I Heard it Downtown

Easter weekend typically means a mass exodus from campus. By the time I awoke this morning, my roommate, most of my friends, and my girlfriend were all out of town…and my family was still very much scattered across the country. It looked like I was going to be in charge of my own fun tonight.

I went strolling down high street in the afternoon, and stumbled across a bookstore/coffeeshop place that I had been meaning to check out. On a lark, I walked inside, poked around for a bit, bought a book (How Soccer Explains the World for 6 bucks. I both enjoy soccer *and* the world, so I figured it was a pretty solid investment), read for a little bit on one of their comfy couches, and then decided to head back home. On my way out, I noticed a poster on the door, advertising the release party for a book called “The Good Things About America”. I had never been to any kind of poetry or prose reading event before, and my alternative plans for the evening involved drinking all the Gatoraid in my fridge and playing NBA Live 08 all night…so I decided I’d come back in a few hours and check it out.

I have to admit, I was a little apprehensive about the whole thing. Despite being a writer, I’m not really the most “literary” figure in my family (that title goes to my younger sister, who is rapidly becoming a renowned poet in Madison, Wisconsin). I write mostly political commentary, non-fiction and sportswriting. I haven’t really attempted a poem since 8th grade (I wrote a 3 page epic poem called The Great Panda Problem, detailing a group of Panda’s escape from the Zoo, and subsequent takeover of the world. It won “best poem” that year. I decided to retire at the top of my game). Am I even allowed to go to things like this?

My feelings of nervousness didn’t really go away when I first walked in to the coffeeshop. People were wearing fedoras, chuck taylors and double breasted shirts. I looked down to see what I was wearing. I had a blue t-shirt that said COLLEGE (a la Animal House), and brown flip flops. I had gotten my hair cut that day, and still had the gel in my hair. I stuck out like a white guy at Live at the Apollo. What killed me is that I actually own a fedora. I wanted to shout “No, this isn’t what it looks like. I’m really one of you people! Let me get my hat and we can talk about books!”

But was I?

The room quickly filled up, and I found myself sitting in a group of hipsters. The reading began with a few songs from a stripped down rock band. People were in the crowd were laughing and chatting with each other during the songs. I got the impression that most people here knew each other from somewhere else…somewhere else in this scene, which made me feel a little more self conscious. I vaguely entertained thoughts of leaving, but I would have had to crawl over 20 people to get to the door, and dammit, I walked all this way to hear some poems about America.

After a few songs, the band left the makeshift stage, and a tall fellow stepped up the mic. He introduced himself as the editor of the book. He told us that in his travels, he’d hear lots of poets writing about America, but usually in the context of America sucking. Our president is stupid, our foreign policy is unjust, we’re killing the planet, blah blah blah. Quite frankly, it was starting to bring him down. Sure, America has lots of problems, but why do we only have to write about the bad stuff? He called up some of his fellow poets from across the country, asked them to write about the *good* things, and published the book.

As somebody who writes about politics regularly, and also hangs out in a fairly left-leaning crowd most of the time, I think its critical to read stuff like this sometimes. Writing about politics (or even paying attention to politics) can be a major drag sometimes…people can be self-serving and corrupt….it can bring out the most banal and disappointing aspects of our personalities. It can be scary and hateful and sad and make you question why you even bother.

And then you remember…its because I Really Like America. I would even go so far as to say America kicks ass.

Many of the poets featured in the book journeyed to Columbus for the reading…some from Boston, New York, Oklahoma, and others. They talked about families, love, their hometowns,Elections and Heroes, their favorite cities, and the American Experience. My heart filled with pride.

Many of the poems (and the poets) were exceptionally witty and smart, and I found myself laughing and joking with my seatmates. I felt myself becoming a little more comfortable after every poem, after every story, and after every mutually enjoyed pun. One poet, after reading, crumpled up his manuscript into a ball, and tossed it into the crowd. Audience members fought for it like fans might jostle for a foul ball at a baseball game. I couldn’t help but smile. Maybe these are my people after all. I left the reading without any shred of self-consciousness.

The readers were far more diverse than my initial “poet” stereotype had allowed for. There was an older gentleman from southern ohio who read stories from his dark (but also oddly hilarious) book about a fictional town in Ross County. There was a woman who lived in ultra-conservative Oklahoma, whose mother kept a cardboard cutout of Barack Obama in her kitchen (after the last 8 years…I just need to see his face every morning she said. Apparently she hasn’t been able to find a cardboard Michelle yet). Folks from all over the country, from all different backgrounds and with different life experiences read and shared.

I ended up buying the book, making it the first poetry book to grace my bookshelf. I walked out of the reading feeling completely refreshed and rejuvenated. I am prob. not able to write like they can. My writing is like bread, and their poems, like an expensive wine. Its perfectly fine to write bread….after all, everybody eats bread. But Jesus was on to something when he said that man cannot live on bread alone. Sometimes you need a sip of something more complicated to refresh your pallet.