Charles Plymell on Charles Plymell (part 7)

I taught at a Quaker school near Philly and one in Upper Darby on old Highway 1. The English teacher there never quite understood the purpose of the program. He insisted on lionizing me, telling this high school kids now they can meet a real poet in the flesh…ect and made them sit on the floor around me to listen to my poetry. I told him that they were going to write poetry themselves and would be more comfortable at their desk. It was a very posh high school. I saw a T.V. documentary years later about a high school teacher involved in a student/murder wherein the teacher looked all too familiar. I enjoyed the students in all the schools, and in one school far into rural Pennsylvania beyond the Susquehanna Chesapeake watershed, I was moved to write a book of poetry by a third grader. She was playing at recess with our class on a beautiful spring day. The grass was high and the kids were picking clumps of it and throwing it on others and rolling in it. I thought it irresistible poetic play, so I rolled in the grass and put a bunch of it in my hair. When I stood up, the little girl approached me with a puzzled look, eyes squinting in the sunshine and asked in an very inquisitive tone trying to determine a grown-up and asked simply, “Are you a kid?” I titled my book that. I found many poetic phrases and words and sometimes I couldn’t resist “borrowing.” I would use various techniques and materials with kids that other teachers soon adapted. Sometimes with lower grades, Instead of my T4 analogy experiment, I would use a book of Magritte plates I had separated to pass around. These were already visual juxtapositions so any descriptive words came out poetry. The philosophical founder of the program, Kenneth Koch had published his popular book, “Wishes Lies and Dreams” each of those words were used to stimulate the concepts and ideas of children that launched the programs.

At a school in Westchester County, the superintendent asked my honest assessment to his question.  Could his teachers could do the same thing I did? I told him yes, at this particular school the teachers were certainly sharp enough to use my tricks or others to motivate and excite the students and let them freely create and most importantly see their creations for the treasures they were. But I told him that his school was the exception and that probably monetary rewards do attract the best teachers. But in most cases, even if the teacher is naturally motivated and an experienced educator, he or she will most probably be at odds with the superintendent and other faculty and the historical pedagogy of the compulsory education system.

I visited so many different schools, and centers, it would be difficult to remember them all. In visited a class in our own village where by the late 80’s the government was pushing consolidation. Gone were the days a parent or grandparent could walk a child to school, or the high school kids could walk into the village on lunch break and visit the soda shop. A flim-flam man came to town wearing a yellow tie that was popular that year and schmoozed most of the villagers into building a gigantic prison-looking building on good farmland between our village and the next on the premise of offering more programs with larger state funding.   Most visitors upon seeing it from the road thought it was a prison complex. I thought that the state might have had that as a long- range interest when the student population declined. When it opened, he ordered an American flag so large it touched the ground from the top of the pole. It was made for huge car lot or franchise openings and its material couldn’t withstand the elements. Someone stole it. They put in interlocking bricks front area that was never used. Today they are digging down four feet to fill it all in concrete. Their water and sewer system and transportation industry housing is more vast than a town complex. The machines working there today look as expansive and larger thant those that built the Boulder dam.

At its beginning, the Superintendent voted on his salary in excess of a hundred grand in closed-door session which was big money then when the average villager’s income was around 15 thousand a year. The entrance was on a blind hill and his wife had a car accident turning out of it. The villagers finally ran him off. Because it was far from towns in a field, a transportation industry had to be created. There haven been one or two huge buses wrecked since its doors opened. I see a little head bob up and down going past on one of the fifty thousand dollar busses that plucked the numb kid from his home in the early morning. When they come home I see the same faces bounce past in a perfect Prussian state picture of compulsion and order. Once I visited a class when the carpet was still new. There was the smell of fumes and half the school was home with flue-like symptoms. When I mentioned the smell to the teachers they begged me to say something to the principal because they were afraid to. He was in his room and rarely came out. He was an idiot installed by members of the village board who was obsessed with discipline. They regularly hired idiots for principals if they thought they could maintain order. I later chased the first one down the hall into his office on another matter related to my own kid’s behavior that improved just on the embarrassing premise that I would come there to straighten things out if he got in trouble. They are busy to this day spending taxpayer monies. Their bus garage is as large as a football field they never got around to building. There are new, yellow buses in rows spanning across the entire building with engines running and kids breathing their exhausts and teachers trying to cope with ADD or whatever the season’s problems. I remember how lucky we were to run through the wheat field, hitch a ride with a farmer, or ride our horses to our one-room school house even if we had to eat Mrs. Reynolds baked beans every day.

