This is the entry where I write about all the things I said I was going to.
Snapshot
Aliyah invites me out to the little suburb where her parents are, an hour and a half outside Seattle. We're doing an odd switch soon - me heading out here, and her heading to Princeton. Perhaps our parents will adopt us. I've already invited her for Rosh Hashannah. She says we'll go blackberry picking when I come, and I envision a back yard, a small trail, wading through the thorns and coming away with a fistful.
Not so much. I've forgotten that blackberries are a parasite. Aliyah picks me up at the bus and we go park at a farm with a bike path running next to it. The path is lined with bushes, dense brambles and big, sloppy berries, so different from the ones at home. After half an hour of picking, we have enough for two pies. We sing as we go, songs I haven't sung since college - Dar and Arlo and Angel from Montgomery. We find an index card tied to a bramble with e.e. cummings quotes on it, and a wish for a happy lunar eclipse, Aug. 16, 2008. We take it home with us. Aliyah's little white dog will do tricks for green berries. I make him dance and beg, the cutie. He tries to pick a fight with the big farm dog on the other side of the fence, who looks almost amused.
Aliyah's house is exactly what I imagined - small, full of animals and bright colors and on the end of the road. We make eggplant curry with rice noodles, and I make a blackberry pie that's really more of a blackberry soup with crust. It goes well over ice cream and giggling over geeky religion jokes at the kitchen table. Her parents offer to adopt me while I'm getting settled.
Snapshot
In Seattle, there are two poetry teams - adult and youth. The adult team will admit by and large that the youth team is stronger than they are, but just for fun, the youth team has organized a head-to-head battle between the two, complete with judges and hip-hop showcases. Ela's picked to be a judge, and Maya becomes the sacrifice, and we're all so excited. When we get there, the venue is great, and there are no chairs. We sit on the floor, watching the youth team come in. They remind me so much of BCHSJS - old Hebrew school buddies - with their cuddle piles and obvious love for one another. It's an angsty, drama-laden love, but I'd be hard pressed to hear better cheering from the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. They shout in unison, long rounds of "Youth Speaks Seattle ain't nothin to fuck with!"
The competition is head-to-head, which is simpler than a normal slam: each team sends up one poem, then the judges decide which one they liked better in the round. at the end of six rounds, there's a tie. The adults embarrass themselves in the final round by being too drunk to remember their poem, while the youth team puts up a tight, well-rehearsed and well-written piece. Half the crowd leaves before the judges make their decision. Ela and Maya say I can become a youth mentor when I move here. Hey, if poet El Dia has made her life teaching poetry to young people, why can't I do it?
Snapshot
I receive the most beautiful love letter I've ever read. I don't have permission to share excerpts from it here yet, but I'm working on it. At my feature in Snohomish, I read it, and the letter I responded with as my cover piece. When I'm finished, I look up. Everyone's bright-eyed and smiling, and I'm half-proud, half-delighted, and full of how can I move 3,000 miles from this? I too, have daydreams.
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