This is Essay #25 of The 52 Essay Challenge, a series in which I write a new (unpolished, totally messy!) essay each week during 2017.
It’s hard being an empath. No matter how much I try to
protect myself, there is only so much I can do. Maybe there is more to learn
about protective measures that I don’t yet know. But that didn’t help me last night.
Yesterday, I drove down to Philly to attend the VONA faculty reading at UPenn. VONA’s my writing family, but I haven’t seen anyone in real
life in years. I was looking forward to it.
About fifteen minutes before the event was supposed to
start, lots of people began to fill Bodeck Lounge in Houston Hall. There was a
mix of participants from this week’s workshops and local alumni and the general
public. By the time the reading kicked off, it was a full house. I started to
feel... I don't know... my fingers have paused over the keys while my mind files through possible
adjectives: nuts, crazy, uncomfortable, restless, but none fit the bill—Let’s
put it this way: my body’s vibration shot through the roof. It was so high that
I had to leave the room. I couldn’t figure out if this was good energy or not.
All I know is that it was overwhelming.
I found a corner of Houston Hall where no one could see me,
sat down in an armchair cross-legged, and tried to breathe. I rubbed my palms
on my knees, trying to calm down. On the inside, I was freaking out. What was
this? Where was this coming from? Whose energy was this? Was it coming from
everyone? All at once?
I started breath of fire. It was all I could do to try to
get myself grounded. I started crying. (Ego says: WTF? Soul says: the body
knows what she needs to do.) I didn’t want to move from that spot. I didn’t
want to go back in.
After about 3 minutes of breath of fire, I switched to long
slow deep breaths. That seemed to work. I calmed down and went back in. But
then, as soon as I sat down, it started up again. My vibration was so high I
could feel the potential for levitation. (I’m serious) I imagined myself a
balloon: I’d just float on out of there. I still couldn’t figure out if this
was good energy or not, but I didn’t have a choice. The reading was starting. I
had to (try to) sit still. I took measured breaths and said a prayer (“please
help me keep it together”).
Eventually, my body calmed down. And I could listen.
And man, what I heard was amazing. Devastating. Phenomenal.
I’m not exaggerating. I think I cried the entire time.
Reyna & Faith read stories about their fathers and the
relationships with them. To which I asked myself: what’s my father story? (A
question to be explored at a later date.) Kim gave a great monologue from one of her plays. Marjorie kicked ass with her excerpt from her novel about mother and daughter covered in demon tattoos (I read The Iron Hunt & loved it! Women who kick ass. Literally.). David read a couple of poems, one in
which he describes the heartbreak of his son’s friend’s murder (the friend was
Somali). To which I say to myself, through tears: it’s so fucking hard to
parent in this day and age; what it must be like to be David, trying to help
his son get through this; what it must be like to be his dead friend’s mother –
to lose your child so suddenly, so brutally. Danez read a poem about the things
he wanted to say, but can’t –for many reasons listed in the poem. In which I
considered, through more tears, silence. I considered the things we say without
saying it, what is said in those silences, what it means to say something aloud
or on paper – to manifest it outside of our bodies, what it means to not say them.
And then Patricia. Damn. Patricia “tear your heart out”
Smith. She read –well, rather, performed a poem (with a few of her workshop
students) about Dee'Anna Reynolds, the four–year-old daughter of Diamond, who was
in the backseat of the car when Philando was shot and killed. The poem took
turns between what a four-year-old perceives to be death as illustrated by
cartoons (“they always come back”) and the sudden push into adulthood by her
witness to the murder of her mother’s boyfriend. I imagined my kids when they
were four and the tears fell free. I am still reeling from that poem. I have
goosebumps as I type this.
I am of two minds after this event:
1. Poetry matters. Literature matters. Heck, writing fucking
matters. It reminds us of who we are, what we are: living, breathing, feeling human beings. Terrible and
beautiful, heartbreaking fuck-ups. (Don’t get me wrong: I’m not all kumbaya –
there are muthafucking shitheads out there, for sure. The work is in how to see
their humanity when they don’t recognize, when they don’t see ours. There’s a
line in Danez’s poem that stayed with me – and I’m paraphrasing: I believe in
nonviolence a little less every day. Lord, I hear that.)
2. I want to quit being a poet. Because what would be the
point? (Yes, yes. See Number 1, you idiot. But what would be the point since
there are people doing it better than me? I know, I know: what kind of fucking
talk is that? Everyone has their own path, their own pace, their own story to
tell. Yeah, yeah. Trust me – I have conversations about this with myself all
the fucking time.)
So where does all of this leave me right now?
I don’t know. I’m still thinking about four-year-old Diana
Reynolds. I’m thinking about all the shit I see online. I just saw police drag protesters OUT OF THEIR FUCKING WHEELCHAIRS to remove them from the building. I
just saw a video of a black woman in tears, telling us how scared she was after
just having been pulled over by police (Fortunately, she said, he was a nice
officer and genuinely wanted to make sure she was okay, but her point of the video was that it wasn’t okay she was that terrified).
And I’m taking it all in. And it’s breaking my heart.
I need to figure out stronger ways to protect myself and my
energy, to practice vigilant self-care. What good am I to anyone if I am not
100%? It’s like how they tell you on airplanes: secure your oxygen mask before
assisting others.
So now I think I need a game plan. A tiny-step-by-tiny-step
plan. What that looks like I have yet to figure out. For now, I just want to
crawl under the blankets for a little while.
Oh, and here's a photo of me & Junot to close it out:
Oh, and here's a photo of me & Junot to close it out:
This is what I LOVE about you and this piece. I'm so fucking invested in #2!
ReplyDeleteAnd that, dear friend, is what I'm going to write about...(Okay, I might be using parts of #1 as prompt too!).