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Jabs, Uppercuts, and Kindness The Humanity of Philip Levine sam pereira People fall into various categories when they think about and discuss moments of epiphany. There are those who create a daily documentation of these moments, and it almost always involves God in some way, shape, or form. There are those lacking such moments, and these are generally far too busy trying to stay afloat and alive to deal with such audacious considerations. Finally, there are the few who, because of some luck of the draw, find those magical moments in the form of another human being. For me, it occurred sometime around 1968, when God, or those unwitting administrative types at Fresno State, placed Phil Levine in front of budding new university students, including this stupid, small-town yokel. Up until the late sixties, I had been relegated to living in a forgettable place in the San Joaquin Valley, a small community called Los Banos. We had cows. We had cow shit. We had churches. We had often recurring community mass get-togethers, usually connected to some church organization and referred to as “feeds.” These gave the feeling that everything was about satisfying physical needs . . . chowing down for Jeezuz. So, when I left at eighteen for Fresno and what I was pretty sure would become a career of teaching English, I had no idea what was about to happen. Instinctively, I knew my plate was about to become a good deal more complex than it ever had been. 157 These were extraordinary times for everyone, but for someone living in virtual isolation, they were the illegal drugs I had been waiting for. Phil was an icon even then. His books—all two of them—were on bookshelves throughout Fresno. Not This Pig became a reference point more often than not, and it remains so today, several decades later. I knew that teaching was going to be the vehicle I needed to rely on for things like maintaining a roof over my head in old age, but I also knew that poetry was locked into place now and had replaced the usual small-town expectations I had known growing up. Phil’s classes were filled with people who would go on to become today’s generation of established and respected poets. Sitting next to me for each workshop session, every class relating to form, each utterance from a man who was about to become synonymous with poetry in America, were writers like Larry Levis, David St. John, Greg Pape, Roberta Spear, Bruce Boston, Lance Patigian, and Michael Clifton. We felt anointed with power and we all believed we were on the verge of saying something worth hearing, worth reading. Much of what Phil gave us was the surprising realization that we were not even close to reaching this pinnacle. This is what happened: we worked, we said stupid things, we said reasonably smart things, and we became friends. Oh, and we were in awe of this man from Detroit, who for some reason known only to him, had decided to share his spirit for poetry with those of us willing to listen. Education, as is so often the case with writing, didn’t always come with the infusion of poetic devices. Sometimes it came in the form of just how to be an honorable and enlightened person in a world full of approaching pitfalls. Remember, it was the sixties! On one occasion, I recall being in a class on Twentieth-Century American Poetry—and weren’t they all?—when a student who was better known for his luck at the track than for his writing blurted something disrespectful at a nun who happened to be taking the class. She had not said anything; was merely taking notes, as Phil talked. In spite of the antireligious nature many of us seemed to espouse during those times—young rebels that we insisted on being—the rest of the class knew she had done nothing to cause this outburst. Phil, outspoken poet and self-proclaimed anarchist, didn’t laugh and didn’t take sides with this loudmouth student. Instead, he asked the guy to leave his classroom. If there was ever any doubt in my mind up until then—and there was not—about the genuine humanity of Levine, it took a long, one-way trip to the moon on that day. 158 There was also a time soon after Fresno State that dealt with Iowa City, where Phil insisted I apply in...

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