Samuel F. Pickering, Jr.,"Speakeasy"
in: Virginia Quarterly Review, vol. 67, 4/1991, p. 722 - 745
In selbstironischer und teilweise witziger Manier setzt sich der Autor mit dem plötzlichen Ruhm auseinander, der ihm als "teacher who inspired Dead Poets Society" völlig unerwartet zuteil wurde. Fernsehinterviews und Einladungen zu Reden an Schulen und Universitäten nehmen nach dem Erfolg des Filmes einen breiten Raum in seinem Leben ein. Der Keating des Filmes ist heute Englischprofessor in Connecticut; der Verfasser des Drehbuches, Tom Schulman, ist einer seiner ehemaligen Schüler. Von dem sehr langen Aufsatz erscgeint hier nur der Anfangspassus.
Waiting for me each August when Vicki and the children and I return to
Storrs from Nova Scotia is a bag of mail. Because I had been identified
as the inspiration for the John Keating character in the movie Dead Poets
Society, the mail was more colorful than usual when we returned in August
1989. From Florida a cousin sent a clipping from his local paper. Under
"Names and Faces" appeared three people: Dan Quayle to the left,
Billy Graham to the right, and in the middle, me. "Praise God, teaching,
and the Republican Party," Vicki said when she looked at the pictures.
From Indiana a man wrote and described the death of his only son from
leukemia, after which he concluded, "May the good Lord continue to
bless you and yours and wrap his arms around each of you and give you
good health!" A woman who babysat me when I was young said that her
children saw her "in a different light" after learning that
she knew me. "Their old dull predictable Mother and Grandmother knew
somebody of importance," she wrote; "I want to thank you for
the pedestal they put me on, if only for a brief time." From Missouri
a boy sent cards to be autographed for Judy, Jason, and Kelly. After asking
my favorite hobbies, he ended, saying, "I hope that you are living
your life to its fullest and are enjoying personal prosperity."
Living life to the fullest, seizing the day and gathering rosebuds as
John Keating put it in Dead Poets Society, is all right for children,
most of whom know little about flowers, daffodils, or roses, much less
skunk cabbage. Keating's prescription for living, however, would not do
for me. I am too old to live anywhere near the fullest; and if I tried
to seize but an hour, I would be swept away by a cardiovascular storm,
carried off to that land where there is no night or day, only eternity,
and where all the roses are white lilies. Still, as I held the mail, I
thought that someone, if not the Lord, had wrapped his arms around my
family, giving Vicki and the children good health. For that and for the
letters themselves I was thankful. Although they occasionally upset me,
the letters enriched the day, and reading them resembled reading a collection
of stories, not a collection contrived to educate or reflect social need,
but an honest collection, filled with voices, humane and true. Of course
not all my correspondents were genial or even pleasant. Not realizing
that "personal prosperity" had eluded generations of Pickerings
and assuming that I had financial connections with Dead Poets Society
and as a result had a bundle of cash in hand, they sent letters bristling
with chaffy anger. From Canada "The Poorest-Humblest-Divine Magistrate
King of All Mankind" or, as he also called himself "The Supreme
Ruler of the Sacred Planet Earth" sent a four-page, photocopied letter.
"O You Intellectually and Morally Dishonest Thug of Humanity,"
the Ruler began mildly before working himself into the warm spirit of
criticism and accusing me of being a degenerated, dehumanized product
of "alcoholics, prostitutes, whores, homosexuals, lesbians, satans,
sinners, and power-hungry criminals." Eventually the Ruler demanded
that I hand over all my worldly goods to him to be distributed "amongst
the poorest of this Sacred Planet Spaceship Earth."
The day after reading the mail I walked to my favorite August spot in
Storrs: the rough land surrounding Unnamed Pond, just off Route 195 near
the campus police station. As I walked I forgot not only the mail but
also my talk for convocation. Earlier in the summer the university asked
me to give the traditional speech welcoming freshmen and setting the mood
for the new school year. Being invited to give the talk disturbed me.
Last year's speaker had won a Nobel prize, and I was asked to speak, not
because I had achieved anything significant, but because of my identification
with Dead Poets Society. Convocation was two weeks...
Reprinted with permission.
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