Become the Poet Laureate of Your Blvd
A few years, I went to a John Murillo poetry reading and workshop where his reading of Up Jumps the Boogie stuck to my bones. However, his advice on writers on being laureates remained a soothing, relevant hum:
“You can be the poet laureate on your block, your street, avenue, your neighborhood.”
He gave a story on how a neighbor, aware of his creative writing power, asked him to write a letter to a judge or commission (the memory evades me) on behalf of her son, who was at risk for severe punishment that naturally did not fit the crime because his skin was beautifully dark. Murillo wrote something sharp and tender that helped sway the powers at be for reconsidering the punishment.
The morning news chomps hard or rather the world has teeth. There’s an unbelievable swell of trauma, bloodshed and neglect on a bouveland, let alone a national region and global sector. And like you, I have to turn away from social media, online essays, and morning news or I’ll run the risk of luring depression or feeding that killing rage bell hooks addresses. But I can’t avoid the horrors either — that’s a privilege writers, especially writers from underrepresented identities — cannot afford.
What lies next is the argument writers internalize from architects, mathematicians and our parents. Is art enough? Yes, it’s enough. Your writing is your activism and right now the world needs you now more than ever.
Your gift is needed to fight bills and help people who desperately need to weave their rage into something fantastical. Below are points of refuge to consider utilizing your skills in these times:
1. Write your senators. Call your senators. If you can’t call or find that stamp then use this platform to text or Facebook message your letter into a resource that will fax your letter to fight against the recent health care bill that will literally kill lives. It works.
2. Write to the people that need love and care: political prisoners, those in exile, families grieving, or protestors healing from being assaulted. People will remember those words. If you’re on social media, finding protestors and families is relatively easy for that information.
3. Lead a writing workshop, teach writing, or send material, craft articles to those who need outlets. I work at a university — a highly privileged and quietly violent place. Students who were regularly writing, consistently performing before this past administration was elected, have stopped creating. They are watching Netflix to fill those spaces. They feel defeated and want to avoid processing and in turn, thwart healing. When needed, send them to therapy and direct them towards other essential resources but guide them back to writing. Give them accountability. Give them resources, books and check on their craft. Wherever you are, from local community centers to domestic violence shelters — give the gift of writing. Moreover, such spaces are important for other activists needing sanctuary, processing and reprieve.
Say what you will about poetry, how flighty and hollow it’s become, how it flaunts its vapid self in commercials for lite beer and gym shoes. When we need it, on days like this, it becomes a throat — a throat wide enough for a chapter of the world’s story, even when it feels like that story is the last one we’ll ever tell. (thanks to Kaveh Akbar’s twitter account for this mentioning)
4. For the majority represented writers, those accomplices with more privilege to enter such spaces, consider becoming a civilian review board member for monitoring police brutality. Your writing and archival gifts are especially needed. Become a bridge, aid those needing help to write, to dent this current, horrific system.
5. Keep writing for yourself. Tend to yourself.
