Massachusetts 24, or Saying Goodbye

It doesn't feel like goodbye, that's for sure. My head understands that in four days, I'm getting on a plane without a return ticket, but my body is a little slow to catch up on these things. I keep thinking things like, "This isn't really the last time I get to hug these people, walk these streets, drink my favorite juice blend at this coffee shop." I have said Significant Things to Significant People on the order of "write to me" and "I'm going to miss you" and "I love you."

And I've been quoting Harriet the Spy. It's been my favorite book for many, many years, in part because it got me in the habit of writing every day, and in part for the ending. Harriet has to say goodbye to her beloved nanny, who is stern, uncompromising, grumpy and loving in a wash-your-hair-too-vigorously sort of way. Harriet is crying and carrying on, and Ole Golly tells her something like this this:

(I always imagine that Ole Golly holds her by the shoulders and gets in very close to her face to say it.)

"No tears. Tears won't bring me back. Life is a struggle and a good spy gets in there and fights."

And Harriet tearfully asks, "Won't you miss me?"

And it's Ole Golly's response that I hang onto for times like these, which goes something like this:

"No. I never miss anybody, because as soon as I leave them it all becomes a lovely memory."

But I'm not Ole Golly. I'm not that wise or evolved yet, and I suspect there's a good deal of tears and fireworks ahead of me. But this weekend, there are things I am so glad I was here for. One last Girlyman show with a group of friends, clustered higgledy-piggledy in a corner and passing notes on napkins. A Unitarian Universalist Sunday morning service led (in part) by a friend's son that got me all choked up. The fierce hug from said friend's son when he realized I might not be back for good until he goes away to college. Brunch at Tofu A Go-Go, complete with their secret sauce that I will never, ever be able to replicate. The spectacular warm Saturday, playing with dogs in the park. Folk music concert in Vermont. The warm wishes from everybody, the assurances that I'm going to be Okay.

It's a rainy, gloomy day here. Fitting for a goodbye.

Here's a prayer: may the lovely memory begin the minute I drive away. And may it keep me warm until I come back.

Detroit 6, or Finals Night!

This is the most I can say about finals: that my roomate, Gypsee Yo, took second place to Rachel McKibbens, who is one of the greatest female voices in poetry slam history. On the shelf of shiny victories, Rachel and Andrea Gibson, last year's winner, are about as good company as future winners could ever hope for.

My flight leaves at 12:30 tomorrow. I'm signing out, happy, exhilarated, exhausted.

Detroit 5, or The Detroit Youth Girls Slam

It's no secret that youth slam is one of the reasons I'm moving to Seattle. It's not only home of one of the strongest youth slam scenes in the country, but the adult slam scene is very connected with the youth scene, and I can't wait to be a mentor.

The big event I went to today was a slam for young women in Detroit, where I got to see some of the work the Detroit youth scene is busting out, and I was impressed. The skill level and range was as varied as the subject matter, but the two winners were terrific poets, and their performances were energetic and powerful (if sometimes a little unfocused).

Tonight is finals night. I haven't cried yet this week, but I'm ready for a poem to really bring me to my feet. I just sent my roommate off in cowboy boots and a dress so perfectly fitted I probably couldn't get one arm through it - she's competing in the finals, and I really, really hope she wins. Except that I also hope my mentor wins. And I hope my idol wins. And I hope my friends win, and none of these are the same people.

Detroit 4, or Bout 2

The word for what happens when poets appreciate your poem, but the judges hate it? Robbery.

The word for what happens when a poet completely nails her poem? Killing.

The Seattle Youth Team word for something they really like? Filthy.

With these things in mind, see if you can decode some of the things that were said to me after tonight's bout:

"You KILLED!"
"Damn, that Israel sh*t was FILTHY!"
"It was the best writing in the bout. We'll work on your performance when you get back to New York, and send you off to Seattle ready to KILL."
"...Dane, you got ROBBED."

