The older I get the more it pleases me to see reviews of my work written as a class assignments by undergraduates. It feel good that my poems can still make a connection with someone who has an honest-to-God pulse. Recently, Ken Hada asked one of his students to send an excellent review he had written for a class this summer. I really enjoyed it and asked Aiden if I could share it, and it is with his permission that this post is made. For you who don’t know, my good friend Ken Hada teaches at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma.
Aidan McCallum
HUM 2413
Dr. Hada
7/15/25
The Comic Flaw: On What Was, of What Can Be
Alan Berecka’s first published book of poetry, The Comic Flaw, brings readers through a linguistically beautiful, narratively poignant, yet consistently comedic collection of poems, organized loosely sequentially but chronologically. We watch from the spectator’s booth as Berecka treads a path of reflection starting from his very roots, crossing through the valley of his childhood, and concluding by catching up to himself. The Comic Flaw is a story of facing the past, both its beauty and its terror, as it was, as it is, as it always will be, embracing it, and continuing forward.
The collection is organized so that the reader follows Berecka as he reflects on parts of his life. I previously described this organization as loosely sequential but chronological. I say loosely sequential because, while each poem seems to come after the one before, there are little, if any, direct links between events in one poem and events in another. Each poem is a complete piece that can stand on its own. However, chronologically, the overarching narrative follows Berecka’s life through time. There are a few exceptions throughout, where a poem moves farther back in time than the one that precedes it. These are not misplacements or holes in the chronology, as these exceptions are poems with thematic relevance to those surrounding it. There is no clean way to split this work into parts. The progression is too smooth, too fluid to neatly splice and compartmentalize. This serves to elevate how real The Comic Flaw feels: life isn’t set along a track with specified stops, it simply happens. Berecka is honest about that.
Berecka confronts himself and the world with honesty; he paints the scenes of his life as the truth that it is to him. There is no doubt that the past Berecka depicts is one filled with pain and distress and despair, but it is also a past of joy and fond experience—it is real. And, so, unashamedly, Berecka depicts it as such. There are poems about his father’s alcoholism, about how he and his family react to it and live around it, its constancy in his life. There are poems about grief after loss, grief that changes a person, grief that lays below the surface, simmering, waiting. But in those pictures of the vulgar alcoholic are moments of joy, moments that aren’t all bad, moments that remind you that this is a person who wants, who dreams, who feels. Following after those pits brought upon by grief are glimmers of hope, picked up from the fragments, moments of realization that urge you onward, that lead you to be a better you. Throughout it all, between the highs and lows, are intermissions of everyday activity: family gatherings, moments of observation, focused on your father or sister or mother’s action of the week, discoveries intrinsic to that of the growing youth, questions of religion, of authority, snapshots of discomfort on a hot, crowded bus or in a stifling, all-too-noisy library. Through Berecka’s work we see that in life there is the good; in life there is the bad. But oftentimes, in life, there just is.
A signature characteristic of Berecka and his work is his pervasive sense of humor. Throughout the entire work, weaved throughout and between both the highs and lows of life, Berecka tackles his experience with comedy. Oftentimes he frames his dances with pain in a humorous light, with perfect setups and punchlines to soften the harsh blows that come with confronting reality. He laughs at death. He laughs at life. He laughs at abuse and discomfort and joy and pain—many topics generally handles as serious, those which are taboo to poke fun at—all things core to his life’s experience. This is the comic flaw. If life isn’t funny, if he can’t find humor at his family’s eccentric quirks, if Berecka’s own lived memories can only be regarded with utmost solemnity, in Berecka’s own words: “ …now/that I can’t laugh at my childhood,/what am I supposed to do with it? (53, lines 47-49)” How am I meant to confront myself, let alone reconcile with myself, if I’m not allowed to laugh? This is the question Berecka poses to his critics. This is how he must grapple with these experiences. There is no other way. He is asking this question to himself as well. If I can’t laugh, how else can I cope? Is there another way? How can I find the strength to face it head on, without easing the pain with humor? It’s a beautiful, difficult question: one left unanswered by the collection’s titular poem, one that I have asked myself, one that I haven’t found an answer to.
Though I earlier described the experience as “watching from the spectator’s booth,” while reading The Comic Flaw I could feel myself step forward and tread a similar, faintly mirrored path alongside Berecka’s own. There are many aspects of his life outlined in The Comic Flaw that I find myself resonating with: the well-meaning, vulgar, blue-collared alcoholic of a father, the religious mother and her stifling dogma, the joy of stumbling through a new job, just as you feel you’ve figured it out, a great loss, felt just at the threshold between man and boy, a faith questioned, a faith lost. I felt a connection to the words I read. I felt seen. However, it is only to that point of the tale that I can relate. I have yet to complete my education. I am far from becoming a parent, if at all. I am not at a point where I can look back on my life as he has. My path stopped short, held back by the natural order of time. From where I stand, I must continue paving my path. Far ahead, he is doing the same. Time will tell how much more our paths might converge—with eerily similar scenes lining the scenery—or diverge—as many walks of life tend to do—or simply run parallel to each other—grazing edges just enough that a cursory glance might perceive them as one. But no matter what shape my path may take, I am very glad to have experienced The Comic Flaw, and I am grateful for the moments of reflection it has provided.
References
Berecka, Alan. The Comic Flaw. Neonuma Arts. 53, lines 47-49.