we all have true stories, like when i tried out for varsity tennis in jeans & docksiders, loved the sport, not the apparel, then there is kevin bacon, degrees of separation, i have exes, true, & yes, they too dated others, so who are my ex-girlfriend’s exes? another true story about tennis, the first guy was #13 in the world, 1991, the second played for amherst, me? i was varsity for three years, (but my real claim to fame was beating craig brown when i was in middle school, he was the washington golf & country club champ, threw his racket 100 feet out of the fenced in court after i pushed him for 40 minutes), but i digress, end the suspense, guy uno, derrick rostagno, you wouldn’t remember him, the other? well maybe, he was kind of a big deal, emphasis on was, preterite, not now alive, & not a good person to the woman i was once with, david foster wallace, he loved tennis too, now that i think of it, we could be in a dumas novel playing canadian doubles, i’d probably lose.
Category: Memoir
When I Applied To NYC Bookstores (1995)
don’t wear your l.l. bean parka to the interview, you look like a b & t, (bridge & tunnel person), not from the nyc, but that was me & my american studies degree, gatsby, hemingway, salinger, bell jar, norton’s anthology, smart kid, i actually cut off the l.l. bean label, kinda punk, kinda just whatever, brandless living in the village, enter the strand, barely glanced at me, colby kid, or dartmouth, or michigan, or name your generic mainstream college, i wasn’t sarah lawrence or bard, or maybe oberlin, khakis & bucks, yuppie, you are not hired, place was a maze anyway, books stacked everywhere, chaos, dusty chaos, enter st. mark’s, east village, pretentious, pretentious, pretentious, horn-rimmed glasses, scrutinize through me, that look, you know nothing kid, this is new york city, mecca, the edge, no instant rejection, ok fine, take this piece of paper, write down five books that we must have in the store, be ready to tell me why, uh ok, short stories of flannery o’connor, in our time, go tell it on the mountain, captain’s verses, remember, i was smart, wanted to cover all bases, gender, identity, writing style, number 5? the quran, why? no idea really, lots of muslims in the world? are any of your authors still alive? um, um, well, no, thanks for applying kid, enter barnes & noble astor place, huge building, flagship store, this is november, christmas coming, standard one-page application, fill it out, we will call you, place was busy, packed, they called, i answered, my first paid job in new york.
Beauty In The Drive
before my severe bulging disc-osteophyte i never understood rv’s, those people who drive through the grand tetons without actually hiking the trails, like the 90% of yosemite visitors who don’t leave the paved paths, but as my anterolisthesis continues to slip, i view life differently, i now see wheelchairs & sitting people, i never assume anything anymore, i used to think non-walkers were lazy, that not standing was weak, why drive when you can run? walk? bike? now i cry when watching documentaries about disabled people, my people, my new story, i used to hike miles and miles with my son, now i barely walk at all, but i can still drive down highway 1, pacific coast, alongside surf, crashing waves, seals, pelicans, whales, you get the drift, the past is over, no time machine is coming to get me, like fugazi said, you can’t be what you were, so you better start being, just what you are, so now i drive, there is beauty in the drive.
This Stanford Life
Three colleges have made their mark on me: Colby College (BA), Washington University in St. Louis (MA), and Stanford University (Coe Fellowship/Unofficial 4-year student). Early on, “Stanford” was almost a bad word. I taught at a large public high school (Terra Linda) where many of my highest achieving students went to Cal or UCLA, almost never to Stanford. Stanford was considered a snobby school for rich kids. My impression began to change during the summer of 2000 when I studied 20th century history at Stanford, while living in the French House on campus as part of my Coe Fellowship. Taking classes in the history corner (building), brought me into the Richardsonian Romanesque architecture, as the campus permeated my ethos. I moved to Palo Alto in 2004, thus beginning my informal education at the school. From 2004 to 2008, I attended events/classes on campus every single week. I went to lectures, films, business seminars, education roundtables, musical performances, athletic games, and completed a weeks-long writing workshop with the author Stephen Elliott. The school won me over with its never-ending generosity to the public. I recently visited Stanford with my son and now consider it my third alma mater.
Postscript: One of my former Terra Linda students is now an English Professor at Stanford. A former high school classmate (from my 1989 AP European History class) is the Provost.
