bill berko

bnurs504

12 jan 12

i am from rahway, new jersey

               22 miles from the city;  where

               when someone says “the city”

we understand.

first borne boy, to parents too young

                3 more brothers by the time mom

was 26 & our dad was just

two years older.

memories of good times and bad,

               yelling & fighting & playing & laughing;

               catching polywogs & fish at milton lake & keeping them in our garage

till they stunk.

mom saying “be home for lunch.” feeling free,

               not on a leash like most kids today, or

               contained (or protected) like kids today -

restricted.  no,

we were free of helmets & seatbelts

               in our station wagon going to see didi & baba,

 our great-grandparents who came from the old country;

playing punchbug on the way.

i am from a loud new jersey family, yelling at mom to roll the car window down

when she smoked & she got annoyed

& we feigned coughing and gagging

till she did;

& then we got older and stole her virginia slims

 & climbed up on the garage roof; & tried

 to be cool like her, but only coughed & got

disillusioned with our lack of coolness.

mom & dad went to woodstock – i

               said they were young - & i always thought that

               was cool – having parents who went to woodstock;

& finding out

that they weren’t so innocent once when we got older.

but all the peace &

grooviness couldn’t keep them

together.

i am from rahway, where the train tracks divided

the blacks on the east from the whites

on the west. except for mark & lisa, who lived next door.

& highschool where there were no tracks.

we were the quintessential “our gang” & yet i

               remember the words used to describe

               people like them, & jews, & homos & anybody else

not exactly like us.

pious byzantine catholics, not roman.  where

               we had liturgy, not mass & old slavonic to

               their latin & the babushkas making pirohi (roll your “r”)

in the church hall.

i was an alter boy & could recite the hail mary

               & our father in ukrainian; but can now only remember

a few lines.  but i loved, truly loved, the slovak & ukrainian

traditions which bound us. (& the food).

i still love pirohi (roll your “r”), like my mom used to make

               and kovbasa, (although now i get vegetarian)

               which just isn’t the same; but it suffices to

bring me back).

2 weeks after graduation i left for the navy

to see the world & to get away from the fighting

& maybe just maybe to

figure me out.

i am from anguish & secrets & still though a child -

               really - feelings which confused me, & aroused me

& i called them homos;  because there was no fucking way

that was me.

21 years old in the navy, i got married, so afraid

               of being alone; & so young, (so very young)  & one year later

falling in love for the very first time.

no other thoughts,               but him.

love.        truly.          love.      young.     love.

i was in love! crazy love! and divorce followed

estrangement from my family. “don’t ever bring

your friends home,” said my dad & i                                                                                   

didn’t go home.

years later, in love for the last time, and happy.  oh, so happy.

 i reached out; two glasses of wine in me talking to my dad

on cassette, “the living years” as prelude, &

sharing my life and dreams.                                                                                                                   

i mailed it.

days later the phone rang, my dad on the other side – balling.                                                   

               “anyone you love, i will love, too,” he said.

               “bring kurt home.”  & i did. & he did,

love kurt too.