After some courses in the Community College I liked very much, I taught a summer program at Cornell and then was hired at Oneonta at a State University College that specialized in turning out teachers. The Writing Program Director came from a top school and knew the score like the director of the Professional Writing program at Maryland. I was hired in the Writing Center as a Tutor, a job I liked  because I could sit in my cubicle and have students come to me. They were expected, as future teachers and so forth to write a correct essay. I finally found a good job, working the hours and days of my choosing. The pay was good, approximately that of two lecture courses; I supplemented that income by driving a small milk truck from a dairy across the road that did their own bottling. Two days a week, I left early in the morning with fresh milk, delivered it to premium markets from the bottom on Manhattan to the top and returned to home all in one day. The other days I made up my schedule to teach. Passing the writing test was the first of its kind I had seen. The reasoning was to insure competency of graduating teachers. The tutoring faculty usually ended up writing letters for the students to prospective school superintendents anyway just to make things run smoothly. Most of the students had too many syntactical, punctuation, and grammatical errors that might seem embarrassing for a graduate. Most of it was merely proofreading and scoring the students essays and tutoring them to learn how to write a simple essay. Though it was an exit exam, it harkened back to the nineteenth century German model adopted by Harvard in is 1874 entrance requirement in English composition, i.e. a short English composition, correct spelling, punctuation, grammar and expression of ideas on a list of chosen topics.  My job was to pass the student out of tutoring or schedule hours to work with them to be able to write the acceptable composition. The concept made as much sense as anything I guess, and it gave me a job. Some of the others were faculty wives, two of department heads, who couldn’t make a living on their own or just wanted more. But greed seemed always acceptable in the academe even if it knocked some other needy soul out of the benefits the part-time job offered. I had found a place in the program probably on gender basis. My director, who had good wit made a wry comment at one of our meetings when discussing the importance of our program that our last line of defense was the comma splice.

Ironically, it was the first I had known of the error. That and sentence fragments seemed to be the most significant items for my colleagues in correct compositions, so I happily became an expert on these errors. After that job when I returned to writing I fell back into my old habits of writing in fragments, etc. One of my colleagues who liked to throw her weight around, whose husband was the Chair in physics, was very adamant about using the Prentice -Hall handbook and tried to make it the official handbook. I began calling it the “Pretentious-hall “ handbook, and at our weekly faculty conference pointed out an error in the handbook. I told my own students they could get any handbook in our own writing lab room where shelves were stacked with old complimentary copies. None of them took one. They could also learn about their errors with handouts I made up for them individually, if they wanted. After all, I was getting paid for my time. They were always confused as to what their English professors expected of them. I showed them the Bedford’s Brief History of Rhetoric and Composition and told them their professor’s approach would probably be found among the periods delineated in the text.

I was getting to the age where heaving milk cartons was taking its toll, as well as driving to Manhattan and back in one day, so I trained a younger guy to drive the truck into NYC and took on an English composition courses as a Lecturer, which was pretty much the same in all colleges. I preferred tutoring but teaching a course was easier than driving a truck and unloading milk in NYC. With two courses, I could fill out my part-time income to a decent salary, Teaching a course was a position other tutors always wanted as status, but I took them when offered because we couldn’t work full time as a tutor because of policy. There were other poets at the university who gradually got wind that I was working as a tutor, sometimes teaching a course as well. I think there were two tenure track poets there who had paltry publications compared to me. One had a wife to taught at Hartwick, a private college near the university. I name was Frost, most suited name for the poetry industry.
My wife was involved in publishing, so we went to a State Arts Council meeting to learn about publishing funds along with the two professors of poetry.  Upon meeting the representatives of public funding their was so shocking, we thereafter avoided them. They both were awarded lucrative fellowships to write poetry though, so their behavior must have paid off. It was around twenty thousand each at the time. Robert Frost’s student wanted me to come to his students’ poetry reading, so I did. He usually had 4 to 5 students in his class, when my Composition and tutoring courses were overflowing because the college couldn’t afford more teachers. He was tenured, so he could do or not do what he wanted. Meeting him and his students was unpleasant for me; that was apparent. One of the duties of a tutor was to work with students who were having difficulty writing a paper for their professors in other courses. We would schedule a time to meet with them. He sent his students to me in the Writing Center indicating their problem. His instructions were that they needed help correcting comma spices in their poetry! There was the occasional dedicated teacher, but in English departments the ratio seemed to be one dedicated teacher for every hundred or so assholes. They have been dinosaurs for years and universities should eliminate them altogether in the computer age.

