A mentoring 4/25/12

L was a magnetic character in my UO days. I was an undergrad English major, soaking up post modernism and protest art like a drunk in a doughnut shop. My aspirations to write in those days were mainly in the realm of poetry, but the essay was a form dear to my heart and I also longed to write fiction. The grads in the department were something akin to demigods, firing off witty cants against the HW Bush admin and generally embracing the ability of language to decimate fascism at any degree. Lidia, then a graduate student working with Ken Kesey  in his novel class, (OU Levon), was among those of us at the Eugene Federal building protesting the Gulf War who made her beliefs well known. She articulated herself loudly and well  and something about her made me look up.

L had told me she liked a poem I’d published in the UO literary mag, then entitled “Soldier Unknown.” That poem has undergone several revisions since then, but her comment had encouraged me. I was on my way, I thought. And yet, I wasn’t. As it turned out, I had so much more to deal with before actually settling into writing, but L’s comment has stuck with me these years. 

I recall one evening at the the Fed building in which the level of protest was flaring and abrasive. Counter demonstrators who had stationed themselves symbolically on the opposite side of the street were beginning to “cross over” into the body of protesters who occupied the Fed building courtyard nightly. These were ruffians, mainly, drunks. But a few were more than adamant about breaking the back of the protest. These were vets who had no fear of moving into a group of liberal peaceniks to cause some  mayhem. One of these guys met his match in L.

They stood face to face screaming at each other about how idiotic the other was being. The crowd pushed and swelled and most of us recognized the rising tension. However, many of us, including myself, had gone through Peacekeeper training, which was effective at thwarting the aim of the counter demonstration, which was to incite the peaceniks into violence, which in turn would overturn our right to protest.

I stepped in. Saliva was shooting like tracers between L and the vet who was, ironically, not unlike the subject of the poem L had liked so much. The language between them was venomous and becoming more so. I stepped into the storm between their reddening faces and looked at both of them. I told them they needed to back off, give it some air. I did not shout, but instead drew attention to the argument (which L was clearly winning, but would probably have suffered some physical abuse as a result). Faces turned and regarded the vet. He stopped shouting and seeing that he’d lost his bid for mayhem, marched off across the street pushing people aside as he strode.

I learned that night that I can act, and that others will pay attention when I do. I learned that even though certain people attract me for certain frivolous reasons, I have the ability to stand up. This is what I need to do with my writing: stand up.