Community

Beth pushed submit on her entry for the Michigan Writer’s Chapbook Competition.  Three proofreaders, and a lot of encouragement.  I was as excited as she was.  Stories about helping homeless children and the system they are up against—I think it’s important writing.  She is at the center of every story, but as the hero, she takes a back seat to the despair and courage and triumph of these kids.  A quick trip home to give the support needed to figure out specifics and celebrate with her.  Then back to Cincinnati. 

     I went to an open mic night at a local bookstore the night I got home.  Been thinking about getting involved with the writing community there.  I was by far the oldest person in the room.  The owner of the store, an amazing soul, might have been close.  Mostly poetry read.  I brought two pieces, but didn’t know it was “spooky story” night.  I have plenty of them, but it just didn’t seem the right vibe.  It was hosted by a LGBTQ group in conjunction with the bookstore.  Plenty of play with language with a message of anger, resentment and hope wrapped into one.  Ownership, should have been the theme.  Lots of young folks telling their truth. There is much in this country to rail against at present.  I’m so glad they are finding creative ways to do it. 

     But half-way through the evening of listening to youth and grievance put into words, I felt I was once again silenced by my age.  I felt like the teacher in the room – and out-of-touch, or perhaps more accurately, in a different era of my life.  I remember the angst, the pride of professing who I was.  And I respect that.  But as in school now, my insights, opinions and own experience are not relevant to them.  It may never be.  An older cis gendered perspective wasn’t where the vibe was.  So I listened and enjoyed for an hour, sat patiently another hour to support and witness and went home early.  I felt like I had left school.  And in my heart I wished them peace and good lives as I stepped back out into the chill and darkness of late October. 

     It was a lovely supportive community.  I’m sure I would have been welcome to read.  The owner dressed in a costume of white t-shirt, blue-jeans and red bandana in his back pocket and read a piece about Springsteen albums as if they were book reviews. He sang one of the Boss’s songs.  My favorite part of the evening.  When the night progressed into private in-jokes and banter before every read – I thanked him and headed out.

     I hesitate to post this. My voice still fears to be mine. My experience, still waiting to be disected, comdemned and cancelled. Know that I am searching for what everything is — from the only experience I can. You can support a group you no longer relate to — especially when it’s age based—wish them the freedom, give them the space (as the bookstore owner did) and still long for a place of your own. I feel like older experiences have been called out as no longer relevant — when I am living this in the present. I can be an ally to youth, to immigrants, to the LGBT community and continue to wish for understanding myself. Truth is, I didn’t give them a chance to accept my point of view, as I’ve been told it’s not really my turn. All of my life, as a woman, it hasn’t been my turn. Maybe I should write a poem about that.

You see, as present as I felt…well, if you look at a pile of beautiful, fragile shells, with cutting edges and see a well-worn button in the middle of the pile --that was me in that room. 

     Nothing amiss about that, but it was fall, and I yearned for the sweater where the other buttons hung.