Meeting Willie Mueller
September 20th 1981, Willie Mueller’s last day as a major league pitcher. We didn’t know that, and he probably didn’t either. My 2nd Orioles game, and I’m with my friend David on the first base line, autograph-seeking. Willie wasn’t a household name. He ended his career with one win, 7 strikeouts, & a 6.14 ERA, but David walked away with a signed baseball. Just recently, David reminded me about meeting Willie. That got me curious. It turns out that Mueller went on to star in the film Major League (1989), with Charlie Sheen. This is one of my earliest ballpark memory.
Listening To My Shortwave Radio
you might think it was all tina turner, the cars, or tears for fears, but vinyl could only take me so far, same songs, over & over, flip to side 2, try to save allowance money for the new billy idol album, or listen to casey kasem, see if anyone fresh was in the top 40, but then i got my GE shortwave radio & became an auditory magellan, forget karma chameleon & all that pop sound, i now spent nights slowly turning the dial, on a quest to travel the airwaves, listening as the basketball play by play guy said, louisville has the ball, i added a marker dot to my map of cities: new orleans, pittsburgh, morgantown, buffalo, each night i tuned in to: games, preachers, news, weather, anything & everything, in search of a new locale, another mark for my map, of course it was more than this, i was a 1980’s lewis & clark kid, connecting with my country, & this is still what i’m doing today, except i’m the one broadcasting & you might be in croatia instead of cincinnati.
Working at the 30th Street Senior Center, 1996
the elderly are grumpy, cloistered together in plastic chairs, waiting for their number to be called, i’m the guy with the microphone calling the numbers, the elevator can only take 8 people down to the cafeteria at a time, i’m so lonesome all the time, since i left my baby behind, on blue bayou, i’m crooning to the mostly spanish speaking geriatric crowd, entertainment for the hungry, they smile, call me young clin-ton, or danielito, charlie is my elevator operator, he gives me a shout when he’s ready for more people, send them my way danny boy, they shuffle their feet, eager to eat a free meal, i say hello to conchita, manuel, margarita, & maria vela, they are all so kind -i only worked at the senior center for 6 months, but they gave me a few hundred dollars & a nice card when i left, periodically i looked through obituaries over the years, one by one they disappeared.
White Christmas in Rochester, New York
i’m dreaming of a white christmas, first sung by bing crosby, 1941, only a few weeks after pearl harbor was attacked, listened to by millions, but only a large handful have ever had a real white christmas, like the ones i used to know in the late 1970’s & early 1980’s, snow stacked high, fireplace crackling, tins & tins of homemade cookies, ham baking in the oven, neighbors stopping by for eggnog, my grandfather’s organ playing all the songs, rudolph, jingle bells, deck the halls, the fir tree with gifts under every branch, dozens of christmas cards on the mantle, tinsel draped below, at night tucked into my father’s childhood bed, i peeked out past the wooden bedposts & waited for santa, this was christmas.
My First Solo Apartment, 1996
throughout college i had roommates, later, i futon-surfed my way through the east & west village in the nyc, by the time i landed in san francisco during the fall of 1996 i was done with roommates for good, that is when 204a day street found me, a 3-minute walk from my job at the 30th street senior center where i was the bilingual (spanish) volunteer coordinator, $540 a month & it was mine, when i first moved in i had a cot to sleep on, 6 cds, & a plant, spartan, no question, apartment highlights included: getting up at 5am to admire comet hale-bopp from my roof, hosting thanksgiving & a paella dinner party, listening to sonny rollins on sundays while cooking pasta -my solo sf apartment adventure ended when i moved to paraguay in 1998, but there are moments when i daydream about studio-living, less really was more.
Nitzana: Israeli Archeological Site 1993
negev desert, judea, where jesus once was, at least the bible says so, how to know such things? i’m digging in the earth, sliding shovel across the surface, not chopping into sun-laden ground, that breaks plates, pottery, artifacts, i see richard in the distance, bandana around his neck, this is his club med, his happy place, last night he told me about his termite business back in anaheim, says he saves up all year to come out here, to be alone with god in the land of the new testament, & he’s not wrong, they were here, nabateans, romans, byzantines, arabs, persians, turks, jews, muslims, christians, they built, conquered, lived, loved, died, their shadows surround us as we labor.
Daniel W. Polk 