I was dedicated to my students and could understand how the suicide rate was high among those trying to adjust their new social, financial’ and intellectual life while facing, in many cases a hostile learning environment, usually from teachers who had nothing to offer like the case of fixing comma splices in poetry. I heard many horror stories from students who came to me for help in writing their papers, and I hope I relieved some of their pressure and anxieties. I remember one very frustrated student who was sent to the Writing Center for tutorial help. I could see he was at the end of his rope and ready to give up. I made him at ease with a few silly jokes and remarks and asked to see his assignment, which was usual procedure, but he said the professor just gave a verbal assignment to write a paper on something from his textbook. I asked if they went over any possible topics in class. No. I asked for his syllabus. It made no sense. He kept saying he didn’t know what his instructor wanted and he couldn’t understand what was in the book after reading the assigned pages over and over. I asked to see his book. It was a course in a soft subject, something like sociology courses I remembered from the 50’s but had catchy names in these times. I quickly scanned the book and its topics, which seem vague and unrelated to anything. I tried some close reading at various places in the book, trying to find a thesis statement on the subject. I asked again about his assignment and it was vaguely to write about something from the book he said he couldn’t understand. He couldn’t get started. He didn’t know what to write, etc. I realized that his teacher knew nothing and the subject matter was nothing. I leaned back and told him to relax and that there is no wonder he couldn’t understand anything in his book. I told him it was all gobbledygook. He looked puzzled. I said there is nothing here. It is all secondary source material patchworked into simulating subject matter. I tried several times to find a thesis, a primary discourse. I looked at the publication and told him it looked like a grad student had cleverly printed and bound his own work and there is very little to it. I told him it was recycled material, so all he has to do is recycle it some more. He was enlightened and said, “Oh, I can do that!” I said fine. And told him not to quote me and to keep it low so that my other colleagues wouldn’t hear, but this is all bullshit and obviously your instructor doesn’t care about the subject or much of anything else. It’s too dense to try to understand. Don’t waste your time, just add some of your words and cite and document from the text and pretend you know something buy stimulating discourse in class, they like that. He came back at the end of the semester beaming and said he had gotten an A on all his work and in the course. I laughed and said let’s have a high-five for bullshit. He was happy. I told him its important in the academe to meet stupidity with stupidity and brilliance with brilliance. In college life you only have to determine the difference.  He became a good student and dropped in from time to time to see me.

I was offered a Creative Writing course much to the chagrin of those other tutors who would very much like to teach such a course. I hated it but needed the money. I had taught such a course before at other colleges, so I prepared myself for the grind. There were two black students who sat in front and were aggressive feminists. They immediately got into a discussion about the grading system and wanted to insure fairness. It was difficult enough to invent grades for such a course but the universities policy insisted that grading was clarified because there were always disputes. I couldn’t tell them I didn’t give a shit about grades myself, so I had to work out some meaningful arrangement for all parties. There was another black girl who sat between them, who was quite innocent. I could see they were playing her too. I usually assigned a couple of “getting acquainted” papers to write in class and another to amplify and open discussions so we could all get to know each other. Having experienced this situation before, I could usually tell at that point who would be good writers and who would never quite catch on. I could have probably graded them all at that point and it would have matched what they would end up with anyway. The innocent girl would need extra help. It was obvious she would always need and expect instruction in place of self-motivation. The other two aggressive girls lobbied for her and badgered me to give her a grade equal to theirs and some of the other sharper students. The ‘ringleader” would come to my tutoring office ostensibly to work on her papers fingering her straw in paper cup suggestively and wanted to got to lunch with me. I didn’t. A friend in Black Studies came by the class and hugged me, so I thought I sent the right message. It didn’t, and my aggressive student asked me into an office with three other women of color one day and they started grilling me about my course. I couldn’t figure out what was going on, so I didn’t bring in my supervisor or pay the meeting any attention. It was very odd. She brought up the fact that I would mention this fellow, Orwell, and they all questioned me about that. A weird institutional meeting I’ve never figured out. Maybe it was to help purge old white men.

