You cannot love both me and Ezra Pound

I knew it would never work. Deep down, I knew. Because of Pound. I made it my business to know who all the Anti-Semites were in art, music, literature and the like. I was like a one woman Red Scare, except I was hunting people who don't like Jews, not Communists. As a child I wanted to be Ann Frank. Or rather, I wanted to play Ann Frank, in an original production, written by me of course, that would include "Somewhere" from West Side Story. Yes, Ann Frank the musical. My fourth grade English teacher politely advised against it.

Walt Disney
Ezra Pound
Charles Lindbergh
Martin Luther
Henry Ford

The list goes on, at least according to google. But back then, there was no google, and this information was hard to come by. It was passed with the salt and gefilte fish. Dropped like alka seltzer into conversations of adults that I eavesdropped on. Pop, pop. Fizz, fizz.

So when a man I liked in college, (I was in college, he was in Baltimore) who was courting me through letters and poems, declared his love for Ezra Pound, I should have run in the other direction. He loved ampersands (and apparently still does),played in a well known rock band and was considerably older than me.

He was very concerned that he couldn't take me to his neighborhood bar. And being a "writer" who loved "Pound" his neighborhood bar was critical to the formation and maintenence of his delicate psyche. I was 20. "I have an id", I whispered over the phone as snow piled up outside my window. "Oh, God" he said dramatically,"a fake id?"

I went to Baltimore nonetheless. Against my better judgement (where was my mother?) I got on an Amtrak train over Christmas break, from New York City to D.C., to spend a few days with ampersand guy.

When we got to his house and I dropped my stuff on the futon in the loft outside his bedroom he raised an eyebrow. Then I raised an eyebrow. I expected him to offer to sleep on the futon. He was expecting some other arrangement.

What ensued was a quasi-comedic unraveling of this poetry based relationship, starting with Ethiopian food, ending with me hiding out at a girlfriends parents' house in suburban Maryland.

What could be less poetic than eating Ethiopian food on a first date. When you're 20. At thirty five I will happily eat Ethiopian food in front of anyone. I am married to a beautiful man whom I love and I am comfortable in my skin. Back then I wanted all boys to think I wore no makeup ("oh that? My lips are naturally berry-crush"), looked perfect first thing in the morning, and never went to the bathroom.


In this day and age you cannot escape anyone. If you have the slightest curiosity about a person who was a part of your life in some capacity you can find them on the internet. And their spouses. And children. Whether it's ampersand guy or your high school English teacher.

I feel as though this is both good and bad. Good in a way, for compulsive memoirists like myself. But also bad for us. There is less liberty we can take with these stories. Though I can't imagine the ampersand guy would particularly care if I re-wrote a few details of our short, strange story.

I was a bit of a groupie I will admit. I loved that he was in a band. And even though this visit was going badly, not just awkwardly but badly, I stayed long enough to accompany him to a show at a DC club. We walked the ten or so blocks from the train in silence. When we got our names checked off the guest list he went straight for the 21 and over VIP section and began drinking scotch. I drank diet coke with a girlfriend and shot irritated glances at him as often as I could make eye contact.

By the time the show was over he was hammered. My girlfriend drove us back to his house in her VW Rabbit, and he spent the entire ride hitting on her. When we pulled up to his place, he climbed into the front seat and kissed her cheek, half falling onto the icy sidewalk.

I went home with my friend that night, wondering what could have gone so wrong. I was usually a pretty good judge of character. "Serves me right," I thought. "Pound." There are signs, there is writing on the wall.

Weeks later I called him, snowed in and bored. "What happened?" I asked, thinking of all the lyrical poems, letters and ampersands. "Truth be told, Cameron," he said, "I really don't give a damn." Maybe it was less Rhett Butler. I can't remember now. But what I do remember was the "truth be told." It was so colloquial. So average. So unlike the dramatic vocabulary of his written self. But really, what did I know? I was only 20 after all.