I've been trying to find the name of a poet whose works are brooding and mystical, a longtime favorite. I can't think of his name today, so I've been searching through poetry sites in the hope he'll be listed. Instead, who do I find? Naomi.
I knew her when we were in college. We were both poets, we dated the same religion professor, my one victory in this one-sided competition. He found me more compelling. It was small, comfort, though, because she had the heart of the one man whose attention I wanted and needed. He was my English professor who invited me to come to the small university, who sent me a letter when I was a senior in college, encouraging me.
It wasn't that I wanted to date John or have any kind of romantic relationship with him. I wanted him to value me as a poet and, more importantly, to be my father-figure. I'd already found a substitute mother, but what I needed the most was a man to care in something other than a romantic or sexual context. I needed to believe that I could be special to a man who wouldn't hurt me, who could love about me the things I liked in myself.
John and I had a relationship, his door was always open to me. He gave me pointers about getting in Phi Beta Kappa. I took an upper division class of his when I was a freshman. I never worked harder in any class; he was dazzled. He was not dazzled by my poetry. We had a conversation once about whether I should pursue that calling. "Not unless you're willing to be a second class poet," he told me. It broke my heart. It spelled the end, really, of my creative writing. I would always hear John's voice saying those words whenever I sat down to work.
John liked her better, he liked her poetry better. I thought of Naomi as a bitter rival in a contest I couldn't win. We never spoke, even though the campus was very small and I worked for a professor who
officed right across the hall from John. Naomi worked with John. She called me once in my sophomore year, requesting a poem for the yearbook. Coincidentally, both of our poems were about tennis. I don't think she played; I certainly didn't. I don't know if she knew about my relationship with Mackenzie or how I found out he had dated her, too. Ours was a complex dance, negotiated without contact.
After I moved here, I ran across her name at various poetry readings. I was still writing and doing readings, even though in my heart of hearts, I had already given up. I gave up all writing, except for business, for over 20 years. When we were on the same bill, I tried to avoid her. Even hearing her name made me angry.
For a time, I thought I was over the Naomi-John thing. I could see her name and be fine with it. After all, I'd given up. But seeing her name on the respected poetry website sparked that sadness again. Why does she have that life? Why did she have John's admiration and respect in a way I never did? Why do I sit here in Crazy Land, living a life that brings me so little joy or satisfaction?
The answer is obvious: She was given her life and I was given mine. There's no money to be made in poetry and who knows anyone who actually reads it? I don't. Nonetheless, seeing Naomi's name there reminded me of all the things I'm not, all the things I will never be, all the things I never had. Joan
Didion has a book called, "Play It As It Lays." That's what I've done with what I've been given.
I've never for an instant believed that life is fair. However, right now my life seems very hollow. I'm left with my databases, calling on logic, not creativity. I'm stranded here in Crazy Land, feeling more bereft than ever.
I've always had one rule for all of the places I've ever worked: I do not make the coffee. Ever. Once you start making coffee, people can get confused about your role in the organization and suddenly start asking you to go get some donuts on the way in or actually fetch a cup of coffee for someone. I've been here forever, though, and I'm confident that everyone understands my limits.
