B is for Believing

Recently, a colleague asked how it was that I had become a poet. I gave the whole story: back in sixth grade (rough year) a Poet-In-the-Schools Poet came to my English class for one week. We wrote sappy poetry about the place between our hearts and minds and the desert. She also taught us that damp towels soak up more water than dry towels. I'm not sure if I believe that. After her visit, I wrote poetry in every corner of every journal through jr. high and high school. In college, I tried to shove it off and jump into anthro, or bio, or LALS, but as much as I enjoyed other subjects I couldn't leave poetry alone and then I took second level poetry course chewed up language and spit it back in my face. We read Gertrude Stein, Lyn Hejinian, C.K. Williams, and a ton of other authors. Poetry (and life, that year my oldest brother also past away) became about what could not be said, the ineffable.

I think every poet discovers that at some point. That is why we are poets, no? Because language is inadequate and we must labor. Then, after reading a poem at my college graduation ceremony, I jumped from the red woods of Santa Cruz to the lit up grey of downtown LA, where i was a paper-pusher at an insurance company by day and a community organizing intern by night. LA sat heavy on my shoulders, the needs were real. What did Gertrude Stein know of it? A sunset, when all the parked cars glowed orange and the tall palm fronds drew their shapes in the sky.

So I went back to school. MFA. Poetry. The city far behind me, I learned about rural things and midwestern things, and poetry. Now I am teaching students at a small college on a corner of state that can be haed to find on a map because its just so in the middle. The city is downtrodden, the factory stench , the buses only cost a $1 to ride them. Do I still believe in poetry? Do I believe in creativity? My students don't seem to, its as if they've stood too long in front of microwaves.

Then, I notice the 1970 styled jacket and the white sunglasses and the short bleach blonde bob that Sue decided to wear. I read the one metaphor Lora used in her paper individualism that made no sense at all. Yes, I do believe. From inner city, to small town, to mother, to 18 year old, to factory worker, to gangbanger wanna-be, to teacher, to student, I believe we all need creativity to thrive, to access our humanity. Poetry is an option.