I was pretty safe in my tutoring cubicle, hidden from the politics of a state campus for a while, until my poetry past brought trouble again. Reflecting on it, I think I raised suspicion in other professors because I wasn’t keeping strictly to my discipline that they perceived as poetry. I didn’t want to think that any institution was that petty, but they must have been. I taught a summer course at Cornell in Philosophy and needed to pick up another course in Oneonta. They offered me a college course in beginning Algebra.  They seem like I should automatically want the job and said there was nothing to it, so I took it. I remembered fifth grade arithmetic and liked it and may have had math in Jr. High but didn’t remember any. I had no courses in Algebra and didn’t know what it was, so like the printing press job, I accepted it and got a manual. I had to learn algebra before each class. I thought it was the most boring thing in the world while at the same time, the most fantastic. I had been to visit the Chair of the Math Department where I was tutoring and he showed me how he was growing algebraic designs in chaos theory, so I was intrigued. I had substituted in math at our local high school where I didn’t have to know anything just for a day or so and suspected they just emphasized algebra to keep students in order. I learned that the Arabs invented it while the Greco-Roman civilizations were busy killing each other. I envisioned someone sitting in the sand with a long stick adding one item to one end and removing one at the other to make it come out right. It was fascinating enough to me that I learned the lessons just before I taught them and had the answers, and to prove the equations was the basis of the course, so I didn’t need much else. If I couldn’t explain it, there was usually a student much sharper than I in algebra.  One time I did run into a problem that I, nor the students could solve, so I took it to a professional who used algebra all the time. It puzzled him as well.

Finally, I inferred the answer, or what to do to get the answer and we were able to prove it out. I was pleased that I had learned algebra, but after the year of teaching it, I forgot everything I ever knew about it. I’d be at a loss to understand a basic equation. I still don’t understand what it’s for, but I realize it’s a measurement in everything. I began to think it is more a state of mind.

A student in one of the poetry classes found out I was a tutor at the college. Many of the students at SUCO were from the city. It was affiliated with a design school there as well as being an Education school. David Greenspan was to become a good friend. He came to meet me with an idea. An idea I had exploited in the 1950’s at W.U. and ended with the exploding magazine but was needed again. He didn’t know that. He wanted to do a university literary magazine and invite poets to the university to read their poems, and he had an English professor to sponsor him who also knew I was at the college. He said the Student Union had turned him down and they spend thousands to bring Long Island comedy acts and all sorts of trash to students for entertainment. I ask him why come to me. I’m the lowest man on the totem pole. I’m merely a tutor. He persisted. I told him. ok, here’s what you do.(I had no notion he would do it.) Go to the president of the college and tell him the student union has huge budget to bring lame entertainment to the university while they refused him money to bring legitimate authors to visit for educational purposes. He did so, and the university gave him a budget to bring people in the field. He brought some poets I knew and some his sponsor, Professor Meanor knew about in the Beat Industry. Gale Research publication of The Dictionary of Literary Biography that had an entry about me and the reproductions of some of the magazines I published and printed: The Beats & Literary Bohemians Post War America. Part 2 .M-Z. Which began with Mailer. David invited the editor, Anne Charters, to speak, who was merging the Beat industry into the academic mainstream, and who obviously had the word about me from both, but he invited my wife to his party. We met her and her well-regard husband in music history, Sam Charters.

David also invited Lawrence Ferlinghetti who published my first prose book at his City Lights. He commanded a big honoraria of several thousand dollars and to be flown from San Francisco. David and his father were from Brooklyn and had enjoyed his famous Coney Island of The Mind. He had told David not to introduce him as “Beat” but as “Doctor” and began to read what I thought the worst academic trot I’d heard. It was obvious he wanted to get back into the academic mainstream now that the Beats were gone. That’s where the money was after the Nixon & Reagan administrations  that both expanded the arts with money but wanted to make sure there were no Communists or funny business, so the trend was to the trusted Prussian-born institutions. Lawrence was a Navy officer n WW2, so he was respected. I had told David I would attend the poetry reading just for support, which wasn’t needed as he had a big turnout anyway. I told him I’d like to remain in the background because I’ve never had much to say to Mr. Ferlinghetti  to whom Allen Ginsberg introduced me many years ago at his house in San Francisco. David had a seat for me on front row of entrance isle and they came past me on the way to the podium. And here we have Charles Plymell, and blah blah, all the niceties, cordial handshakes and where had we seen each other last, whose where, etc. I had my big blonde Lab, Bebop with me who after a while of the poetry and at the end of one of the most dreadful ones let out a great yawn.

