-
Jesse Lee Kercheval
- University of Pittsburgh Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
0 4 Jesse Lee kerChevaL Jesse Lee Kercheval istheauthorof ninebooks,includingthepoetry collectionsDogAngelandWorldasDictionary;twostorycollections, Alice inDairyland,whichwonthe00PrairieSchoonerBookPrize,andThe Dogeater,whichwontheAssociatedWritingProgramsAwardinShort Fiction;thenovelTheMuseumof Happiness;andthememoirSpace.Shewasthe foundingdirectorof theUniversityof WisconsinMFAPrograminCreative Writing.Currently,sheistheSallyMeadHandsBascomProfessorof English attheUniversityof WisconsinwhereshedirectstheWisconsinInstitutefor CreativeWriting. 4 Jesse Lee kerChevaL Enter Mecca Notthecenterof theIslamicworld, butasandwichshopacrossfromtheredbricktowers of asouthernuniversity.Iwasnineteen, anEnglishmajor,andeverydayweslouched towardthisBethlehemof lunchcounters, orderedourBLTsorcheeseburgers fromtheblackshort-ordercook,paidtheblackcashier, bothdressedinwhitelikehouseslaves andnotmuchbetterpaid,thoughthiswas andcivilrightsmarchedhereadecadeearlier. InthefarboothsatDr.Rubenstein, famousforabookdeclaringGodwasdead. Now,hetaughtcoursesontheHolocaust. Ilookedathimandthought—Howcanaman studyAuschwitzandBuchenwaldandTreblinka everydaywithnoGodtoprayto andstilleattunaonwholewheatforlunch? Ihadnoanswer. Istilldon’t.ThoughIhavecomefarenough fromthathumidsouthernbelievers’air todoubtGod’sexistence,it’sbeyondmypowers toimaginetheholocaustthatkilledhim. WhenIwasaminister’swife,brieflyandtooyoung inruralFlorida,someoneshotadog andpusheditthroughthewindow of aneighboringtown’schurch. There’dbeenasplitindoctrine.Membersmarched angrilydowntheaisleoneSundayandout intothehotsunandtheirwaitingcars. Thedogcrawledthelengthof thechurch, trailinghisbloodandfecesdowntheaisle todiealone,underneaththealtar. Whocoulddothattoananimal, [44.223.94.103] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 10:29 GMT) 4 Jesse Lee kerChevaL IaskedtheGodIprayedtothen, justtoshowhowmuchtheyhatedotherhumans? YearsafterwatchingDr.Rubenstein eathistunasandwich,afriendcalledtosay she’dseenmybookinthegiftshop attheHolocaustMuseum.Sheheardmysilence, caughtherself,It’snotagiftshop,really. Moreabookstore.But,really,whyshouldIbeshocked tohearthewords“giftshop”and“Holocaust” inthesamesentence?InFrench,language Iwasbornto,souvenirmeanstoremember. AndDr.Rubenstein,whereveryouarenow, IpromisethatIdo. Mydaughter,strugglingthroughthedyslexia of kindergarten,oncewrotedoGlovesU onanEastercardtohergrandmother. Maybethat’swhathappened. TheyshotHimandpushedHim throughtheopenwindowof Hisownchurch. Godisdead,buthebledandbled anddidnotgoeasily. Thenexttime,theangrycongregants werelesssubtle.Theysettheirchurch onfireandburnedittotheground. God,thatDogAngel,lookingdown. Not —forWislawaSzymborska My sister does not write poems. She uses sign language to teach deaf children in wheelchairs which color is dangerous red. If something unexpected happens —say, a child who has a seizure every day, doesn’t—she does not rush from the room to scribble this down. If she has something to say, she calls me. 4 Jesse Lee kerChevaL IaskedtheGodIprayedtothen, justtoshowhowmuchtheyhatedotherhumans? YearsafterwatchingDr.Rubenstein eathistunasandwich,afriendcalledtosay she’dseenmybookinthegiftshop attheHolocaustMuseum.Sheheardmysilence, caughtherself,It’snotagiftshop,really. Moreabookstore.But,really,whyshouldIbeshocked tohearthewords“giftshop”and“Holocaust” inthesamesentence?InFrench,language