Massachusetts 6, or A Letter

In my head, it was always spelled Tero.

Nor did I know it was Mme. Terrault who ran the five-and-dime, since my memory holds a grungy teenager, or maybe a middle-aged man taking my Canadian dollar in exchange for a box of Smarties. The guys who filled Monstro and the Zipper with gas didn't have names, and of course, in my head, the other boat place with a telephone was spelled Daygro for years.

Alice, I spent this week at the National Poetry Slam in Austin, Texas. For five days, I seemed to live in a city that was overrun by travelling preachers disguised as poets. Every day there were open mics, every night, competitions, and after each night, there were ciphers - small clusters of poets that formed randomly into a circle, taking turns in the middle to spit out old favorites, new creations, or the day's journaling.

This week, Alice, I heard a letter from a son to his murdered father - a young black jewish guy, whose father was the Holocaust survivor professor shot at Virginia Tech. I heard a poem about Sudanese mothers spinning fairy tales about American soldiers so their children would have something to rest their dreams on. I heard a mother's poem to her child, telling her to close her eyes and judge people by their voices, knowing that the ones with accents could be family. I left the competitions in such emotional whirlwinds that I often had to walk for miles through the city before I could bring myself to sleep. One night, on such a walk, I paused to write: "Please, somebody, give me a poem that is not three minutes of G-d so I might have the strength to keep praying."

Your father's brother taught me to cry at the most beautiful things without shame. We went to comedic operas and wiped each other's faces with the handkerchief he always has, not understanding the plot, characters, or language. The night I sang in Carnegie hall, I saw the white cuffs of his shirt as he prepared to clap twenty bars before the piece ended, and I only imagined that his tears matched mine that fell to the stage. After hearing poetry that left my newfound friends searching for shirtsleeves (who wears long sleeves in Texas in August?!) and tissues, I shook and stormed, but Alice -

I googled your name today, to find a picture of the book you've written, and instead found your articles about Labelle. And after an entire week of being wrenched across every emotion I never thought I had, I felt a few tears fall at your mention of Mme. Terrault and that wonderously clean air.

I'm crying in a library, Alice. Your father's brother would approve.