So they do this summer training for the senior team, like a boot camp. And this one week it wouldn’t quit raining. I remember my shoulder pads got this sad basement smell to them, and my cleats croaked. I mean they literally croaked like frogs every step I took. And no matter what we tried, every play Coach Samuels called ended up in a pile of mud-coated slippery bodies.
Last year in this class the assignment was that we were supposed to keep a journal. Except Khang called it a Book of Days, like medieval virgins kept under their pillows or something. And I knew how much of our grade it was worth et cetera. But whenever she gave us time to write I would sit here remembering stuff like this rainy football week. I’d end up staring out the window the whole class and somehow the entire school year passed like that. I am not planning on letting that happen again but I guess I’m saying don’t get your hopes up.
Sincerely,
Adam Kurlansky
Tuesday, September 8
Dear Kurl,
Ms. Khang suggested that we write on the theme of heroism today, and specifically “whether you would identify someone in your life as a hero, and why.”
I understand the large hearts of heroes, Walt Whitman writes, The courage of present times and all times. Do you know the poet Walt Whitman, Kurl? Perhaps not: I don’t think Whitman is anywhere on the curriculum at Lincoln High.
Anyhow, when I think of heroism as large-heartedness, I can’t help but think of Lyle Hopkirk. It’s not that any father wouldn’t have stepped up to the role of single parent after the sudden death of his spouse. My mother, Raphael, was riding her bicycle and got hit by a taxi when I was only five. Lyle turned down a possible record deal in LA and took a full-time teaching position at the music school so that Shayna and I wouldn’t have to face any more upheaval.
But the truly heroic part, in my opinion, is that he never became moody or resentful about it, or took on any tortured-artist airs. He underwent a period of grief, of course, but I only know this because there are no photographs of Raphael in our house, and when I once asked him why, he confessed that “back when they were too hard to look at,” he had gotten rid of them—a rash action which he now regrets. My father has an upbeat personality by nature, and he simply made sure to let that natural buoyancy be the reigning principle for our family life. I think Lyle gets everything he needs from music, the way I get it from poetry. You should see him the day after his bluegrass band, the Decent Fellows, plays its regular gig at Rosa’s Room. He practically floats through the house, loose and relaxed and dreamy.
My father’s personal motto is Be real and be true. Since Lyle is my hero, I’ve been trying to make his motto my own. And this involves being forthright about myself, in particular. So prepare yourself for full disclosure on the subject of Jonathan Hopkirk. You’d never pick me out of a crowd, Kurl. I am short for my age and fine-boned. I have sandy brown hair that sticks out from my head in whichever direction is least fashionable no matter how much Hard Hold Paste I may attempt to work through it in the morning.
My passions are live music, especially folk and bluegrass, and poetry, as I’ve already mentioned—especially the work of Walt Whitman. Have you ever come across Walt’s seminal poem “Song of Myself”? I would be tempted to claim that poem as my personal manifesto, but it is altogether too complicated, too magnificent, for such a claim. Like Walt, I am an ardent believer in
… going in for my chances, spending for vast returns,
Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me,
Not asking the sky to come down to my good will,
Scattering it freely forever.
A beautiful sentiment, isn’t it, Kurl? Risky and beautiful. And, in the spirit of being real and true, I would like to divulge something Walt never could admit to directly, in his day, for fear of recriminations: I’m gay. My sexuality has never been something I’ve tried to hide.
Does being “out” make for a thornier social life? Quite possibly. The unfortunate reality of homophobia is already announcing itself to me two weeks into the new school year. There are certain members of my cohort—certain little JOs, Kurl, in your parlance—whom I hoped might have matured over the summer and thereby lost interest in me and whatever vague and intangible threat I seem to represent to them. Instead the interest seems keener than ever. But hiding and lying takes considerable energy, too.
Lyle, in any case, is strongly queer-positive and always wholly supportive of me. It’s another aspect of his heroism, I suppose.
The bell has just rung, Kurl, and my hand is cramped from writing nonstop for fifty minutes straight.
Yours truly,
Jonathan Hopkirk
PS: I’m enclosing Part 14 of “Song of Myself” in case the quotation above didn’t make any sense on its own. Sorry about the woolen fuzz along the creases. I’ve been carrying it in my trousers pocket for the back-to-school transition, but I’ve more or less memorized this section of the poem at this point, so I’m happy to pass it on.
Thursday, September 10
Dear Little JO,
I’d never pick you out of a crowd? I mean are you sure?
So the day after Khang hands around that second batch of sophomore letters to us I’m walking down the hall as usual. There’s a cluster of the usual little JOs. All laughing, especially the girls, and watching a couple of guys kick a book back and forth to each other across the floor. Pages flying everywhere. And there’s this one particular little JO even smaller than the others running back and forth after the book, going, Very funny, okay, joke’s over, come on guys, give it back. This high sort of squeaky voice.
This little JO is dressed up in some kind of costume, it looks like. A white shirt with a high collar buttoned all the way up, and suspenders crossed at the back. I mean he looks like a character in a historical novel. A chimney sweep or something. I’m thinking maybe he’s in the school play, auditioning maybe, only I don’t think they do auditions until after Christmas.
So this small guy keeps reaching down for the book one second before it’s kicked away. At one point his hand gets nailed pretty hard by one of the little JOs’ shoes but he doesn’t even pause, just shakes out his fingers and sort of scrambles across the hall to try to intercept the book again. This continues—and I have to say it’s pretty painful to watch—until Mr. Carlsen, the Business and Tech teacher, steps into the circle and picks up the book, takes a quick look at the spine and goes, Major British Poets. Young people, I fear for your generation, I really do.
Of course all the little JOs are laughing their asses off. Except for that littlest one. His face is all flushed and he’s out of breath. He goes up to Mr. Carlsen and sort of scrapes his hair off his forehead and sticks his fists on his hips. Like after everything that’s been happening, now he’s finally found the one thing worth getting upset about. He goes, Actually, sir, I would argue that poetry has real relevance to our generation if you can learn to take the poet on his own terms.
I mean it’s not exactly rocket science to figure out which one of the little JOs in this scenario is Jonathan Hopkirk.
And I have to say your big confession about being gay is also not as much of a shocker as you probably thought. I figured that one out right around the line May I call you Kurl? Not to mention My passions are live music and poetry. I hate to break it to you but normal high school students don’t have passions. They don’t have mottoes and personal philosophies. They don’t have manifestos written by historical gay poets.