Not The Only Child

It’s been one week since I left Chicago. I had my second book party for my debut poetry collection Arc & Hue. It was one of those moments that was moving for so many reasons. Since I’ve moved to the New York area, I’ve met many young people, but none of them have connected with me in quite the same way as my students in Chicago. I moved away from the Midwest in 2005. For four years, I’ve somewhat been adrift from the young people who I spent much time talking about writing and books and even sitting at a table to write together.

In 1999, I proposed and co-taught the first performance poetry classes at Gallery 37. In fact, we were the only literary program to publish and be on a CD produced in a professional studio. I also spent many Saturdays at Young Chicago Authors where we started the day writing, and it was the most exhilarating part of my day that kept me awake, no matter how late I was up the night before. I taught classes in Englewood, the South Side community where Tyehimba Jess and I engaged entirely Black classrooms in writing about lost friends, persona poems, and even Paul Robeson. I taught writing workshops at Cook County Juvenile Detention Center where I got to talk about how writing was a form of anger management for me when my parents fought and eventually divorced, and I was teased as a kid. Somehow, keeping a notebook also kept me calm and helped make things make more sense. There were workshops with girls’ groups, in homeless shelters, elementary schools, alternative schools.

Somehow, over the years, students from so many of these places would find me. Some would write an email to me years later to tell me about their lives. Others have popped up on myspace and facebook to say “Hey, Ms. Tara!” A few have even stopped by my home to visit me here on the East Coast as young adults eager to tell me about their budding adventures in school, with writing, and life in general. The biggest testament to me feeling like there was a shared love was evident on Friday, October 2, 2009 at The Silver Room.

I came into Chicago on the blue line train, the first thing that recalibrates me as I re-enter the city. I see familiar buildings and adjust to the gentle shift of the el as it pulls into its various stops. All I can think of is Derrion Albert. The thought makes me want to cry because I taught in his neighborhood. I passed Fenger several times over the years. I think I even read there once. I thought about all the young brown boys I knew who were honor roll students, and I thought of Sonia Sanchez saying in a poem once “It is not right for the old to bury the young.” All these thoughts as the autumn Chicago sun flickered its awesome beautiful into my face, and I thought I should write a new poem for the reading.

I basically walked through my old neighborhood and almost got lost. There were so many new storefronts, it seemed as if I had never returned in the past four years, even though I had been back many times. I stayed at my friend’s house which was a few blocks away from my old apartment. It felt like breathing deeply to know this place and its rhythms.

When Friday came, I went to talk to young men who were now in the classroom where Ryan Keesling spearheads Free Write Jail Arts in Cook County Juvenile Detention Center. Ryan and I worked together years ago, so it was a quieter return to the place that challenged me emotionally. How do you persist in a confined area that compels you to think of the “peculiar institution” that slavery was once known as? Somehow, Ryan has kept the program growing and thriving with Amanda Klonsky and other writers.

I went back to my friend’s house to nap, bought champagne for the party, slept, showered, and dressed. For some reason, I was nervous in the place I know better than any other. I still hadn’t written that poem that I meant to write. I knew I’d just have to say something.

A couple of friends helped unpack books, champagne, buttons and stickers. DJ Itch13 was already spinning and smiling in the booth above the whole audience that started to gather. There were some notable adults in the room: Gwendolyn Mitchell of Third World Press, Roger Bonair-Agard, Paul Martinez Pompa, Krista Franklin, and Marlon & Denise Billups. Then as the word “adults” registered in my head, I realized who made up MOST of the crowd. It was many of the young people who I taught. Many of them, at one time or another, sought my counsel, to start or finish school, become teachers, and continue to figure out their lives or speak up for others. So, when I started to speak, I kept thinking of Derrion Albert.

I told them how grateful I was to be a part of their lives and to see so many people who made up different phases of my life were in the room really moved me. I almost cried because I know of two students of mine who died in accidents, one in a car accident and one in a drowning. I almost cried because I know that those young people have committed to help other young people. I almost cried because I couldn’t help but wonder if I hadn’t been there for someone else’s child, would the outcomes have been different? The one tear that I caught before it dropped was when I promised I wouldn’t cry, and they smiled with me. They stayed to talk to me, tell me their plans, have me sign books, and hug me. The whole scene felt like I’ve been a mother all these years, even though I haven’t conceived a child of my own.

So, this is my appeal to adults, let your children love something. Nurture them in their goals. Listen. Don’t be too judgmental. Laugh with them. Love them, but be prepared to kick their behind so they stay focused. Encourage them to read and turn off the 1,000 electronic distractions. Remind them of your human-ness and fallibility. Listen. Realize that your child is not the only child.