Nancy Boutilier's Farewell

I am in such a glorious debt to you all.

 

I owe thanks upon thanks—to the entire English Dept and Mr. Jacobson for being so willing to host me, the all of the faculty who welcomed me into their classrooms—and basketball practices and jam sessions. The staff at every level has made me feel at home on every turn.

 

And to you, the student body, who let me hear your poems, you guitar, piano and flute riffs, your insights about form in poetry, the death penalty and iPods, your shouts of joy as you—we—leapt into the pool at 7:35, your rhyming stanzas of “Sherman Thacher’s Epiphany” we wrote together and the “Morning Muck” stories of Gymkhana racing and the Silver Dollar challenge. I could go on—but that’s a sample—and it lets you know I’m taking you all back to Ohio with me.

 

I also want to say that for most of us this has been a magical meeting—as you know, even Moped won my heart after one ride. But it’s also been a magical reunion with Ms. Halsey—a dear friend of 25 years. Our friendship has always been rooted in the four years we taught together at Andover, but I can safely say, it’s now well rooted here on this campus—as are all my new friendships with all of you.

 

Three more things.

 

First, Ms. Finley, your terrific Librarian—many of you have heard me say that librarians are my heroes—I judge librarians, in part, by the libraries they keep—and you’ve got greatness in both. To Ms. Finley, one of my books, On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone, for the collection.

 

Second, I also owe you a NOVEL UPDATE: Okay, the short version is: NOT YET—meaning it’s not complete yet.

 

BUT I’ve written some important scenes that have helped me over a big hump and I’ve tackled a point-of-view issue, as well as a major character issue, to set me well on my way to completion.

 

More importantly, I know I can do it. Because of the ways that YOUR SPIRIT REFLECTS the idea anything, and everything, is possible. We need that—we all need that. And you live in your words—truth, honor, fairness and kindness; they may not be verbs, but you LIVE THEM, It’s palpable. You dance, sing, dive for loose balls, sprint for the 50-50 balls on the soccer pitch. You think before you speak and then speak with such integrity and music.

 

Last, I’d like to leave you with a poem I wrote here in the Anacapa House.

 

And I want to point out that you have built what some might call a beloved community. You’ve given each other room to grow and be: students give each other support and room to grow, teachers give students that room, and room also for the teachers to grow. I’ve heard some of you call that a bubble, but keep it; it’s powerful. Because you have also kept a thoughtful and compassionate eye on the outside world, viewing the State of the Union Address, discussing the death penalty over a formal dinner.

 

So, this poem was inspired by an article I read in SUN magazine—which your librarian puts in the Commons for you, by the way, where I found it.

 

It all reminds me of William Carlos Williams once said:

It is difficult to get the news from poems, but every day men die for lack of what is found there.

 

 

And here’s my offering to you….

 

 

ENEMY LINES

 

Sunni and Shiite forces

face off in Baghdad, firing

words across the room

dropping poems on each other

in a place called Freedom Space.

 

The first time only twenty-five

arrive to take the challenge

proposed by a young woman

known for fighting honor

killings and forced prostitution.

 

First she sheltered

women-turned-slaves

by sex-traffic trade,

then she built safety

for poetry.

 

“Ping pong” she calls it,

as a Sunni stands to sing

his wounds, answered later

by a Shiite’s couplets of injury

and stanza scars of longing.

 

Back and forth each side recites

until the sides dissolve.

The crowd multiplies each time

drowning out the occupation

rhyming in the streets:

 

iambic blasts of mortar fire,

end stop exclamations break the calm,

alliteration of gunner’s pa-pa-pa,

and mixed metaphor of MOAB—

Mother of All Bombs.

 

Meanwhile Iraqi poets storm

their voices to the sky

militia bards and Army guards

no longer ping and pong

but arm in arm

 

 

 

And here, here we manufacture

sniper rifles, stinger missiles

and reasons to invade.

Here poetry has faded faded faded,

imagination failed.

 

The flag of radio striped talk

waves red baiting white and blue blaming

fireworks of shock and awe over

one young man’s plan to solve it all

with his 9-millimeter Glock

 

fist raised

to aim and fire

in semi-automatic screams

the ugly prose and bullets.

The rest is silence.

 

---------------------------------------------

 

Thank you for living in the verbs with me this month—and I can look forward to when and where we cross paths again.

 

PEACE

 

Nancy Boutilier

 

1-28-2011 Thacher Assembly