Iowa City without Frank Conroy.
This, I cannot imagine.
As a young, undergraduate writer at the University of Iowa, I skittered away from Frank Conroy in the hallway. I skittered away from just about everyone I respected back then, unsure how to speak or act.
Five years and one MFA in Creative Writing later: no more fear.
Frank was like the Sears Tower of Iowa City. Everywhere I looked, I saw him. Not the literal him, but the mark he left: workshops at the local cafes aspired to his toughness; the aesthetic of the Iowa Workshop suited his tastes. But just like the tower, Frank - the man, the teacher - always seemed just beyond reachable distance.
When I left Iowa City, I needed that distance. I needed to explore other aesthetics and map out my own territory. Lately, I find myself wanting to return for the summer workshops and see how it all looks from the outside.
Iowa City without Frank Conroy.
In my mind, I always equated the place with the man: Iowa City was Frank Conroy; Frank Conroy was Iowa City. (Iowa City = Iowa Workshop = Frank Conroy) When I first read of his death, I imagined the city erased from Iowa maps. Not the literal place, but the place as I knew it, the city I left behind.