I’ve been a Roosevelt Rough Rider, a
Lincoln Lion, who’d mock a Hawk, a Gull,
a (what-the-hey?) Corn Cobber; and fellow
Christian college deigns to be Blue Demons—
what St Vincent has to do with demons,
you tell me! I was one, and wasn’t blue….
As coach, the mascot takes another role.
I’m Falcon now—a falconer, re: Yeats,
Achebe, and any dad who calls in faith
for fledgling pride to settle self: to fly—
by instinct, anyway—and then surmise
a flight’s surcease. A prospector for gold
in Hawley, Minnesota—go figure!
A Turkmen apparatchik in Lenin’s name,
nineteen-ninety-three, turned logically (as
any name seeks roots) to Maktumkuli:
I taught with nondescript but conscious zeal.
the lap-it-up, lapis lazuli students
in my class learned what they would, in any name,
and waved my paltry leadership away.
As should be. We’re myriad mascots’ bishops’
pawns, we’re what we’re predetermined to be.
But here is where I’d like to see responses
back—how was it as a Mahnomen Indian,
a Blues Brothers stump to Chief Illini,
a Pioneer, a Gopher (Uncle Greg),
whatever we were: how did that costume feel?
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