James Ragan – the “Czechoslovak” US poet who spends every summer at Václav Havel’s old flat
James Ragan is a US poet, screenwriter, playwright and teacher with extremely strong Czechoslovak ties. Indeed some of his siblings were born in Eastern Slovakia before his parents decided during the Depression to build new lives in Pittsburgh. Ragan began visiting Communist Czechoslovakia as a teenager and in recent decades – inspired by a meeting with Václav Havel – the writer has been a visiting professor at Prague’s Charles University every summer.
“We always spoke only Slovak at home, even until my parents passed away. They spoke broken English but we always spoke Slovak. It was a great gift because from there I learned about five other languages, easier than most.
“I remember even beginning to write in Slovak and then realising that nobody was there to read it. So I began to learn my English!
“One thing I always say is that there was so much prejudice at the time toward anyone with a foreign language. So I remember being in a lot of fights as a child. Then I began to learn English.”
In your household was there a great interest in all things Czechoslovak?
“Yes. We had books and music – Smetana, Dvorák. And so many poetry books.”
I guess your parents and your whole family must have followed quite closely the war and the accession of the Communists?
“Exactly. As a matter of fact I was the first one to come back here, as a 16-year-old. I received a Fulbright fellowship to Europe and while I was here… I had told me parents, I want to go back into the villages.”
What year was that?
“1962. The invasion in 1968 hadn’t happened yet.”
How were you received as a young American?
“First of all, I didn’t announce it – I just arrived. I took the train by night and then the bus.
“I remember a young girl on the bus looking at me like she recognised me. And then when she realised who I was she ran through all the villages to say, The Ragan cousin is here from America!”
Was it a kind of culture shock for you coming here?
“Yes. We were spending so much time sending them [Slovak relatives] our old clothes, a lot of money and a lot of medical stuff that was being stolen by the post masters in the villages.
“When I came in I was bringing money in my own pocket. I saw the poverty under which they were living.
I was reading that you were involved in “banned activism” under communism. What exactly were you doing?
“Yes. I was writing poems. Especially after the Russian invasion, after the occupation, I wrote quite a bit against communism.
“For example, I wrote a poem about Jan Palach. I wrote one about Jan Zajíc, who was the second one to immolate himself and is too often forgotten. I wrote a poem about Dubček. I wrote a poem about the actual Russian invasion.
“But even before that I was writing against so much of the Communist oppressions that I was witnessing.”
But you were writing in English, I guess in America?
“Yes. But it was also being translated.”
So the translations were banned?
“Yes. And even when my first book in English was put on the shelves in Humenne – my cousin I guess had done it…
“This was well after the 1968 occupation. It was in English but Palach could clearly be seen in the titles. So that’s when that incident occurred, when the library called me in.”
But how did the fact that you were “banned” affect you?
“It affected me in a very proactive way, to say it that way. I remember getting a Fulbright professorship in Ljubljana.
“They knew I was going to visit my family. They said, Will you pass through Bratislava? I said, Yes, I’m going to do a reading.
“We had to do it a basement, by candlelight. This is how things were. A lot of samizdat was being sent around – including my work.
“That was the first time I smuggled something into the country. I was frightened. I was still pretty young and worried that I could be caught.
“But when I delivered those magazines to those people in Bratislava and did that reading it was a great thing for them. That’s how active I became.”
Would you have been followed by the StB or whoever?
“Always. I had to report to police stations, once I was named as one who was writing against the regime, and as an American.
“I would actually sneak into the country a few times. Not without my passport. But with the missionaries who were coming in. That way I brought things in and nobody questioned it, because I was with a missionary group. I found them in Pittsburgh and they said, Yes, you can join us.
Missionaries were allowed into Slovakia?
“Yes. Slovak based missionaries. As a matter of fact I was taught by Slovak nuns, until fourth grade.
“Many of them had organisations – Sokol and other organisations – that would come into Czechoslovakia at the time. Especially into my area of the country.”
Apart from the protest aspect, has your poetry been at all informed by your Czech/Slovak/Czechoslovak experiences?
“Yes. Most of it has, I think. First of all I’m always commended for the lyricism, the kind of musical quality of the poetry, but that comes right from the language…
“Even when I read for the presidents here, each of them said, Don’t lose that dialect – it’s the most musical.
“So that influenced my rhythms. And of course the subject matter was constantly there.”
“Yes. Many. This was common because even when I went to the Chicago area and it was advertised that I had those roots, I had many of them in the audiences there.
“Or Gary, Indiana, where the steel workers were. There were many cities like that across the country where you’d run into the Czechs. But in Pittsburgh especially.”
Also I heard that you knew or you know Ivan Passer, the filmmaker.
“Yes, Ivan was a very good friend. He used to call my mother his mamuška. He would always come over to the home. And when Ivan would come he would come for the polévka, for the soups and the foods that he was missing.
“And then people like Ivan Klíma here. Miroslav Holub. They became very close friends.
“I read with them, performed with them, every time I was here. And then when they were in the States…
“Holub even stayed at with me at my home. He sent his daughter Denisa there to stay and study English for about a month. These are the kinds of connections I made.”
Tell us about your interactions with Václav Havel. When did you first meet him? How did it go? How did it happen?
“It was in 1990, when he had already been elected president of Czechoslovakia… He came to Los Angeles to receive an award at UCLA and I had been writing quite a bit as a dissident he was made aware of that and he understood it and asked for a meeting.
“He said, I’m asking all Czechoslovaks to come back and donate something to the country – not money, something of you.
“I said, You know me as the writer, but I’m also an educator. He said, That’s it – you’ll come back and teach at our university. So for 22 years I teach every summer at Charles University.
“Then his wonderful brother, Ivan Havel, and Ivan’s wife Dáša, offered me a place to stay at the residence. So I’ve been staying there ever since.”
That’s [Václav] Havel’s old flat by the river?
“Yes, on Rašínovo nábřeží. Right on the river with a wonderful view of the Vltava and the Castle that he looked at every day.
“I’m actually in the large apartment that he lived in but also made his office during his presidency. He stayed there for a while.”
Do you ever feel his ghost at your shoulder at the flat?
“In many ways, yes. Because I know how he was concerned – Are you getting your work done? Why aren’t your plays getting done here?
“I remember walking with my class up Nerudova and he was sitting there at his favourite bar and his security were around him.
“He called me over and I bring the whole student body over and introduced him, saying, This is the president of the Czech Republic. Imagine how they felt!
“But that’s how he was. He was just inclusive.
“And the fact that he wanted to be a people’s president was important. The fact that he brought Salman Rushdie here when nobody else would.
“It was the kind of person he was. He took his risks. And he truly did lead this country through the worst part of its rebirth.”
