A Kind of Homecoming

This is (slightly late) Essay #44 of The 52 Essay Challenge, a series in which I write a new (unpolished & messy) essay each week during 2017.

Last night, I attended a benefit poetry reading at Poets House, Poets for Puerto Rico, curated and hosted by the fantastic Willie Perdomo. I was looking forward to it – it had been a hot minute since I last attended a poetry reading in the city, let alone one that had a headline full of folks I knew. These folks, in particular, I hadn’t seen in about 15 years.

I’ll admit: I was feeling a little apprehension.

My poetry path looks vastly different from everyone else’s. I have kids and live in soccer mom country (parts of which are frighteningly Red – don’t ask me how I survive. I’m not sure myself.). I am very removed from any kind of poetry community. It’s hard. But this is my life and so I make do the best way I know how. By myself. It’s kinda lonely. But I do have my people – albeit through a mostly digital experience.

Last night was about me engaging live and in person with poets who I hadn’t seen in a long-ass time.

Would they remember me? Would they not? Would I feel less than? Under-accomplished (as Insecurity monster considered rearing her head)? After all, it’s been over a decade and I have nothing concrete (ie. a book) to show for my work as a poet for all these years. I wasn’t sure. All I could do was be aware of these possibilities and notice what might happen. No judgment.

*

I met my friend Jen, who is an incredible creative nonfiction writer, for a drink beforehand. It felt like so much goodness to reconnect in person after several months of not seeing each other. We talked about the highs and lows of being a poet & writer. She was going through some frustrations. Me? I think it helped me get perspective: we all go through this shit. And, despite the really low lows where we think about quitting altogether, we still write. There is no other way.

I’ve had a hell of a week, with really extreme lows only to be met with equally extreme highs (I got two big important acceptances, which will be revealed once everything is official). To talk about these things with Jen in person was grounding. For that I am grateful. Our conversation was a good way to kick off the night. And yeah, the double IPA helped too. Hah!

Hello, blurry. Hello, awkward shadows. 

Me & Jen failing at taking a selfie.

*

We arrived at Poets House just as the event was starting. The place was jammed. Standing room only. What I loved most about it? It was a room jam-packed with brown people. I could already feel the love.

Jen and I squeezed in a found a spot on the floor. Thankfully, two people left before the end of the first half and we grabbed two seats. My body was thankful. It’s hard to sit on the floor with riding boots on. Barefoot in yoga pants? Well, that’s a different story.

After some buzzy rhythmic performances, tear-filled voices, and fierce calls to resistance, there was a 15-minute intermission. Our dear host invited us to enjoy some snacks & beverages and to take an opportunity to talk to the poets. I wanted to stretch my legs a bit, so I wandered toward the snacks in search of a little drink of water.

Along the way, I ran into a few people from the Old Days. Willie was one. Hadn’t seen him in well over a decade, like most of these folks. And yet… he recognized me right away and gave me a big hug. I suspect that he had forgotten my name (which was fine – I kinda expected it), but he knew that he knew me. That was enough.

I saw Lee Bricetti and Jane Preston – the amazing women at the helm of Poets House. I had interned for them as an undergrad a million years ago. Both recognized me in the same way Willie did. Both greeted me as he did: big hugs.

And so this is how it was.

Rich Villar: hugs. I didn’t think Bonafide would remember me, recognize me, or anything like that, but he did. Not my name, but he knew, like Willie, that he knew me. From where? He couldn’t be sure, but… from around. He gave me a high five and held my hand right up there, asking how I’ve been. It was nice. John Murillo saw me –totally remembered me – like he knew exactly who I was and where we knew each other. But to be fair, it hadn’t been decades. Only half a decade. Haha! It was he and I who would actually talk afterward & connect in earnest.

I’ll say this:

It felt good to be seen. To really be seen.

But also to feel like part of a community again. One that was living and breathing. One that I could physically touch. One that mattered to me.

Someone put on salsa and merengue. So you know that intermission was longer than fifteen. Hearing that music in that room full of big love and good people – I couldn’t help but move my body into dance. It had been a long time since I’ve felt the thump of congas, the brassy blare of trumpets, the cool tone of piano in my veins. It felt so so good. It felt warm like a single malt scotch in my belly. Like the cool of a mint-muddled mojito.

The reading was amazing. So much energy! Supportive, loving, heartbreaking, truth-telling, loving loving loving. Willie aptly described it this way: It was baptism, sweet 16, birthday party, after-party. It was church. It was vigil, It was elegy.

For me, it was also a kind of brief homecoming. A flash of nostalgia for the days when possibility was an open palm and poems unfurled endlessly. When drinks were two-for-one and I got to slam, to read new shit, to make finals for a Cali team (who knew I had it in me?). When I got to talk poetry for days on end and it mattered. It mattered to the people with whom I spoke, broke bread, and danced. The days when love was rough edges and hot coal, fumbling in the dark for something solid, something true.

Yes, these days are different. But there is still love. Perhaps now, a bit smoother. A brilliant light. Yes, poems matter, but now there is action instead of talk, writing instead of theorizing, speaking up and out instead of hiding in the pages.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

To my peeps from the Old Days: so good to see you. May our paths cross again.

xo—

 Willie Perdomo, host & curator, kicks off the evening with a poem.

To his left, Rich Villar. And in the lower right corner: Martin Espada.