My 10th grade year,
Dad put my brother,
Tobin and I in a
private school in
Camarillo California.
Mom sent us
to live with him after
we traded our
education, back in
Des Moines, for weed and
sitting around
listening to Led
Zeppelin records in the
basement.
We had it all figured out.
Before we started
a day of class, we
went on a week-long
skiing trip to
Sequoia National Park.
I loved that school.
A passion grew in
me for literature,
Melville and Dickens,
Dylan Thomas and the
rest of the greats visited
me in my dreams.
They were good, gentle
nights back then.
I wrote a paper on
Billy Budd, and received a C
for my weak effort.
Dad explained aspects of
the story:
plot
theme
antagonist
protagonist
and tragic character flaws.
I didn’t get a C again on
anything to do with
literature.
I was still inept
with the numbers game.
Math didn’t hold my
Interest.
It dog-paddled, then drowned in
my budding poet brain.
I had a gorgeous Dutch
Girlfriend, Van Vleck or
Van something or other.
I acted in the play,
and started at small
forward on the
basketball team.
I even got into a
fight with a kid for
telling the principal that
he sold me a little weed.
I was suspended for a week,
but Dad didn’t seem to
mind that much.
He gave me a copy of
Don Quixote, and told
me to write an essay a day.
Back then, I was
prince of the private school.
I started to care about
learning.
The teachers taught with
zeal and zest.
The lust for literature was
born in me
beneath that smiling
West Coast sunshine, and
melancholy California fog.