Seattle 41, or Homework

Three weeks now, I've been bringing poems about the kids I work with to writing class. None of them succeed - they trigger bad memories for people, make them angry, bring up all the ugliness of their childhoods. This week, I brought a poem that tried to hold myself accountable for whose stories I put onstage. I likened my kids' stories to the story of a tiger, taken from the wilderness and put in a zoo, to be kept safe, only to be taken from the zoo and thrust into a circus for someone else's profit. I don't want to talk about my kids onstage to win slams. I do it because I care about them so much I can hardly think or write about anything else.

The class is unimpressed with my efforts, as are several outsiders - the idea of comparing children to zoo animals hits a little too close to ugly, too close to shame. Others think it's good, truthful. One of my coworkers reminds me that "[People who grew up in the system] don't know what it's like for us [who work it] any more than we know what it's like for them. This piece tells what it's like for us, and that's what you know." In my poem, it looks like this:

"I can't know what captivity feels like
any more than a tiger can know
the weight of cage keys on my belt."

Teacher gives me homework. She says to practice being vulnerable. She promises that practicing will lead to a genuine ability to be vulnerable onstage, to connect honestly with the audience. She points out that this will also probably lead to better scores. My assignment is to find a person I trust, sit down with them, and look straight into their eyes for five minutes without speaking, moving, or breaking eye contact.

I explain my homework to my coworker, and invite her for lunch and a staring contest. We eat well, buttered rice with cilantro sauce, fried eggs, fresh mango for dessert. We head into my house's meditation room, a giant room with no furniture and seven large skylights: best used for dancing, or things like this. We settle on a few pillows, and I set my alarm clock to go off in five minutes.

We go through a period of smiling nervously at each other, but it passes quickly. I spend some time trying to think about what I should be thinking about, but I don't know what I'm supposed to think about, so I just try to let thoughts drift about and land wherever they want to. I think about car crashes for awhile. I'm sure this isn't helping me be a better poet. My coworker fidgets less than I do. When I think I'm about to go crazy, I start counting seconds. I count five minutes, and the alarm hasn't gone off. I must've counted too fast. I'm such a wimp for not even lasting the five minutes, but I break the silence and whisper, "I think I didn't turn my alarm on."

She giggles. "Wanna go check it?"

I go. In fact, my alarm is off, and we've been sitting for 28 minutes. Neither of us believe it.

Tonight, at the poetry slam, Andi suggests I give the tiger poem a break for a few days. She's probably right; I've written four drafts of it in the last three days, and it probably deserves some percolating time. I decide to go with a new draft of the G-d piece. I'm finally almost happy with it. In fact, I think I may be done with it, despite the fact that half my readers will probably hate the new ending.

Onstage, the audience doesn't feel as far away as usual. I stand straight, feel my bones settle. I feel solid, grounded. My voice sounds a tiny bit different, more conversational, less performative.

I didn't even come close to winning, but I walked out feeling like I finally got somewhere. And I wouldn't trade that for anything.