My student apologized to me for voting for Donald Trump. He regretted it, he said, because he hurt me, and he never thought it would hurt someone like me.
The week before, he sat with me for almost an hour in my office, and we bonded over poverty. He told me how hard it was to be in college with rich friends, to be so different than them. He felt alone.
He’s talented, and I told him so. He’s funny, and aside from some trouble with comma splices, he’s a good writer. He told me that he’s majoring in business, but he wants to be a journalist. I encouraged him to do that.
He’s talented, and he’s sensitive, and he voted for Donald Trump.
E. Ethelbert Miller writes some solid poems (though not here–this is a memoir). He is also an activist. He has helped changed things, at times.
E. Ethelbert Miller has an idiosyncratic name and he is very aware of the fact.
E. Ethelbert Miller is frightened he will die and not be special. None of us are special. E. Ethelbert Miller knows this and the day he dies I will have to get my coffee, you know, because I need my coffee in the morning. If I die first E. Ethelbert Miller will get his coffee.
December 19th, 2009 / 3:25 pm