Yeah, so the judges kind of hated it. Nobody could figure out what they liked! It took until the very last poet, a pipsqueak of a 19-year old from middle-of-nowhere Canada. She did a triumphant piece about being a quirky writer in a small town, and triumph killed.

Meanwhile, Emily Kagan Trenchard, (wife of Geoff Jason Kagan Trenchard, for those paying attention) who generously gave me two pep talks before each round in the bout, pulled me aside after the bout to tell me that she was going to coach me HARD in performance before I left for Seattle. I couldn't possibly be more grateful for the offer, and will be taking her up on it as soon as we get back. The best part, though? What she said after she offered the coaching:

"Just tell them, Dane, when they're writhing under your boots, demanding to know where you come from, tell them: New York LouderARTS. Tell them you're one of us."

Now that's filthy.

Detroit 3, or Workshopping

I'm so exhausted. I got to Dee's magical workshop at 11 this morning, and didn't leave until 4:15. The workshop was simple: each poet got to do 30 seconds of a poem, receive feedback, absorb as much as possible, then repeat the excerpt. Last year, this workshop earned its moniker "magical" by allowing everyone present to watch poets turn their performances upside down from just a few minutes of critique. This year, so many people participated that it was a little chaotic, and, as mentioned, went on forever.

This doesn't mean it wasn't useful, or fun to participate in, but by the time I went - third to last - there were less than a dozen people in the room, down from nearly sixty. Still, I got a few edits that will be useful. And I have a couple hours to rehearse before tonight's bouts.

On the menu tonight: my new Israel poem, and I'm-not-sure-what for the two minute round.

Detroit 2, or Bout 1

Remember how excited I was that my first round was in the quiet YMCA venue? That turned out to be not as much fun as I thought it would be - there were hardly any people there! We started late because it took so long to find the requisite number of judges, and my place in the lineup (4th out of 12) ensured I was performing to nearly empty audience.

I opened with "5am in North Dakota", and just barely squeaked in under the time limit, but I was happy with the performance - I'd been working on it all afternoon in my hotel room with my friends Lindsay, Jonida, Lauren and Michelle. It was just so hard to perform in such a big, empty space. It felt like all the energy I put into the performance got swallowed - there was no audience reaction. None. It felt more brutal than if I'd been boo'd off the stage. My scores showed it too - I placed 10th out of the 12.

In the second round, I got myself really psyched up to do "Bilingual" to the best of my ability. It's a much more emotional piece, and I already had the confidence I needed to give a solid performance. Since I scored so low in the first round, I got the chance to go third-to-last in the second round, which is strategically a better place in the lineup.

I have to say - I rocked it. I was very satisfied with the performance, and was very emotionally overwhelmed at the end of it. A number of Important And Influential And Exciting poets came over to compliment me on a job well done. Among them was my near-future teacher, Tara Hardy, who runs the Bent institute. She called it "awesome." A few times.

When all was said and done, I took 7th out of 12 in that bout, which didn't make me happy, but I wasn't crushed, either. When people ask me how I did tonight, I say, "not good enough to brag, not bad enough to cry." They seem to get that.

Tomorrow brings workshops, and more bouting - and I can't, can't wait.

Detroit 1.5, or Quick Update

Having checked in and registered, I know the following things:
- My first bout is the earlier of the two time slots (starts at 8), and I'm performing in the YMCA theater, which is GREAT. I love that venue, and I won't have to deal with the noise and distraction of a bar, especially because tonight's pieces are quieter than tomorrow nights'.
- I'm up against Maya in my first bout.
- Tomorrow night's bout is in the bar. *sigh* Well, we'll see how it goes - can "Bilingual" reach people in a bar?
- The "poet bags" - tote bags they give us at registration with all sorts of information and goodies - contain bars of dark chocolate this year. Also, free flip flops, which are too small, but considerate nonetheless, and a really excellent tshirt that has one a silhouette of my mentors, Dee Matthews, silk-screened across the front with the words "Girls Aloud!" underneath it.