That gave me a good excuse to take him outside and wait for the others in my party, Laki Vasakas and Grant Hart, punk singing star formerly with Husker Du. David asked us to his house for a party after the reading and I re-iterated that I had never really anything to say to Mr. Ferlinghetti, so I didn’t want to get stuck in an awkward setting with just the two of us. He came out of the reading and said something like we finally sold out your book. And I wanted to say, yeah, I could have used some royalties. In addition I had split an advance with him from the Austrian publisher of my book because they go through the publisher. But he was old, though smartly dressed from a recent appearance in Italy where he has many literary connections, and I didn’t say anything.. Sure enough at David’s house I found just the two of us in a room together, silent. Grant Hart, always full of mischief and knowing the circumstance walked in and Dr. Meanor followed. Grant bent over and started sniffing Ferlinghetti’s ass and he turned around shocked. Grant said, “That’s the way dogs get to know each other, so I thought we might do the same.”

I went back to my tutorial chair at the college at the Writers Center helping students with their papers and helping them write letters to their prospective employers for teachers, and sometimes just writing the letters for them. I was getting along without incident until I learned through flyers plaster in every corner of the campus and throughout the school and city newspapers that the University had invited Maya Angelou to speak. I had seen her name at George Washington University on two rooms, but never her person when I taught there and had to find an unoccupied cubicle or corner of the library to confer privately with my students.. I learned another prestigious university gave her a salary well over a hundred grand just to have her name associated with them, so I don’t know if she ever taught a class. I saw a video of her appearance at a poetry center in the city where women oddly were offering to do her wash and scrub her floors.  This self- proclaimed e-x whore had ridden the system to new heights during the Mutliculturalism and Feminist influence that was written about in the Bedford History of rhetoric. I wasn’t teaching, but working on the docks when the  Watts riots ushered in that  period where a few Blacks figured out how to game the system and probably the funds meant for the poor folk at Watts today. Ferlinghetti’s hustle was small potatoes compared to May Angelou, who was on the cover of Forbes Magazine as multi millionaire worth close to a half -billion dollars. It was if the Pope, or at least Mother Mary was coming to town! The Albany news was full of her landing. She was on TV news bringing a little girl from the audience who came up to read her innocent ‘Rose are red” poem next the “great poet” said she could grow up and do the same. Unlikely, but poetry scams do exhibit longevity for they are in the “good” column in the social order.
I had traveled with my older sister who had worked for many a madam in the Northwest. Her last partner, the one who helped me get into the union was the offspring of a madam and her man, the sheriff of Deadwood S.D. My sister was found dead on the streets of San Francisco, a victim of what we never knew, but I knew poetry and I knew hustle, so I wasn’t that enthused about the great poet’s visit. I learned that the university had given her $50,000 for her to read poetry. Her contract stated that she would not entertain questions from the audience or would not sign books. I was tired of seeing so much waste and arrogance towards students.  I retired early at a percent of my retirement. Another mistake. But I announced it to the local in protest of her visit and its conditions and honoraria for what I considered less “quality” verse than one could find on a Hallmark card.

