the big bullpen where all the adjuncts had their desks. No illusions about the class system here.1 But there was a lively intellectual atmosphere–along with a lot of bitching–in the bullpen & I became quite close to ca couple of my colleagues, though those friendships, sadly, did not persist a few years later when I moved east to take a job at an obscure place called Clarkson University, which, in those days, was really a glorified tech school.

My Iowa MFA turned out to be considered an important credential, both within the department at State & among the English Department heads at Palomar CC & a couple of other places. I soon had a very full slate of teaching jobs spread across the county–but I still seemed to have a lot of time to write poems. (I tended to grade papers in big marathon sessions filled with angst & swearing & coffee, leaving long afternoons for rereading Wordsworth & Whitman & Berryman & Bishop only a few blocks from the booming Pacific Ocean. (In which I almost drowned one fine afternoon, but that’s another story: Avoid riptides.) So, despite the anxieties of freeway driving in an underpowered vehicle, the first few years in San Diego were miracle years during which I began to write my first fully adult poems.

And about time, too, since I was in my mid-thirties by this point. (Did I mention I had taken a rather leisurely–even by the standards of the times–ten years to accomplish my BA in Seattle at the UW, from 1969 to 1979? That was something of an extended boyhood!) I was almost thirty by the time I finished up at Iowa & moved back West, having lost my first wife M. during the first semester of grad school–a not uncommon phenomenon, I was to learn. In Bellingham, just before leaving for San Diego, I had begun going out with one of my students (the rules were different then) & she soon joined me in San Diego. That was my wife Carole & we are still together more than three decades later.

Well, that paragraph is a bit of a temporal & spatial mess. To return to something like a narrative, I can pick up with Ocean Beach, perhaps the last real counter-culture neighborhood in San Diego. Leaving my aunt’s guest room after a month, I found a couple of rooms to rent in a beach shack in Ocean Beach. I was still grindingly poor, but Carole joined me & we began to live like the latter-day hippies I suppose we were, shopping at the coop & breakfasting in a couple of fine diners, with occasional Mexican dinners out if the occasion (like a paycheck) warranted it. I was writing the poems that would fill out my first two books, the letterpress chapbook The Light of Common Day and my first full-length book, Customs. I was deeply fortunate that Kim Merker’s Windhover Press did the chapbook–it remains the most beautiful presentation of my work to this day. And the Univ. of Georgia Press also did a fine job of helping me edit (Thanks, Stanley Plumly!) a slightly too-long manuscript into something like a unified whole.

I had been publishing in journals, but these two books convinced the English Department at State that they should give me a (still not tenure track) full-time position. Additionally, the started assigning me upper division Literature creative writing classes to teach. If the job had had any potential of shifting to the tenure track, I’d probably be writing this from the West Coast rather than the East. You would have thought that my picking up my first of two NEA Creative Writing Fellowships would have tipped the scales in my favor, but it did not. Carole & I spent nearly five months in Europe spending the NEA money & soon after returning I was offered the job at Clarkson. It was not an easy decision to make. Neither of us had ever lived anywhere but the West Coast & Carole was now in grad school (in History) at UCLA.

We agreed that we’d move our digs East but that she would continue at UCLA until we figured out what was going on. We were bi-coastal fir two years, until Carole received her MA & decided not to pursue the PhD. I think it was her legitimate decision–she didn’t want to teach–but I still feel bad about her not finishing the doctorate, which she could have done with ease.

Thus began my Clarkson teaching career, which would run twenty-seven years, until a couple of weeks ago. I’m not going to try to produce a narrative of all those years, but will shift gears in the next part of this account & write more about teaching itself, in the classroom, rather than my particular experience of it as a job. [To be continued . . . ]


Show 1 footnote

  1. It was probably stronger at State than it would have been at University of California branches–the full-time faculty at State knew they were in the faculty underclass when compared to the faculty at U-Cal, so they enforced their local privileges pretty strictly.

A Teaching Career (Part I)

Though there was an 18 month gap after graduate school when I worked as a journalist, I have been a teacher from 1979 until four days ago. I resigned my 27 year professorship at Clarkson 18 months earlier than I had intended because of ill-health. It’s hard to generalize about such a long & varied period, but I think I can fairly say that I gave good value for the investments, intellectual & economic, students dedicated to my classes. There were plenty of days starting out that I didn’t know what I was doing, but that never stopped me from being . . . enthusiastic.

I was probably never the best teacher in my department–I never won a teaching award–but I always received among the highest teaching evaluation scores from students. (Maybe I was just “easy,” but I don’t think that’s the reason.) Early in my career, when colleagues made required visits to my classes from time to time, they always wrote me up in glowing terms. (And at Clarkson, where I spent 27 years, those visits were performed by teams of two in order to avoid eccentricity or bias.) I never worked particularly hard to make my students like me, though I think most of them who gave the matter any thought would have said I was personable & friendly. What I cared about was the subject of the day & trying to figure out ways to make undergraduates engage with it. Certainly, I failed more often than I succeeded, statistically; but in any given class on any given day, there must have been one or two who latched onto something I presented. (“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” –Beckett) One or two who took delight in a poem or an idea I introduced.