Now I'm off to eat some soup and rest my voice, and get ready for tonight's bout!

Detroit 1, or We Will Now Take a Detour

I'm in Detroit for the Women of the World poetry slam once again. I got to see the awesome Last Chance Slam, in which women competed for (you guessed it) the last spot in the competition. Rhe, a poet from the Twin Cities, won it with a strong performance and stronger writing - a bone-chilling piece narrating a woman's path down the hallway of an abortion clinic.

Getting here was something of a small adventure. I met the lovely Esme near the baggage claim after my exhausting 7+ hours of travel (including a four-hour layover in Atlanta). Once we had all our luggage, we hopped in a cab and gave the driver the address - a theater on Broadway Street.

About a half hour into the trip, I noticed we were taking the exit - for ANN ARBOR. Slightly alarmed, I said "Why are we headed towards Ann Arbor?" to which he replied, "Broadway Street, Ann Arbor, no?"

After we sorted that out and turned around, Esme and I exchanged some alarmed looks while the driver berated himself - apparently, this is his first-ever major mistake. We arrived at the theater about halfway through the first round of the slam, and I stored my bags under several people's chairs.

Getting to a major poetry event has become one of my favorite things in the world. Tonight, I walked into a crowded theater and immediately recognized almost half the people in it. I was approached for hugs and greetings and offers to take my bags from my shoulders. There were big smiles and reaching arms and delighted eyes. What a rush of warmth. What a way to feel like you've come home in a strange place.

New Jersey 39, or Final draft

the coming

"When peace comes we will perhaps in time be able to forgive the Arabs for killing our sons, but it will be harder for us to forgive them for having forced us to kill their sons." Golda Meir (Press conference after the Six-Day War, 1967)

1.
Dear Golda,

Israel is at war again. This is news?
By now, public opinions are sunk deeper than ink into newspaper.
I barely visit mine, the way I can look at scars
without thinking about the injuries that caused them.

When peace comes, Golda, what will you look for?
Will it look like piles of dirt-streaked skin and crossed bones?
Tank tracks leading to anthills of charred houses?
We talk about peace like a god that refuses to intervene.

2.
Dear Israel,
When my friends can’t speak of your deeds,
they speak of your beauty.
Cobalt sea gracing
your neckline like melting jewels,
Jerusalem turning gold in the sunset like a wedding band,
blood-burst flowers blooming along the Carmel in the spring,
you wear sandstorms like a veil.
In every war, there must be a princess at stake.

3.
Dear Golda,
in this world of bombs and newspaper,
there are still olives
and clementines.
Trees do not stop feeding the hungry in times of war.
When peace comes, will you have enough left to offer it a meal?

4.
Dear Family,
You haven’t said the word Palestine since they voted to call it Israel.
If Palestine disappeared in ’48, how dare you call them Palestinians?
Is there enough space between your mottled cheeks and flustered tongues
to build a shelter? Plant a flag?

Where have you hidden
the forty years we spent in a desert,
the shouts of “Kikes” and “Filthy Jew”
on the streets of Bucharest and Bratislava?
Are they hidden behind the blue-and-white shield?

5.
Dear Palestine,
I can no more sing your anthem
than swallow the Dead Sea
or balance a rocket on my shoulder.

And there are no olive branches left;
the doves vanished after the second rocket.

Here.
Take my right hand.
If it is not enough,
Take my mouth,
take my eyes,
take whatever you need, but leave
at least one breast, one arm,
one vacant cliff.
Call them Salaam.

When peace comes,
it will need a place to grieve.

6.
Peace, when you come, introduce yourself like this:
Ya Allah, matha fa'alna?
Adonai, ma asinu?
My G-d...what have we done?


(thanks to Geoff Jason Kagan Trenchard for his editing help)

New Jersey 38, or Oma

Dorothea,
I was named for you.

