Selective Memory of History

Dear Mr. Quinn
wherever you are. I'm
sorry I accused you of
antisemitism back in 1952.

I know I was only in your
class for six months,
but it was an adventuresome time.
You only found out because
Mike Markowitz, my supposed friend,
betrayed me.

I wasn't used to the idea of
betrayal in the sixth grade
and I didn't know
what to do with it.

It's true I was mad at you
for not letting me attend
the Washington Senators game
with the other safety patrols.

But you made me the chairman
of the paper collection committee.
You were rid of me as
I sat in that little shed in the back;
but you gave me the gift of being boss.

I started to feel for you
when my parents and I
discovered that you worked
for that gas station on Saturdays.
Dimly, I felt you must have
a lot on your mind.