J. Malcom McRae, Jr.
Oregon Writing Project 1999
(no matter what anyone else says)
I am a non-traditional bard. My love for this art began in my childhood years before I could even read. I spent many of my preschool afternoons listening to countless recitations of a Paul Bunyanesque logger from the 45 rpm record player that resided in its own cloth-covered, miniature suitcase.
My mantra, nearly drove my mother to madness as I chanted it with my lips pressed through the big hole in the middle of that opaque, red-plastic platter of inspiration. The evidence of my genius was impossible to ignore because I would not shut up and I would go on to erase many poetic taboos during my youth.
It was the 1966 Christmas season and I had a cold. Like a common leper, I was suspended from joining my fourth grade P.E. class in the swimming pool. Forced to sit in the spectator area I vowed to express myself in remarkable ways. I began to compose a heartfelt poem that would bring people to tears with its holiday sentiment and artistic beauty. I recognized the challenge of penning the words while blocking out the voice of Andy Williams, but I was fairly confident I could pull it off. Just in case somebody might say that I hadn't actually created it, I planned put in a few of my own words once I got the basic elements on paper, but the chlorine was stifling, especially with a stuffy nose. I opened a contraband stick of juicy fruit as an antidote, but the laughing and splashing overwhelmed my concentration and I was unable to recollect the end of the first verse.
Failure is a part of any groundbreaking effort. This was as true for lumberjacks as it was for me. Walt Whitman may have written Leaves of Grass and Song of Myself, but he was never creative enough to try writing the Songs of Someone Else.
A couple of years after that setback, a sixth grade poetry assignment proved to be my defining moment. I was looking for subject ideas among the many boxes of books in the basement of our home the night before my work was due , when a old, worn anthology presented itself to me. I had never seen the book before and could not imagine that anything so abused in appearance could contain anything memorable.
My creative alterations were pure genius. It was not only unrecognizable, it became an even better piece of work. I remember standing before the class for the recital like it was last week. There was a great deal of laughter from my classmates as I peeled off line after brilliant line and I savored the moment accordingly. Inspiration welled from within and I delivered the final lines with the great confidence.
I though Mr. Williams would like the poem I wrote, what with him being a softball buddy of my dad, the principal and all. I still can't believe I was the only one in the class that had never heard that poem. I learned two valuable lessons that day: 1) don't copy; and 2) when you have to compose something original, use old books that look like they've never been opened.