Golf Hippies make the Best Hippies

Reflections on how politics kills creativity.

I lived in a warehouse in Tallahassee in a place called Railroad Square, an arts district that sadly is breathing its final breaths. Technically we weren’t supposed to “live” there, but I did with my cat, Sarah, and large white dog, Asha, the Maremma. The living quarters in my warehouse studio was air conditioned with a window unit. The rest of the building was too open for AC, and it got plenty hot during the Florida summers. I frequented coffee shops during the day to read, write, and doodle. I also would grade stacks of freshmen essays, being an adjunct English instructor at Tallahassee Community College. Mid-afternoon was best because there weren’t as many customers, and I had a bit of privacy.

Some friends of mine owned the Om Cafe. I liked the idea of patronizing my friends’ establishment, and it was a pretty cool place to hang out. I was never crazy about the name of the place. Om is the most sacred mantra to certain religious people. I get that they wanted the place to be imbued with the spirit of Om oneness cool and for the environment to be one of peace, harmony, and understanding (with bass), but it was also a night club. I guess Om reverberates through everything. Who am I to say? My hangup, not theirs. They had good food and music. I liked them and the people who enjoyed their cafe.

One particular afternoon, I got there kind of late and lost track of time, and the bar crowd started rolling in while I was still grading essays. I was the cool adjunct English instructor grading essays at the bar. One student rated me highly on rate your professor and called me “kind of a hippie.” Another student referred to me as “Captain, My Captain.” One young man pulled up next to me in traffic and shouted that I was the reason that he passed English and got his degree. That one I cherish in particular. I reckon I was a hippie of sorts. I lived in a warehouse. I came to class with paint all over my clothes. I intentionally challenged students to see things through different lenses and consider different experiences. I was kind of proud being considered “kind of a hippie.”

There was a clean cut young man in one of my classes. He wore polo shirts and khakis to class. His hair was short. He had the look of a guy that many folks of my ilk earlier in life would have called a frat boy (but not too much earlier when I was a frat boy). He was also incredibly bright and thoughtful, and he wrote very well. He held some different views than my own, but he was never offended. When asked, he stated his views without anger or provocation. He even would go as far as to compare or even concede certain points. I was reading one of his essays at the Om Cafe bar. The essay was about golf. “Golf” was right there in the title.

A young woman, who was far more hip than I, sat next to me at the bar. She decided to tee off on my teaching. “You let your students write about golf?” My first response was that I let my students write about anything that they choose to write about it. She cut me off. “If I was teaching,” she continued, “I would teach them about exploring life and learning about who they are and how broken the system is, and…” But, wait I was teaching all of those things. “I would teach them about Truth, man.” Well, that shit is problematic. But, I am Captain, My Captain. “You should be challenging them to think, man. There is so much you could do with that class.” This went on for about as long as it took me to realize that she wasn’t going to listen to anything that I had to say. It was a one way conversation, and there wasn’t much about it that seemed particularly enlightening. I gathered my things and left. Sometimes I wonder if she told stories about putting me in my place. Sometimes I wonder if she had experiences that would make her reconsider her actions that day. Who am I to say? She might have forgotten all about me before I made the door.

The essay on golf was one of the best essays that I read during my three years of teaching as an adjunct at Tallahassee Community College. This young man very elegantly and coherently explained that for all of the pomp and circumstance and ugly pants (my words, not his) that there was this pure experience that allowed him to escape everything, be outside, and meditate. He described the act of golfing as a surfer would describe catching a wave. He explained how sometimes all of the practice and work and all of the mechanics of the swing come into synch in a perfect moment that he likened to zen.* Furthermore, he wrote about how those perfect moments were few and far between and how you had to learn to be at peace with imperfection until you got another perfect one.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

I wish that I could have shared that with the young hip woman at the bar. I am saddened that she and I couldn’t have learned a few things from each other (and no I am not talking sexual stuff). I am sure that she had a lot to teach me and tell me about if she had listened long enough to understand that what she was telling me wasn’t necessary. I wished that she and I could have together appreciated that this young man who we both saw as “Other” was describing a spiritual experience that we both mistakenly associated with a different sect of people and a different look. But, it’s not about a look, now is it? I wish that I could have explained that when I am at my very best I am open to ideas and experiences and people seem beautiful, and I feel beautiful and loved. I wish that I could have explained that many times in my life instead of my best, I have been a complete jerk, that I have been mean and angry and shitty and petty in a thousand different ways. But, my fairway bodhisattva just taught me that there will be perfect moments, and I need to forgive myself for the imperfections in between.

These formal and informal groups in which we associate and ideals that we espouse, they shouldn’t define us. When they do, our voices become shrill and our actions become hollow. They rob us of our creativity, our humanity, our compassion, and our understanding. Red hats and blue hats are no different than Red Sox and White Sox. They are just teams to which we think we belong. This world is full of narcissistic gurus and unhealthy vegetarians, country club saints and frat boy geniuses. There are good cops and bad cops and all that’s in between. There are inept doctors and life-saving diesel mechanics. None of this has anything to do with me. My best moments as a teacher have come when I have been humble enough to learn something from my students. My best moments as a human being have been when I listen and when I am at peace with everything just as it is. I want more moments like that in my life, and I want to spend those moments with people who I love (and my small grey dog, Woody).

*Later in life, I took up golf (somewhat influenced by the aforementioned freshman comp essay). A friend of mine taught me how to play, and we played frequently. He was an English Professor at my current university. He told me that his son had once described the perfect shot as a “little piece of zen.” He was proud of that. It gave me a little smile, too.

Gunga galunga