The Space Between States

Last weekend I took a trip up a narrow staircase in a familiar part of town.  It's amazing how much we don't see on our way through our patterns.  In an echoing wood room (wood floors, wood beams, wood cabinets) I heard Rebecca George over the hum of air vents and toe tappings-

"…and I remember her great strength.  I came across a video of Akilah during the Summer Writing Program encouraging us all to 'keep writing'".  A small twinge of guilt seemed to reverberate from the crowed.  We note as writers how hard it is to continue the daily practice outside of the class room.  So simple, yet at the nine to five it is hard to hold in your center the importance of poetry.

The loss is so fresh I can see her face turning to the large eye with this advice, no recording necessary.

On the day I was told Akilah had passed I couldn’t accept the suggestion that this strong figure had been mortal.  I went immediately to my computer to disprove the text message “Akilah Oliver had passed L…..Ah fuck…. I’ll keep you abreast.”-S.B. Her Facebook page had a string of fair wishes and goodbyes to confirm. Family students hadn’t thought to inquire about molded each comment with words of gratitude.  I began to sob thinking of how months ago we had danced to “I saw Tu Pac at McDonalds” such silly freedom.

At the memorial reading people comment on how she had shaped or challenged their work, they sang, shared audio recordings, cried as they read from her books.  So many things struck me, but I didn’t want to reach for a pen and the mind is an imperfect thing.  One of the event organizers stood and pulled words from the great Bobbie Louise Hawkins.  “Bobbie once leaned to me and said ‘the thing about memorial readings is that people seem to talk more about themselves than who the reading is for.”  This was the second twinge of guilt I felt in our echoing space.  However, as moments of experiences with this activist, poet, friend and teacher were shared they came back as a dialogue even to the self-proclaimed interlopers. People identified their relationships and out poured a volume of missed opportunities.  The side glances and waves that should have been invitations to coffee, the poems that could have used one more edit, it was an offering of love.  The hum escalated to a choirs of what needed to be said before  goodbye.

To a dear teacher and new friend, for myself I must in closing say that I will always sit so everyone can see the poet.  I will remember the paper shadows of heritage and personal lore. I will watch dancers with a loving and critical eye, ask not if it is beautiful but what it says about my society in time. I will miss that I never got to New York to visit like you said I should.

-Always a young poet