"THE SWEETNESS OF BOBBY HEFKA"
From What Work Is
Poet from page 98
says the poet, whose driv-
ing years put him behind
the wheels of a Kaiser,
Pontiac, Ford and foreign
cars.
"I doubt that the jobs
require so much physi-
cal energy and believe
they require more mental
energy.
"It seems that there is
very little security. Working
for the great corporations
in the 1940s and 1950s,
we had no idea the jobs
wouldn't last forever. It
was like getting tenure
at Harvard; you couldn't
imagine that you would
ever have to leave except
out of preference for some-
thing better."
It doesn't seem as if
Levine could find a better
occupation for himself than
writing poetry.
"I'm very glad I became
a poet',' he says. "Poetry has
been very generous to me,
and I'm very glad I became
the poet of Detroit.
"I loved the city when
I grew up there. It was a
place of adventure, mystery
and magic, and I found it
welcoming.
"Although there were
things about it that I dis-
liked thoroughly — it was,
after all, a very anti-Semitic
city with Father Coughlin
out there — it was a city
that inspired me and in
which I met a fabulous
variety of people. I owe it a
good deal of my poetic life."
As that life comes to spe-
cial attention with the poet
laureate designation, Levine
welcomes his upcoming
speaking/reading engage-
ments and thinks about
what they mean for his
tenure.
"As I prepare to read
for the AFL-CIO, I've been
thinking about some of
the unions located in other
places and wondering if
they would be interested
in presenting poetry," says
Levine, knowing that his
predecessors have taken on
projects to broaden poetry
audiences.
"That's a very appeal-
ing idea, and I wouldn't
charge. I would give that to
the labor unions, who have
done so much for America's
working people." P.
What do you make of little Bobby Hefka
in the 11th grade admitting to Mr. Jaslow
that he was a racist and if Mr. Jaslow
was so tolerant how come he couldn't
tolerate Bobby? The class was stunned.
"How do you feel about the Jews?"
asked my brother Eddie, menacingly.
"Oh, come on, Eddie," Bobby said,
"I thought we were friends." Mr. Jaslow
banged the desk to regain control.
"What is it about Negroes you do not like?"
he asked in his most rational voice,
which always failed to hide the fact
he was crazy as a bed bug, claiming
Capek's RUR was far greater than Macbeth.
Bobby was silent for a long minute, thinking.
"Negroes frighten me," he finally said,
"they frighten my mother and father who never
saw them in Finland, they scare my brother
who's much bigger than me." Then he added
the one name, Joe Louis, who had been
busy cutting down black and white men
no matter what their size. Mr. Jaslow
sighed with compassion. We knew that
before the class ended he'd be telling us
a great era for men and women was imminent
if only we could cross the threshold
into humanitarianism, into the ideals
of G. B. Shaw, Karel Capek, and Mr. Jaslow.
I looked across the room to where Bobby
sat in the back row next to the windows.
He was still awake, his blue eyes wide.
Beyond him the dark clouds of 1945
were clustering over Linwood, the smokestack
of the power plant gave its worst
to a low sky. Lacking the patience to wait
for combat, Johnny Mooradian had quit school
a year before, and Johnny was dead on an atoll
without a name. Bobby Hefka had told the truth
- to his own shame and pride - and the rains
came on. Nothing had changed for a roomful
of 17 year olds more scared of life than death.
The last time I saw Bobby Hefka he was driving
a milk truck for Dairy Cream, he was married,
he had a little girl, he still dreamed
of going to medical school. He listened
in sorrow to what had become of me. He handed
me an icy quart bottle of milk, a gift
we both held on to for a silent moment
while the great city roared around us, the trucks
honking and racing their engines to make him move.
His eyes were wide open. Bobby Hefka loved me.
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September 22 • 2011
99