It was a Thursday night. I had just had a hair cut and was ready to go back out in public. My friend J called and asked,�Are you going to go to this poetry thing?� I hesitated � even though I once wrote what I called poetry, I was not one for poetry things. Isn�t that something you do with the blinds pulled, in the privacy of your own mind? Well, I used to say that about the thing I once did I called dancing. Then with the help of music, boots and wigs, I had those gigs as a go-go dancer.
The poetry thing
was scheduled for two hours. Two hours of poetry! On top of that, we had our usual reasons -- long week, hungry, tired, poor. Exaggeration was not one of our problems.We wanted to hear M, our friend read. M is a poet, he recently won a coveted poetry award. J and I agreed to go for an hour, pinned on the hope that M would be reading in that first hour. We would position ourselves in such a way that we could get out without much notice. Then, we�d get some food from Viet Thai.
I had to redo my hair first so even though I live two and a half minutes from where the reading was going to be, at the Whistler House Museum of Art, I knew I would still be late. I had to redo my hair because that afternoon when the stylist who cut it asked me, �Can I blow dry it straight?� I said sure. The style set off a series of fantasies centered on me, my two kids, three-course dinners served on handmade ceramic plates with hand-stamped napkins, and cello face-offs between my two kids and my husband and I. My hair was smooth, a well-made bed, not my usual bed head.
All this kept me occupied enough that I didn�t think much of the poetry thing until I was right upon it, walking down a little path to the entrance and it was crowded. J and I brought in extra chairs and then we stood in the back, positioning ourselves for the quick getaway. We saw M. who told us he was on after the intermission, in the second hour. Well, we were there, what the heckle.
A woman played the flute and then the readings got under way. The poetry event was tied to the museum exhibit Celebrating Hellenic Heritage. The Olympics, you may remember, were held this summer in Greece. I loved the opening ceremony and I may be one of the few people who love the Olympic rhythmic gymnastics events.
Our city has a large Greek community and there was a lot of pride in the room. One woman read her poem Fotia in Greek. Fotia means fire. Sometimes, I need to hear another language to be reminded of how powerful and musical words can be. I don�t know what she said, but it was strong and satisfying and clean.
Easter is the biggest holiday in the Greek faith, as in the Catholic faith, though as a child Christmas had it hands-down for me. When I was seven, I went to a friend�s birthday party. She had an Easter bunny there, presumably because it was close to Easter. That was confusing but most upsetting was that I walked in on the guy putting on his Easter bunny mask. Time seemed to stand still as he turned to look at me, clearly showing the line of separation between his face and the mask. He looked so serious and the mask was smiling. In my typical fashion, well honed at age seven, I was more upset that I would be found out for finding him out than he would be in being found out. The resulting photos show me looking at him slightly warily while twisting my foot nearly out of my Mary Jane.
ANYWAY, one of the next writers read his memories of growing up Greek and celebrating Easter with the slaughter of the lamb and the roasting and the Greek liquor and the rituals. There was something in there where he realized some naked truth � kind of like walking in on the Easter bunny guy. I guess that�s what made me think of it.
It was during this long reading that a group of people were ushered into the back area where J and I were standing. They were in wheelchairs � two women and two men � and with them were assistants, personal care assistants I guess. A lot of re-positioning took place trying to get two wheelchairs in a space where two people just stood. One woman kept talking loudly to another woman, and her assistant spoke to her quietly so we could keep listening to the speaker even though it was hard to hear back there anyway.
Some poets who submitted work won awards called the Gold, the Silver, the Bronze. There was a youth award for a12 year old girl for her poem titled Black. She was too shy to read her poem so the woman who coordinated the event read it while the little girl stood up there, shy and proud at the same time.
I can�t remember her poem exactly but I found myself getting very uncomfortable. All the lines and words seemed to be about negative associations with the word �black.� Dark danger, scary night, evil monsters, like that. And I became aware suddenly that all the people standing closest to me, that is the assistants who were standing by the people in the wheelchair, the assistants were all black.
I became acutely aware and self-conscious of every word. I had a flush of shame and a desire to call out �Stop! You�re perpetuating a climate of hate and racism!� The poem was all of about two minutes, if that. When it was over, the young girl got the Gold Medal draped over her neck to much applause. She didn�t know. Wasn�t she old enough to know something about it? I don�t know. I felt crummy.
I moved further back in the room. In this area were pictures depicting different Olympic events, or Olympic-type events, drawn by children. The crazy-long arms and misshapen heads. The long jump. The pool. The discus thrower drawn on a plate � a completely impossible perspective that made it more charming and real. I took comfort in the drawings. Maybe too much. The intermission came and I drank a tiny glass of punch and talked to two different women about their scarves.
M read two poems and he was great. The second poem was like a dream, with an old man with breasts, suckling a baby and a coveted gold tooth. I let myself fall into the dream, chasing after that gold tooth, because it was shiny and caught my eye. I fell after it, tumbling over and over, it was out of reach and I wondered, �Why didn�t I just grab that baby?�
Thanks, M.
Poetry is not an expression of personality, it is an escape from personality; it is not an outpouring of emotion, it is a suppression of emotion � but, of course, only those who have personality and emotions can ever know what it means to want to get away from those things. T.S. Eliot, snob, but a pretty good poet