Stephen Gardner is my mentor.
Even now, I write this with shaky hands, and I am inconsolable, and I want to sleep and cry until the world melts away.
Once, I told him he was my mentor, and I he turned away from me and tried to change the subject because I was a long-haired kid with scant ability in English and lots of trouble with grammar. To make things worse, I was a journalist, but the truth is my heart had already turned away from journalism. In my heart, I betrayed Journalism for the beauty of poetry and literature which moved me, but I never voiced clear enough.
Under Stephen’s teaching, my heart soared in ways that journalism failed to move me--even to a remote twitter, nor could I explain in some ways how lines written by the strange men and women called poets made me cry, shiver and wish inside that I could write like them.
Perhaps it was that no teacher before him cared for me, or that I was unaware of this “love” before Doctor Gardner. When later others came forward--Dr. Davidson who was tough but fair--Dr. Bell, who seemed like a mom that all the neighborhood kids could run to--Dr. Claxon who was always encouraging.
But Doctor Stephen Gardner was the ultimate hero to me. He radiated something that was subdued and sublime. He spoke with a southern accent that made me feel good to be a southerner and to be male.
He radiated a machismo, not that other professors turned against my maleness, but there was something of an adult responsibility in him that made me want to be responsible. He gave me a key to his office, and that key saved me once when someone was hounding me, and I was able to simply disappear.
Such a brazen act could never be talked about, but sometimes when I needed to be alone, and the world was too much, I could go to Doctor Gardner's office and hide.
There I could read old “Millhoppers” or Richard Hugo Poems, and pull down copies from his journal collections and poems. No other professor ever allowed this.
One other professor once let me use one of her books as long as I stayed in her office. I had no pen or paper, so I dared to use her computer to type some notes. As you may have guessed, she caught me and once again, I spent an undeserved hour being told I was irresponsible and rude. Events such as this made me turn from journalism as if it were a plague victim.
In contrast, Stephen never hesitated to loan me books. Stephen allowed me to use his computer. Stephen was neither petty, nor obtuse over trivial matters, but when it mattered Stephen was there. When I asked him about graduate school, he helped me pick out choices, and then with a open and direct hand pointed to a ¼ page ad for McNeese State, which essentially said we only want to see your poetry. And at that moment, I wanted to go. My heart was set--I had to get into that program. There was no other choice.
Three other programs wanted me, but I wanted McNeese. And when McNeese came through, I called Doctor Gardner at his home. He was the third to know, and he knew my heart was set, even though I think he might have suggested NC State or Kansas State University, his words uplifted,“I know your heart is at McNeese.” That was one of his greatest talents. He knew the hearts of his students.
Stephen let me read his signed copies, including his Jim Peterson book, and his own Honor’s Thesis of poems, which I copied behind his back and knew he would tell me not to read, not to model myself after, but he was wrong. He was just as talented as anyone he pointed me too, but he had what every hotshot slick poetry MFA Student today lacks—modesty.
And that is why Stephen Gardner is my mentor and why I am now inconsolable, shaky and unable to sleep though I have reached that age where morning writing is my true time, and where even now as I write this I will soon fall into bed and weep until the world melts away.
Even now, I write this with shaky hands, and I am inconsolable, and I want to sleep and cry until the world melts away.
Once, I told him he was my mentor, and I he turned away from me and tried to change the subject because I was a long-haired kid with scant ability in English and lots of trouble with grammar. To make things worse, I was a journalist, but the truth is my heart had already turned away from journalism. In my heart, I betrayed Journalism for the beauty of poetry and literature which moved me, but I never voiced clear enough.
Under Stephen’s teaching, my heart soared in ways that journalism failed to move me--even to a remote twitter, nor could I explain in some ways how lines written by the strange men and women called poets made me cry, shiver and wish inside that I could write like them.
Perhaps it was that no teacher before him cared for me, or that I was unaware of this “love” before Doctor Gardner. When later others came forward--Dr. Davidson who was tough but fair--Dr. Bell, who seemed like a mom that all the neighborhood kids could run to--Dr. Claxon who was always encouraging.
But Doctor Stephen Gardner was the ultimate hero to me. He radiated something that was subdued and sublime. He spoke with a southern accent that made me feel good to be a southerner and to be male.
He radiated a machismo, not that other professors turned against my maleness, but there was something of an adult responsibility in him that made me want to be responsible. He gave me a key to his office, and that key saved me once when someone was hounding me, and I was able to simply disappear.
Such a brazen act could never be talked about, but sometimes when I needed to be alone, and the world was too much, I could go to Doctor Gardner's office and hide.
There I could read old “Millhoppers” or Richard Hugo Poems, and pull down copies from his journal collections and poems. No other professor ever allowed this.
One other professor once let me use one of her books as long as I stayed in her office. I had no pen or paper, so I dared to use her computer to type some notes. As you may have guessed, she caught me and once again, I spent an undeserved hour being told I was irresponsible and rude. Events such as this made me turn from journalism as if it were a plague victim.
In contrast, Stephen never hesitated to loan me books. Stephen allowed me to use his computer. Stephen was neither petty, nor obtuse over trivial matters, but when it mattered Stephen was there. When I asked him about graduate school, he helped me pick out choices, and then with a open and direct hand pointed to a ¼ page ad for McNeese State, which essentially said we only want to see your poetry. And at that moment, I wanted to go. My heart was set--I had to get into that program. There was no other choice.
Three other programs wanted me, but I wanted McNeese. And when McNeese came through, I called Doctor Gardner at his home. He was the third to know, and he knew my heart was set, even though I think he might have suggested NC State or Kansas State University, his words uplifted,“I know your heart is at McNeese.” That was one of his greatest talents. He knew the hearts of his students.
Stephen let me read his signed copies, including his Jim Peterson book, and his own Honor’s Thesis of poems, which I copied behind his back and knew he would tell me not to read, not to model myself after, but he was wrong. He was just as talented as anyone he pointed me too, but he had what every hotshot slick poetry MFA Student today lacks—modesty.
And that is why Stephen Gardner is my mentor and why I am now inconsolable, shaky and unable to sleep though I have reached that age where morning writing is my true time, and where even now as I write this I will soon fall into bed and weep until the world melts away.