Family lore has it you stole pants from your uncle, snuck out of the house at 4am and went off to climb a mountain. You taught your four sons to love the land like you did, four little goats with skis strapped to their backs. You loved squirrels. You died years before I was born, but the puppet theatre you made was at each of my first six birthday parties, your youngest son behind the curtain, acting out the stories you wrote.

From you, and from him, I got my tongue, my hands, my need for the weight of books.

New Jersey 37, or Invasion of the Fairy Tales

C. A. P. asked:

How did the community start?
Do you guys ever travel together?
Has anyone ever left and why?

The community started after the conference mentioned in the first of the fairy tale notes (really, someday I'm going to have to organize these), when everyone in the back of the room realized they were fundamentally dissatisfied with some aspect of their lives. For some, it was the cycle of poverty they couldn't break. For some, it was a lack of connection with the people they lived with and around. For some, it was the feeling that they hadn't stayed true to their dreams, and had allowed themselves to settle into something comfortable, predictable, and boring. In short, we were a bunch of dreamers who had been sidetracked and derailed, and saw each others' support as the chance to get back to where we wanted to be.

And even though this is a fairy tale, I don't want anyone getting the idea that it was easy. It was labor. It was as frustrating as trying to hammer a nail and always hitting your thumb. It involved a lot of sore backs and shredded egoes and arguing and fighting and debating about The Best Way To Do Things (tm). We had to buy land, restore the houses, figure out how we were going to support ourselves. Many of us had good communication skills, but some of us lacked the tools to navigate serious conflict. Among us, we had three races, a fistful of ethnicities, four nationalities, six religions, a myriad of class backgrounds, a few genders, infinite sexualities, mostly-but-not-all able bodies, and about 23,000 opinions. How could it have been easy?

I want to say that the thing that made it all workable was luck, honestly. Just when it seemed like things were going to splinter, or literally sink into the mud, we would run into some piece of luck or privilege or just pure delight that helped rally us. Like the 100 pounds of cement Michel found in a Dumpster. Like the crew of plumbers who did most of the work in exchange for a two week vacation at the House for Waywards. Like the time Eirik and Thunder nearly came to blows over the rewiring of a house, and it seemed like Thunder was going to take off and leave us without an electrician, but Diana broke it up by throwing both men in a mud puddle, and turned it into a mudfight that left them laughing. Or like the time when we were writing the neighborhood ground rules and it took almost 60 hours of meetings to decide on them, but finished one night in the middle of a massive thunderstorm when a tree fell on Esperanza, Esme and Eirik's house and we had to work together to clear it.

As for traveling, we don't go as a group because there's always got to be a bare minimum of people around to handle the animals and maintain the gardens. The four Jews generally stay through Christmas, and Maria, Thunder and Diana don't believe in Thansgiving, so that covers a lot. Each of the adults is granted a few weeks of vacation per year - I always use some of mine to go to the National Poetry Slam, the Women of the World Poetry slam and the Individual World Poetry Slam. Jo and I try to take one vacation together, usually to visit family. Even those of us who have regular jobs with much less vacation time are granted their "vacations". If a grownup with a full time job calls for a "vacation", it means the neighborhood picks up their slack as if they were really gone. So, for one week, all they need to worry about is their outside job - their chores will be done, their kids taken care of, and they're not required to be at any meetings.

We lost two members in the building process - one to cancer (she went into a hospice, where we visited her until she died at the age of 32), and one to ideology (she said she couldn't live in such a communist arrangement, and left in the early planning stages). We're working on writing down a plan for what happens if people want to leave permanently. We've had some neighborhood folks take sabbaticals of a sort, move away and come back.

New Jersey 36, or So It Begins. Again.

It seems fitting that it's officially my 200th blog entry, and I'm using it to announce that I've just bought my plane ticket to Seattle for April 2nd.

I wish I could be all brash and sassy and say something like, "Universe, do your worst!" but right now my heart feels like it's about to drop right out of my ribcage.

Breathe, Dane. Breathe and think of the poets.