Iwasbornto,souvenirmeanstoremember. AndDr.Rubenstein,whereveryouarenow, IpromisethatIdo. Mydaughter,strugglingthroughthedyslexia of kindergarten,oncewrotedoGlovesU onanEastercardtohergrandmother. Maybethat’swhathappened. TheyshotHimandpushedHim throughtheopenwindowof Hisownchurch. Godisdead,buthebledandbled anddidnotgoeasily. Thenexttime,theangrycongregants werelesssubtle.Theysettheirchurch onfireandburnedittotheground. God,thatDogAngel,lookingdown. Not —forWislawaSzymborska My sister does not write poems. She uses sign language to teach deaf children in wheelchairs which color is dangerous red. If something unexpected happens —say, a child who has a seizure every day, doesn’t—she does not rush from the room to scribble this down. If she has something to say, she calls me. [44.223.94.103] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 10:29 GMT) 4 Jesse Lee kerChevaL What Max, Age Two, Remembers about Spain TheCave.Also,BigChurches.Butmostly TheCave. TheboyalsonamedMax,alsowaiting toseethecave. Inthis,shetakesafterourmother,wholikewisedidnotwritepoems,noteven when she was shot in WWII by a GI sailing home on her hospital ship. He shotthechaplaintoo—whomayormaynothavebeenmymother’slover.The chaplaindied.Mymotherlivedtohavetwodaughtersandshowthemthepink scar on her back where the bullet went in, the angry purple welt over her heart whereitcamespinningout.Notawordonpaperaboutanyofthis—notabout my sister’s deaf but swiftly rolling children, or my mother’s chaplain who playedbothpinochleandpiano. In this, they take after my mother’s mother—who couldn’t read or write and so certainly never wrote a poem—though, once, I am told, she castrated her husband’s prize bull with a kitchen knife and calmly promised to do the same to him unless he spent his nights at home. My mother was there. She told me this story. My sister heard it too. But she never imagined it as a poem. But then,lookingthisover,itprobablyisnotone. Instead it is like the one family story that does involve the written word: how my mother once flew from Florida to visit me in Wisconsin with a styrofoam cooler of shrimp—marked clearly SHRIMP. On the way home, she wrote NOT in front of SHRIMP and packed her shoes in the cooler. At the airport, theticketagent,puzzled,asked“What’sinthecooler?” “Notshrimp,”mymothersaid.Andletitgoatthat. So—think of this as a Not Poem. Think of me as one more Not Poet in a long honorablelineofNotPoets. Andletitgoatthat. 4 Jesse Lee kerChevaL What Max, Age Two, Remembers about Spain TheCave.Also,BigChurches.Butmostly TheCave. TheboyalsonamedMax,alsowaiting toseethecave. Inthis,shetakesafterourmother,wholikewisedidnotwritepoems,noteven when she was shot in WWII by a GI sailing home on her hospital ship. He shotthechaplaintoo—whomayormaynothavebeenmymother’slover.The chaplaindied.Mymotherlivedtohavetwodaughtersandshowthemthepink scar on her back where the bullet went in, the angry purple welt over her heart whereitcamespinningout.Notawordonpaperaboutanyofthis—notabout my sister’s deaf but swiftly rolling children, or my mother’s chaplain who playedbothpinochleandpiano. In this, they take after my mother’s mother—who couldn’t read or write and so certainly never wrote a poem—though, once, I am told, she castrated her husband’s prize bull with a kitchen knife and calmly promised to do the same to him unless he spent his nights at home. My mother was there. She told me this story. My sister heard it too. But she never imagined...