Once in a Lifetime

Though not, to quote David Byrne, the same as it ever was.

I thought it might be interesting to know what I told the Fulbright group at the end of my program. (I’ll leave out the Powerpoint. Faith was confident that I could figure out Powerpoint, and it’s true, I did.) We all had five minutes of fame (Warhol quote – his was 15 minutes) to talk about what we had accomplished thus far. I wanted to use my time efficiently and well, so as usual, I over-prepared (though if you ask my students this semester, back in Long Beach, I may seem woefully underprepared and am relying on my knowledge, charm, and Mags donuts). Here goes:

In theory, I came here to work on a book, a hybrid text of poetry and essays or personal reflections related to my personal connection to Romania through my father’s family, who left here in 1901. Because of their departure date, there is a solid possibility that they were “fusgeyers,” a Yiddish term for foot-wanderers, which meant that they walked across the country, leaving their homes in Iasi, Hirlau, Galati, Braila, and Ivesti (village near Galati) to reach ports with ships departing for the United States and Canada. My family went to Toronto, where my great-grandfather cofounded and served as caretaker for the Romanian Jewish synagogue there. My previous five books of poem, including the sixth, which will come out in fall of 2025, draw on many sources and subjects. Some of favorites are family, home and leaving home, hope, progress, expectations, mortality, and the Jewish experience, both ancient and modern.

Of course, I have been teaching: a graduate course to second-year master’s students in Modern American Poetry, starting after World War II. I teach a version of this class every other year at Cal State, Long Beach. I have tailored it to my Romanian students because I want them to love poetry. We briefly went through the major poetry movements of the mid 20^th century and then pivoted into individual poets who were influenced by these movements, concluding with poems by 21^st century writers, many of whom I know. I brought poet Edward Hirsch, who is president of the Guggenheim Foundation into my classroom by Zoom. With each workshop, I feel the necessity of being both an ambassador for the states and an ambassador for poetry. These two do not conflict, in part because Romanians love poetry. No doubt, all of you have seen statues and busts of Mihai Eminescu in your cities, and park benches with poems printed on them – there are 133 of these monuments to Eminescu throughout Romania. I would argue that other Romanian poets since Eminescu provide a more favorable reading experience: my current favorites are Ana Blandiana and Nicolae Stanescu.

My experience here also involves learning about and exploring the history of Romanian Jewry. This is a sobering subject. I will not provide you with history, other than to say: it’s gruesome and depressing, and did not start with the Holocaust. I have spoken with people who understand this and with people who are still in denial. Educated people. I can see that Romania has made great strides recently in addressing this, and I am happy to be here at this moment, while, bluntly, there are still Jews here. Iasi was half Jewish before the war, with something like 125 synagogues. Now there are 310 members of the Jewish community (not all Jews, some married to Jews) and one working synagogue. Galati, 170. Constanta, 20. About 8,000 Jews currently in the country. About 800,000 before World War II. Many died and many emigrated to Israel and North America. The numbers are the numbers. I’m happy to be here now, and I’m grateful to Fulbright for providing the experience that has fed me intellectually, professionally, emotionally, personally, and spiritually.

***

Since I’ve returned, as you might imagine, I’ve had a number of conversations about Romania. Most of the people have read this Substack so are aware, more or less, of what went on. I have more coffees and walks and lunches scheduled for this week, and then I’m heading off to Sundance Film Festival with two friends. One is filled in; the other is not. What do I tell people in response to “how is it being home?” I tend to use the word “surreal,” which is code for, I don’t know how to respond. This is not the fault of the questioner. I just don’t know what to say. I name the three months “amazing” and “challenging” and “gratifying” and “exceeding expectation” as though I had some set of precise expectations. I knew it would not be what life is like here, that that was correct. I don’t know why I can only seem to answer with present participles, which are among my least favorite parts of speech. Yes, poets have opinions on parts of speech, though what I really love are the names of tenses like “pluperfect” (“I had blown out the candle before I went to bed”)or the “future perfect continuous” (“In 2026, I will have been teaching at Long Beach for 20 years”).

So what have I talked about? The pace of life (considerably slower) and the benefits and drawbacks of not being in a rush, of not overscheduling or arranging one’s days as a series of hours to be filled precisely, the way, lawyers “bill” time in six-minute increments, which has been a practice since the 1920s. There is a history to billable hours, as there is a history to all things. I imagine most people think this practice began in the 1980s with a drug-induced intensity and desire to produce. Not so. I’ve spoken about the visual tension in Romania between the Brutalist architecture and the beautifully maintained old buildings and new structures, about the kindness and generosity of the people, about the parks and the poems and my students, who gave me a lovely book of fiction by a Romanian Jewish writer (in translation).

And now I am more concerned with using my time well versus using it efficiently.

And now for the lightning round:

Was I lonely? Sometimes.

Was I okay being lonely? Yes.

What were the hardest times? Noon pm to 5 pm, when California was asleep (10 hours earlier), St. Louis and Houston were asleep (8 hours earlier) and Detroit was asleep (7 hours earlier). Though individuals might have been awake, they would not have wanted to talk.

Did I drink more wine alone? Yes.

Did I eat more soup? Yes.

Did I do floor yoga? No.

Did I miss my yoga studio at home? Yes.

Did I walk more? Yes.

Did I walk faster? No. In Romania, if you walk fast, there must be an emergency.

Did I surprise myself? Yes.

Did I think about coming home? Not seriously but occasionally.

Did I cross the world, make friends, and exist entirely outside of what (I hate this phrase) my comfort zone? Yes.

What is a better term for comfort zone? Space (emotional, I suppose) where you feel at ease.

Is being at ease overrated? Yes.

Did I talk to my husband everyday? Yes, twice a day, evening and morning.

Did I talk to my kids? Yes, but it’s never enough.

Did I speak with friends from home? Rarely.

What do I miss? Walking down to the Palace Mall through two cobbled promenades lined in stores and cafes and and kiosks and venders selling vin fiert and fur hats and candles and gorgeous candy and gloves and pastries and assorted chatchkes. Walking down the hazardous path that took me to Carrefours and my bank and Orange to pay my bills because it was so damn hard to pay them on line and easier to have them look up my account and tell me if I owed them anything. My girls, Faith and Jess. My girls, Florina and Lorelei and Stefana. My students, of course, and there numerous names. I knew who everyone was but they’ll never believe me.

Would I go again? Yes.

Does it seem like a dream? Yes.

Was it a dream? No, though there’s much evidence to the contrary. I still have to figure out sleep.