I knew the word “quality” was the government code to hand down money to state art organizations and no one could argue it. It was a device to hand money through the peer (friends) system, which as always stacked and served the social order. But of course the public is far removed from poetry itself, let alone the scam. Even the local newspaper owned by Dow Jones had to come to the defense of someone who had her mug, and I do mean mug, on the cover of Forbes Magazine. In timidity and guilt from a mere tutor’s criticism, they gave her a big spread and published a flurry of letters to her defense. One was from a teacher from a nearby town who brought her “English class of young women” to see the famous poet. I wondered if the public school suddenly became gender specific, but all the letters contained some sort of fallacy. There was one letter of support for me with the address of a known trailer camp prominently printed at the bottom. A spokesman for the university finally issued a statment to the paper, the half-truth cleverly disguised by saying that the university only paid her  $25,000 honorarium. There was no mention that the university’s Student Union paid the other $25,000. That of course was never reported so the one who criticized the great ex-whore cum poet cum multi-millionaire who was paid 50 thousand and didn’t take questions from students, was in the “bad” column. That ended my career as a teacher. My “discipline” my specialty was never declarative and my role as a poet seemed to interfere and present an anomaly to the system. In the newspaper article I used my designation as Academic Tutor.” As I also taught courses and could have used “lecturer” “”teacher” or “adjunct Professor” which would have had more status. My only regret was that my son was in the vulnerable Junior high school age in the Prussian system in our village. Other kids, always taught status and class said that his father was just a tutor. The labels in the Prussian system are necessary for understanding social order from a perspective other than the individual. Afterwards, I was asked by someone in the English Department to come back and teach a course. I could make up my own course, anything I wanted. I said sorry, It is too late.

The very day I write this, I see a discussion on the news about “place specific education” and mainly due to the internet the campus as no longer necessary. One defense was directly connected to the Prussian goals. Statistics showed that university graduates earn more money. I saw the Chancellor of The University of Pennsylvania defending the “place.” I should think so as much as was invested in that name. I recalled my poetry discussion with Loren Eiseley, who was over the Museum and the Anthropology Department at the campus in Philadelphia and wondered if he had the problem of discipline. Though his awards would compile many pages, he was never mention as a poet either. The university will change, simply because it isn’t worth the money. It’s stacked against the Ted Turners of the world, but gradually the young will awaken and see what alternatives there can be for individual thinkers of the kind that began the country. Certainly many departments in Sociology, English, Black Studies and many others will become dinosaurs and “place” universities won’t be able to support them. The job market will change radically a well. There will still be a case made for education in the sciences, but industry will have to take care of itself.  The sooner political studies are dropped and real history is taught, the better. The sooner people become literate on their own and the M.F.A. degree is dropped, the better, and so on. The piece of paper eventually wont be of value. If I were to begin again and was a math head. I would stick with science and engineering and perhaps let chaos theory reveal itself on its own. I wouldn’t waste any time in an English Department. I would buy a good etymological dictionary and read literature on my own. I would have no need for the Film Department to hear some weary professor profess what movies he liked or didn’t like. I would study all foreign languages as much as I could and practice playing a musical instrument. My own parents made sure I had a violin just in case but I let them down. They gave me a slide guitar. I didn’t take to that. I once had a piano briefly and took one lesson from the famous keyboard artists, Paul Bley, who said what I thought: Just learn it as if you are learning to ride a bicycle. I would have, but we had to sell our house and move to where the jobs were. The poetry grant I was hoping for never came. I never played the right game either The rest, as they say, is history. One can study that for oneself, too. It doesn’t cost a dime. Maybe a couple of bucks if you hit the library sales, or more if you invest in a computer. It’s all there.
Remember the Prussian influence that the writer, John Taylor Gatto promised would deliver: Obedient soldiers to the army; obedient workers to the mines; well subordinated civil servants to government, well subordinated clerks to industry, citizens who think alike about major issues, etc, The system has proven itself over and over. It has given us Carter, Clinton Bush all products of the educational system and supported it in some way. If one wants to renew the traditional American purpose and think for oneself and prepare oneself to be self-reliant, be careful of what you buy into. It not a “bad” thing (in today’s vernacular) to stand alone against obvious hypocrisies even if it seems the deck is stacked against you.


2 Responses to “Charles Plymell on Charles Plymell (part 7)”

  1. Jason Hardung Says:

    Man, Charles you’ve lived one hell of a life. Love reading about it.

  2. karl gallagher Says:

    a joy to read (1 through 7), the narrative, the history, the clarity of thought – beautiful writing. a tale of a world we once knew fading like light at dusk – taking leave of this world. now we got the shit heap of marionettes with their deaths-head smiles and treachery. ‘brave new world’ and ‘1984’ have got nothing on what’s emerged these days. good to see someone who was around on the arts scene in the 2nd half of last century has left some honest record. a significant contribution among the darkness of blinding smiles of ignorance, falsehood and betrayal.

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