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A Love Supreme Notes toward an Appropriate Gratitude john murillo 1 I can’t lie. That August afternoon, when I heard that my teacher had been appointed United States Poet Laureate, I felt the way one does upon hearing any big news concerning a loved one. Proud. You know what pride is. If you’re old enough to read this, you know what pride is. Your mother gets a long overdue promotion at her job. Your big brother knocks out the neighborhood bully. Your friend Calvin owns his own McDonalds. Call it cool by proxy, residual props. Put simply: they win, you win. As if their successes and the work put into achieving those successes have anything under the stars to do with you. Of course, they don’t. And this didn’t. Still. Here is someone who’s devoted his whole life to poetry, without much concern for accolades, receiving what is arguably the highest honor that can be given an American poet. And he didn’t do it by schmoozing and glad-handing. He didn’t get it because of his pedigree or connects (Phil’s never been that guy). He earned it simply on the merits of his work and what it’s come to mean to American letters. In so doing, he confirmed for me everything he’s ever tried to teach his students about maintaining one’s personal and artistic integrity. So on that muggy Brooklyn afternoon—because I knew Phil was a little too grounded to make much of a fuss about any of it himself, and because I felt 134 someone somewhere needed to—I did a little dance, kissed my lady hard on the mouth, and poured us two cool glasses of something sweet. This was just a day or two before I left to attend the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference in Vermont. Phil was one of the scheduled guests and, with news of his appointment fresh in the air, the excitement surrounding his visit was palpable. I was looking forward to seeing him, of course. It had been a few months since the last time, and I can always count on him to say something that I know will have me either cracking up, walking a bit taller, or both. About a week into the conference—the night before Phil was to give his reading—the novelist Richard Bausch kidnapped some of us fellows and forced us to miss out on the cafeteria fare in order to enjoy steak and fine wine at a nearby restaurant. We had been seated only a few minutes when Phil walked in with his wife, Franny, and some other family members and friends. Seated next to me was one of those writers who always has to let you know how well connected he is, who he knows, how far they go back, etc. So when he noticed how excited I was to see Phil, he nudged me, “Hey, you know who that is?” Before I could answer, he continued, “it’s Philip Levine. We met once, I wonder if he will remember me?” When Phil approached our table, Bausch stood to shake his hand and announced to the group: “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? I’d like to introduce you all to the recently appointed Poet Laureate of the United States, Philip Levine!” Then, spotting me at the other end of the table, and without missing a beat, Phil cut into the applause, “And ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you to one of the best students I’ve ever had . . . John Murillo!” Then, “So everything he knows,” tipping an invisible hat, “he owes to someone else!” I leaned over to Mr. Connected: “You know, I thought he looked familiar but I wasn’t sure.” I love Phil. Now, suddenly I can’t stand the love flooding me for Phil. 2 I first met Phil in the fall of 2005. That was the year I decided to pack a U-Haul with everything I owned, leave behind my job and everyone I knew, and try to start a life in New York City. There, I would live on a fraction of what I earned as a third-grade teacher in Washington, D.C., and spend my days reading and writing poems. I had decided to go back to school. Not law school, or medical school, but poetry school. I was thirty-four years old. 135 I couldn’t explain...

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