“I join the lake // I
slip in // a quieter echo” – Alanna F. Bondar
We’ve
lost a poet, a teacher, and a friend to the arts.
I can’t remember the first time I met Alanna F. Bondar but think it may have been in 1997 at Maria’s Fireball Coffee and Arts House in Sault Ste. Marie. There were many conversations about books and writers, and I learned a great deal from her. The first quality I remember admiring about Alanna (and there was much to admire) was her openness, her ability to engender a feeling of familiarity. Alanna was working toward her PhD at Memorial University in those days. When in town, she was always open for a chat over tea or on the phone. It was Alanna who introduced me to Don McKay’s poetry.
I can’t remember the first time I met Alanna F. Bondar but think it may have been in 1997 at Maria’s Fireball Coffee and Arts House in Sault Ste. Marie. There were many conversations about books and writers, and I learned a great deal from her. The first quality I remember admiring about Alanna (and there was much to admire) was her openness, her ability to engender a feeling of familiarity. Alanna was working toward her PhD at Memorial University in those days. When in town, she was always open for a chat over tea or on the phone. It was Alanna who introduced me to Don McKay’s poetry.
Now that
I think about it, we may have met at a reading at Algoma University organized by Karl Jirgens. I do remember several readings Alanna gave at those events.
I remember listening with admiration.
Some
years later, Alanna kindly read at the Alt-Shift performance series Maria and I
organized through the Art Gallery of Algoma. Alanna had the audience entranced with a piece about a
cockroach. When we collaborated with Lake Superior
State University for a reading in Sault, Michigan, Alanna was there too. I still have
the poster from that event (with Alanna’s name misspelled).
We grew
up in the same city, with only a few months between us. We may have met in high
school, had mutual friends. I remember her shock upon learning of the difference
in our ages. “Don’t tell me I am older than you,” she said. From then on, I referred
to her as my nerdy older sister, which she didn’t seem to mind.
I
realize now I don’t remember when I met Alanna; it’s like I’ve always known her.
In the
early 2000s, I was fortunate to be in her Modernist Poetry class at Algoma
University. She was still working on that PhD, a pursuit she enriched by
waitressing tables, travelling the world, reading, and writing. Of that Modernists
class, I recall three things most clearly: Alanna’s bill bissett imitation; the generous
critiques and corrections she made to my essays, which rank among the most
useful writing advice I’ve ever received; and the concern she had for her
students. It was clear even then, in the early days of her teaching life, that Alanna loved the classroom, loved her students, and was invested in our
success and development.
In 2011,
Alanna’s first book there
are many ways to die while travelling in Peru (Scrivener Press) was
published. It’s an extraordinary book: challenging, infuriating, lyrical, and
wonderful. I spent a good part of last night rereading it. The inscription brought me to tears: “So wonderful to be a part of these events with
you. Thank you for your voice, and for sharing it – A.” It's a classic Alanna
encouragement. There, at the delayed launch for her book (she had been too weak
to give readings the previous year), Alanna was encouraging others to share
their voices. I will always cherish her reading at the Art Gallery of Sudbury
in 2012 and at the massive celebration held for her at the Art Gallery of
Algoma the following year.
I wish I’d
been a better friend, that we’d spent more time together, that I’d called her
up or invited her over more often. Life can dictate its trajectory.
All I can say at this sad time is: Thank you, Alanna. I love you. I miss you.
Well said. She gave so much to everyone she met. This brought me to tears, thank you for sharing. She will always be missed.
ReplyDelete