Footnote
It was April 1998, and I was talking on the phone with my friend, Anne. She was passing on the latest international news unfolding in her county. The Berkshire Eagle reported that Philip Roth had persuaded my alma mater, Simon's Rock, to offer a teaching job to a writer and chemist named Emmanuel Dongala. He had fled the bloodbath in Congo, but his family was still being detained there. It wasn't clear if they'd be allowed to leave the country and join him in America.
I was living in Washington at the time, reporting on the arts and culture for NPR. On April 22, Bill and Hillary Clinton invited dozens of the country's most eminent poets to the White House for an unprecedented gala celebration of American letters. Afterwards, I stood in the reception line behind William Styron, who had spent the previous summer sailing with Clinton on Martha's Vineyard. They had become very close. The first thing out of Clinton's mouth was a heartfelt "I miss you," delivered with his trademark soulfulness. Then Clinton wanted to catch up on what each of them was reading, but Styron cut him off. "Mr. President," he began, sounding grave. He then leaned closer and lowered his voice. The words that seeped through were "Philip Roth," "Congo" and "Dongala." Clinton grabbed him on the shoulder and said "Sure, I'll take care of it." Within days, Emmanuel Dongala was reunited with his family.
Long after Hillary went up to bed, Bill Clinton hung around and talked with his guests, mesmerizing them with stories of Nelson Mandela and his hopes for peace in Northern Ireland. The poets encircled him and listened in silence, occasionally asking questions, several of them saying later that he made them feel as though they mattered. In the early morning hours, his aides told him it was time to go, and the party scattered. I remember the stunned, wide-open eyes of former poet laureate Robert Hass as he walked down the White House steps, muttering "What the hell just happened?" And there was the woman whose name I didn't catch but who looked like a young Leticia Baldridge, looking into the future and proclaiming that we will never again have a president with an intelligence like this.
I was living in Washington at the time, reporting on the arts and culture for NPR. On April 22, Bill and Hillary Clinton invited dozens of the country's most eminent poets to the White House for an unprecedented gala celebration of American letters. Afterwards, I stood in the reception line behind William Styron, who had spent the previous summer sailing with Clinton on Martha's Vineyard. They had become very close. The first thing out of Clinton's mouth was a heartfelt "I miss you," delivered with his trademark soulfulness. Then Clinton wanted to catch up on what each of them was reading, but Styron cut him off. "Mr. President," he began, sounding grave. He then leaned closer and lowered his voice. The words that seeped through were "Philip Roth," "Congo" and "Dongala." Clinton grabbed him on the shoulder and said "Sure, I'll take care of it." Within days, Emmanuel Dongala was reunited with his family.
Long after Hillary went up to bed, Bill Clinton hung around and talked with his guests, mesmerizing them with stories of Nelson Mandela and his hopes for peace in Northern Ireland. The poets encircled him and listened in silence, occasionally asking questions, several of them saying later that he made them feel as though they mattered. In the early morning hours, his aides told him it was time to go, and the party scattered. I remember the stunned, wide-open eyes of former poet laureate Robert Hass as he walked down the White House steps, muttering "What the hell just happened?" And there was the woman whose name I didn't catch but who looked like a young Leticia Baldridge, looking into the future and proclaiming that we will never again have a president with an intelligence like this.
posted by DO at 9:35 AM
1 Comments:
That's a great story, Dean.
I learned in a crossword recently that Bush is a fan of Hop on Pop. Not quite an appreciation for poetry, is it?
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