The Unmoored Dagger: A look at “on a late drive home…” by Bill Neumire
Dear Theo and Sophi,
You know I’m a writer but you probably haven’t read much of what I’ve written (or edited for that matter). But recently there was a poem we published at T4D (you know the thing I do with my unhinged friend Kate?) by a poet named Bill Neumire. It made me think of you two. The poem is called “On a late drive home, my daughter takes a Harry Potter quiz in the backseat.” I bet you’d have opinions about that title. (It works for me. Doesn’t it feel like a little drive of its own?)
We published the poem a few weeks back in late August. We were getting ready for the school year: Theo, you were beginning your last year of high school; Sophi, you were just about to start high school. It’s been my life’s greatest privilege watching you two grow up, to learn, unlearn, then learn again who you both are/were becoming. That space, between parent and child and evolving identities, is where Neumire’s poem perfectly resides.
When Neumire opens with “I feel the unmoored dagger of her ‘I’ so deeply,” I am struck by the emotional intelligence and accuracy of that line. (Theo, I’m going to do the thing that irritates you and get into some close reading. Stay with me).
Take the word unmoored: of a vessel it means no longer attached, of a person it can mean insecure. It perfectly captures the experience of growing independence amidst adolescence. You both are, slowly and all too quickly for my liking, moving away, growing up. Your mom and I both are unmoored by this, too. Proud, but drifting.
Do you wonder why Neumire chose dagger and not boat? Well, boat would be a bit too obvious right? Think of the dagger, the blade itself like the letter “I,” the whole and hilt of it like a person. It’s a bit playful, a visual pun, but it also complements the Harry Potter world (I mean, wands and daggers are very “fantasy realm”). It also implies danger. If the “I” is a dagger, it can harm (the self, others) as well as help, defend. (Sophi, you’re probably rolling your eyes, thinking you know this already. And because you’re so smart, you probably already do).
“Of what material / is your wand’s core? she asks her little deity,” the daughter in the poem wonders. I love this question. On the surface it’s a Harry Potter reference, but it’s a question she asks herself (who am I?,) and one we parents ask of our children when we give timeouts, when we question you, when we make you do chores, when we hug you, when we laugh and cry with you and over you. What is it that makes you…you? What is your core? Does it “run / in the family” as the doctor in the poem asks?
Whether this is about a diagnosis of some sort, the poem doesn’t specify. I think the mystery of the question enhances the work; so much of parenthood is what we hope for and all the unknowable things of the present and future. What we do know, however, is all these moments build upon one another like LEGO pieces. All these “spells // of self” that occur “right here, right now” are the foundation of who you will become.
Notice how Neumire juxtaposes the “future” with “right here, right now”? Brilliant isn’t it? Time is a character in all our lives but not every poem treats it like so. Neumire understands that (as a parent) time is another partner. The various tenses in the piece makes us fully aware of this.
Both of you have an appreciation for good writing. And lately I have been thinking about what I do with my time. Why poetry in specific, why bother? For me, reading a poem like this, it brings me back to my wand’s core. It brings me to you two, who are the answers to every question worth asking.
What a wonderful drive we’ve had, are having, will have.
Love,
Dad
*This review owes a great debt to Roger Ebert, one of my favorite critics, and his review of E.T. You can read it here.