I started out as a graduate TA my second year in the Writers Workshop at the University of Iowa. This appointment was competitive & coveted & was given to me based, I was told later, on my generally enthusiastic approach to grad school, even in the IWW hothouse. I didn’t wilt because I was oblivious to all the politics going on around me–at least at first. My first big clue was figuring out how important it was to go to all the parties, but even there I mostly just got drunk & shouted about poetry.

I was probably hungover for some of those class sessions & I began my long battle with grading & returning papers on time. I was barely older than many of my students & I remember fending off a couple of women in the spring semester, though this was in the days before strict ethical guidelines regarding such things. I also remember having to lean against the chalk rail & hang on with both hands on the first day I walked into a classroom because my knees were trembling so, though I soon became comfortable in front of the classroom & developed what would become, with variations, my basic mode of instruction for the next forty years: 1. look at a chunk of text, then 2. asking the students questions about the selection while trying to demonstrate ways of reading. I usually had some idea of where I wanted to go & in the early days had some notes of things to work toward.

It didn’t take long for me to give up on notes except when the material was new to me, or particularly complex. I became an adept improviser around themes from the text. This had to turn into something more like ensemble playing in creative writing workshops, though I think I tended to solo too much in that configuration. I almost always felt pregnant befor a class, with a great desire to give birth. The metaphor is perhaps not quite right. I wanted to make the class pregnant with me so that we could all give birth together, each walking out of the room after an hour with our own squalling babe in arms. Ideally, the babe in arms would soon begin asking its own questions of the student–and of me.

After getting my MFA in Iowa I returned to Seattle, where I had been an undergraduate & where most of my friends were. I applied to the PhD program in Lit at the UW and was accepted, though without any financial support, but wound up not pursuing the degree. I worked for a while as a journalist on an alternative paper, then got an offer of an adjunct teaching gig at Western Washington University in Bellingham, which I accepted . . . enthusiastically & prepared to move north. Both before & after this job, I remember being broke all the time & the grinding effect that has on one’s life. I really began dealing with severe bouts of anxiety around this time.

Friends & my own writing pulled me through, usually, because I’d given up my old friend alcohol, even attending AA meetings. At Bellingham, I met two people who had a powerful effect on my life, one of them famous even then, the other obscure, even now. Annie Dillard was very encouraging about my writing & treated me like a colleague even when the regular department faculty (with a few exceptions) treated me like a serf. And the philosopher / writer Stan Hodson (along with his wife Victoria) taught me to juggle–literally & with ideas. We were in a comic play performance group together, but mostly they just invited me & my then girlfriend to hang out at their house & talk. We talked endlessly about literature & philosophy & teaching & since Stan had read everything, this was better than any PhD program could have been. And the food was better. Seems like we were always eating. Still suffering from anxiety attacks, what I remember most vividly from those two years is gales of laughter. I think I began to come into my own as a teacher near the end of this period, but the pay was so awful I began to look around for a better job.

I should say that it was during those two years in Bellingham that I began to consolidate my personality as a poet–this was, indeed, my post-graduate period of synthesis. A happy, nervous time–and also the time I met my partner Carole, who is out there in the kitchen right now, cleaning up after bringing her semi-invalid husband his morning coffee in bed. How far we have come. [To be continued . . . ]


Favorite Poems: “Matty Groves” (“Little Musgrave”)

I’ve loved the Old English & Scottish Ballads since discovering them in high school–I came across them in both print & musical form at about the same time, in the college literature anthologies one of my teachers loaned me & on the early records of folk stars like Joan Baez & Buffy St. Marie. I came of age with the morally ambiguous stories of Lord Randall, Sir Patrick Spence, Matty Groves & others. I also came to love the ballad stanza’s mode of free but muscular expression & have adapted it pretty often in my own work, most recently in the manuscript I’ve just completed, River with Birds & Trees, in which every poem with four-line stanzas is effectively a free verse ballad, alternating long & short lines to develop my pieced-together narratives. Here is that standard list of variations & versions of “Matty Groves.”

My attraction to the ballad crystalized while I was in college with Dylan’s use of the form, as well as the recordings of traditional singers that proliferated in the 1970s. (I have to admit to a long-standing attraction to the pop-folk balladeer Donovan, especially his “Season of the Witch” with its fine line, “Must be the season of the witch / Beatniks out to make it rich . . .” “There is a Mountain,” & “Sand and Foam,” this last one a particularly fine example of the folk ballad put to popular use.) But the modernization of the traditional ballad can be said to date from Fairport Convention’s recording of “Matty Groves,” a ballad that goes back at least to the 17th century in Scotland, with a more English version of the same story going under the title “Little Musgrave.” In looking around on the internet this afternoon for links to some of these songs, I discovered a startlingly beautiful version of “Musgrave” by an acoustic band called Planxty, apparently of long standing, with whom I was not familiar. I recommend it.

A Quote from Ed Mycue for the 4th of July

This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

“Preface to Leaves of Grass” by Walt Whitman.