What kept me away from the “confessional school,” as it is called, in terms of my writing were first, my life was not Brahman nor was it noteworthy nor special in any way ethnically nor otherwise. My mother is French Canadian and my dad Irish and French. Though Robert Lowell’s poetry is poetry of a strong poet, unique, his was the last of the white men dominating the literary scene in America. His work is not unique because he is the last. It is so because he took poetry into his own direction that had in its wake admirers and followers. His line from his poem “Eye and Tooth” cautioned me against using my life for writing: “I am tired, everyone’s tired of my turmoil.” I read that with a kind of exaggeration for myself. “Who cares? There are so many lives with problems being born and dying; my life isn’t anything to write about.” I continue to believe that though here I am writing this essay.