Boca 5, or Why I Call The Poets Mishpacha

Because in the last three months, I've seen appeals for a poet in a coma, a poet who's gone missing, and a poet who needs funding for a legal defense (arrested for peacefully protesting at the RNC). More information on both of those are available to anyone who asks, but here's the main thing: each time something gets reported, poets mobilize for each other. They blog, they donate, they throw fundraisers and offer resources without hesitation. Hell, there are poets out right now pounding the streets of Dallas's gayborhood looking for a poet that's been missing since Tuesday. Sometimes they hardly know the people in question.

And it's not always about people in bad or life-threatening situations. Take, for example the dozen poets who have literally helped me get across the country, fed me, and given me some of the most comfortable places to sleep any traveler could hope for. Many of them didn't know more about me than my first name.

When the poets took over Madison, WI, and roamed the streets all night, I felt safer walking back to the hotel from late bouts. I would instinctively head towards open spaces when I saw people coming in my direction, looking for the big cardboard tag that marked them "Poet." I come from the New York area; we don't say hi to people on the street. But poets, I greet them, every one, even at 3am on unfamiliar roads. And, in Detroit, when the city was too big to feel like we filled it, I never once had to wait more than a minute for someone who'd be willing to walk me back. How could you refuse a lone poet an escort when you'd been hearing testimonies of violence hailed from a microphone for the last four hours?

I hope one day I can give back to this community what it has managed to give me in less than a year. Poets, you are my mishpacha, and I'm honored to be one of your own.