Open Thanks to the Pacific University MFA Program and All Who Sail in Her

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In the movie, “The Savages,” Laura Linney’s character finds herself in a cheap motel outside of Niagara, having an affair with a married man she doesn’t really like. She sits bolt upright in bed, surveys the tacky decor and annoying middle-aged man beside her, and exclaims in pure bewilderment, “I have an MFA!”

It is funny only because it is true that having this particular combination of letters after one’s name is not an automatic pass into the love, understanding, and recognition we all crave. Being raised by public school teachers taught me that our society undervalues education in a way that can be seen as either comic or tragic — depending on how tired you feel at the end of the day — and that teaching is an act worth pouring your whole self into anyway. It is the same with art.

After the graduate readings at this residency, a new student remarked that they were struck by the profound sense of gratitude present in the hearts of each of us outgoing students. This program is suffused with a spirit of generosity. Faculty and students mix easily, talk honestly, and work hard not to take themselves too seriously. A visiting professor put it succinctly: “usually people are either really good or really nice — but here they are both.”

If the faculty were priests, and this were a church, we might predict that they will reap rewards for their generosity in heaven. But they are not priests, and this is not a church, and instead of taking confession or quoting answers from religious texts, they have instead stood by us, in their humility, and marveled at the beauty of the questions. It is a privilege just to be here, partaking of something that transcends commerce, and politics, and marketing-speak: the deep words. The ones that matter.

And the rewards these artists and teachers reap in this life, for having faced down the human condition in their own projects, and hung in there with us students through our likely all-too-familiar neuroses, insecurities, doubts, and hopes as we face down our own projects — is the knowledge, all too rarely expressed, that they have changed — not only our writing, but our writing lives — for the better.

If there were a better phrase in English to expres profound gratitude and respect, I would want to use it. But all I can think to say is “thank you” — to the faculty in all genres, to Dean Hayes for believing in this program, and to Shelley, and Tenley, and Colleen, and, formerly, Amber, and all the interns, past and present, who slog heroically behind the scenes to sustain this place where brilliance doesn’t require pretension, where sincerely never lacks toughness — where people set out, with their raincoats and tackle, in search of the deep words. It has been a privilege to travel with you in this vessel for a little while.

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Computers Are a Fad. Poetry Has Been Around for Centuries.

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That’s why I’m keeping my options open. Plus, writing poetry pays so much better than writing software.

My mother, a public school teacher, was explaining last night that her school can’t afford to give her more than one small stack of post-its per year. After all, they can run up to ninety cents per pack.

It never ceases to amaze me how profoundly our culture undervalues the things we need to remain human — like good teachers and good poems. Yet we have always needed them, and always will. So people do it anyway, through almost comic undervaluing.

I guess those moments when a child learns something or a person takes in a poem make it worthwhile. I guess those moments must have been happening continuously for centuries, to carry us through adversity and give hope. If so, the best thing we can do is to keep noticing.

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