Willie Boy

Adam Falkner

 

final draft//

This is the poem I will not write.
The one where I am in fifth grade, wrestling
in a brush pile of dead leaves with a now-dead
friend where we paw the hardening knots
in each others gym shorts and laugh and writhe
and squirm until the leaf pile is no longer a pile
at all but a kicked-in hive of tiny heaving
lungs; the soft stink of new sweat and rotting wood.
Where eight girlfriends and a dissertation later
I wake up in a new city with new friends
who remind me of my father – who drinks too much
but loves like a cannon.  Where I look at men
with chiseled jaws on loud trains in new ways, or
rather, old ways but with less at stake. Wonder
if they ever look at me for a second too-long, too;
if the flexed tricept peaking from under my
own black tee shirt make them dance their eyes
into pretend reading material, too.  Where I freeze
snapshots of beautiful strangers, pin them up
in the high-ceilinged hallways inside me near the
faces of everyone who knows me by a different city
and a different version of my father, none of which
are of the Christmas he got loaded and started
yelling about how gay people give him the willies ,
rooted from “Willie-boy,” meaning sissy – a name
I’ve tried fighting and drinking and fucking away from
since sixth grade. And even still, this, trembling
knees and smoke screens, is the poem I will not write.  
This Willie Boy. Sissy. About piles of leaves.
Or friends. Or fathers. How it raises its hand
and draws a blank, swells its chest and coughs
up soot – curls its fists but slinks away into the dark.  

 

// second draft

This, finally, the poem I will not write. 

The one where I am in fifth grade, wrestling 

in a brush pile of dead leaves with a now-dead 

friend where we paw the hardening knots 

in each other’s gym shorts and laugh and writhe

and squirm until the leaf pile is no longer a pile 

at all but a kicked-in hive of tiny heaving 

lungs; the soft stink of new sweat and rotting wood. 

Where eight girlfriends and a dissertation later

I wake up in a new city with new friends 

who remind me of my father, who drinks too much 

but loves like a cannon. Where I look at men 

with chiseled jaws on loud trains in new ways, or 

rather, old ways but with less at stake. Wonder 

if they ever look at me for a second too long, too;

if the flexed tricept peaking out from under my

own black tee shirt make them dance their eyes 

into a meaningless email, too. Where I freeze 

snapshots of beautiful strangers, pin them up 

in the high-ceilinged hallways inside me near the  

faces of everyone who knows me by a different city 

and a different story I tell about my father, 

none of which are of the Christmas he got loaded 

and started yelling about how gay people 

give him the willies – a term, I’d later learn, 

originated as “Willie-boy,” meaning sissy, a name 

I have flash-mouthed and drank myself away from 

since fifth grade. And even still, this, the poem I will not 

write.  This poem is a Willie Boy. A sissy. Trembling 

knees and smoke screen special. A poem about 

leaf piles.  Or fathers.  Raises it’s hand and draws 

a blank, swells it’s chest and coughs up soot – 

or, remembers how much it loves the strange city 

it lives in.  How it is not ready to find a new home.  

first draft //

 

This, finally, the poem our hero will not write. 

The one where he is in fifth grade, wrestling 

in a brush pile of dead leaves with a now dead 

friend where they paw the hardening knots 

in each others gym shorts and laugh and writhe

and squirm until the leaf pile is no longer a pile 

at all but a kicked-in hive of tiny heaving 

lungs; the soft stink of sweat and rotting wood. 

Where eight girlfriends and a dissertation later

he wakes up in a new city with new friends 

who remind him of his father, who drinks too much 

but loves like a cannon.  Where he looks at men 

with chiseled jaws on loud trains in new ways, or 

rather old ways but with less at stake, wonders  

if they ever look at him for a second too long, too;

if the flexed triceps peaking out from under his

own black tee shirt make them dance their eyes 

into a meaningless email, too.  Where he freezes 

snapshots of beautiful strangers, pins them up 

in the high-ceilinged hallways inside him near the  

faces of everyone who knows him by a different city 

and a different story he tells about his father, 

none of which are of the Christmas he got loaded 

and started yelling about how gay people 

give him the willies – a term he’ll later would later learn

originated as “Willie-boy,” meaning sissy, a name 

he has flash-mouthed and drank himself away from 

since fifth grade. And even this, still, the poem he will not 

write. One that raises it’s hand and draws 

a blank, swells it’s chest and coughs up grey grit – 

or, remembers how much it loves the strange city 

it lives in.  How it is not ready to find a new home.

    

 

Adam's Commentary

In some ways, it felt strange selecting "Willie Boy" as the poem to place on the chopping block that is this vulnerable (and inspiring) publication format.  It is a deeply personal poem.  In other ways, it seemed like the perfect choice.  It is at once a poem ABOUT process -- the process of coming out, moving cities and growing up, forgiving family and self -- and one that seems to be constantly IN process, and has undergone a number of edits and iterations before moving into the world in any substantial way. For these serendipitous reasons, it seems like a fun choice to include here. 

When I first started writing this piece four or five years ago (in long hand, which sadly I couldn't recover for these purposes), I really wanted to tell the singular story of "Willie Boy," a term I remember hearing my father use to describe his prejudice and discomfort toward gay people.  The piece evolved, I think, out of a humanizing recognition that in order for me to name that prejudice in him, I also needed to name it in myself.  I needed to consider how his angst about gay people -- men in particular -- transferred to me and manifested in my own inability to come out as gay, to outwardly stake a claim in and want for gay community and companionship as a young man.  And I think the evolution of the poem captures that. 

First, I wrote it in the third person. Then, I wrote it in the second.  Then eventually, it became clear that the poem was hiding, quite intentionally, behind enough "smoke and mirrors" as was -- and ultimately, after some really careful and critical editing from my dear editor and colleague and homie, the incomparable Jeanann Verlee, it became clear that the poem needed to plant its feet squarely in the first person. Jeanann's edit's helped push this piece in some really important ways, and also helped me see the value of it's "smoke and mirrors" as being in some ways the main heat of the poem, to not completely abandon the ambiguity and fear that felt so honest. 

To be completely honest, I'm still not convinced that this poem has found its real legs yet.  I like the way it moves, and it like the muscle it builds as it goes on, and in that, the stories that unfold.  I'm also challenged by the way this poem seems to want be afraid of itself toward the end, almost tries to "undo" what it has worked so hard to say during its first 30 or so lines, because that process very closely mirrors what it felt like for me to embrace my queerness as a young man -- as though even when I was naming it, I wanted to do so in a particular way or to a particular section of my life that could somehow allow me to at once claim and not claim, prove citizen and exception.  That said, I'm happy with where it is for the time being, and am honored to be able to provide such a rare and unique glance into its development.  

Adam Falkner is the Founder and Executive Director of the Dialogue Arts Project, and a Zankel Fellow at Columbia University’s Teachers College, where he is a PhD candidate in the English Education program. Twice-nominated for a Pushcart Prize, his poems have recently appeared in Painted Bride Quarterly, Thrush Poetry Journal, Brooklyn Rail, The New York Times, and elsewhere. He currently teaches in the Sociology and Education programs at Vassar College and Columbia University.