Higher Than Thou

Kalamazoo College, a self-proclaimed “institute of higher learning,” hosted Bob Hicok on Wednesday, an award-winning poet from Michigan. The evening began with Hicok’s introduction by faculty member, Glenn Deutsch, who heavy-handedly emphasized Hicok’s blue-collarness, trying to tell the story of a man who made himself with his own talent. It appeared as if the college, or maybe more fairly the English department faculty, was showing how cool it was (especially as writers) by being self-deprecating. That kind of narcissistic amusement with one’s own advantage was thankfully not also a part of Hicok’s touching reading of his work.

His first poem of the evening, “life,” instantly dove deep into a skepticism of a world that pushes for higher forms of participation in structure, and Hicok voiced clear dissatisfaction in what requires “rededicating [him]self to gestures.” Yet he avoided sounding cynical and it was easy to listen and to feel the movement, the shifting of authority, of authenticity, from the “institution of higher learning” to the Hicok’s personal and individual experience.

His messages were clear, the mood and tone set in every poem and in every pause in between. After his second poem, the insomnia inspired “Busy day of my Nights” he gripped the podium and admitted, “I hate poetry readings.” The presentation was touching, emotive, and funny—he filled the space mostly with comments about filling the space so that nervous giggles were suddenly soothing, expected, and part of the experience.

All his poems, all that was his presence—gestures, diction, humility, created a feeling of being witness to and living with and through him the true and relatable human experiences he described. The relevance of his work made the introduction perhaps more discomforting, with its unnecessary emphasis on the differences between reader/poet and listeners. Why we connect those who can pair clarity and humanity with blue-collar, self-education, is where a true lack of sophistication and a form of emotional immaturity lies. But, thanks to Hicok’s oozing sincerity, this disappointment mostly vanished by the time the last poem, “A Primer,” an ode to place and Michigan, was read. It is a testament to the English department, despite the crude and objectionable posturing, that the Kalamazoo community had a space for Hicok to come and to personally share his powerful considerations of life with emotional and intellectual authenticity.