“Healing is impossible in loneliness; it is the opposite of loneliness. Conviviality is healing. To be healed we must come with all the other creatures to the feast of Creation.” ~ Wendell Berry
I turned 38 last weekend, which means I’ve officially been writing poetry for two decades… Over half of my life! So I suppose it’s about time I tell my origin story on here. Not as a writer—since that dates back to as soon as I was capable of holding a pencil and clever enough to invent my own words—but as the poet who followed a path centered around that specific genre towards a graduate degree, a published book, and a few teaching gigs (that eventually ran dry). But the truth is that I never meant to box myself in as a poet, per say, though for a time it felt fitting to refer to myself as one… If only because it seemed like the easiest, most fulfilling, maybe even marketable thing to do as a bilingual, multi-hyphenate artist coming of age before we all stopped believing in a future in academia.
It all began at a humble cafe that has stayed in business over the years thanks to the loyalty of the students across the street. Truly, it was proximity which brought us to The Sweet Shop Cafe with such regularity more than it was the offerings at said establishment… These ranged from milkshakes to Italian sodas to Boba teas and encompassed every type of handheld, sandwich, or wrap imaginable. But if I’m being entirely honest, it all began with a hilarious sandwich board made of cardboard and advertising a poetry club in permanent marker.
I had only recently arrived along with the newest crop of freshmen to Florida State University, but I was already eager to declare myself a creative writing major and find my tribe. Therefore, the very moment our families (at least, those members who had driven or come along to install us into our dorms) had dissipated—and all that remained of the crowd on campus was students who lived or professors who taught there—I set off in search of a sign. It came far sooner than I expected—right as I rounded a corner to the brick courtyard under student union…
In fact, I almost smacked face first into it! Rounding the same corner except coming from the opposite direction were two young men… One of them had recently become a creative writing major himself, and would go on to publish several beautiful books. But at the time, all I knew of these students is that they were both wearing handmade sandwich boards which slung over their shoulders using twine to attach the front and back sides. In the time it took to apologize, I noticed their signs advertised a group called the Society Of Poetic Elements… (Or S.O.P.E. for short.)
I attended their next meeting, and found myself the only freshman (and female) student sitting at a table of about four or five other juniors and seniors. They met every Thursday night, and waxed philosophical about poetry for about two hours… Encouraging each other to read so-and-so or try such-and-such technique to improve a recent draft. I marveled at the sheer quantity of names of still living poets they knew and dropped so easily. I forced myself to read even my worst results of the generative prompts, and blushed at their kind remarks.
Growing up, I’d already been part of choirs, orchestras, theatre ensembles, and many a collective performance before. But it was at The Sweet Shop Cafe where I was born a poet—and in this place that I finally learned what it meant to be in community with fellow writers… I honestly consider myself fortunate that it was such a decent experience, and that it prepared me for my first official workshop—which didn’t occur until the following semester. To this day, I feel as though I owe a debt of gratitude to Glenn, Karl, Phil, and Todd for being so dear.
There were other members who I’m choosing not to name… One, the founder of S.O.P.E who I didn’t meet and become friends with until many years later. Two, a dear-hearted and dearly-departed soul whose name I will refrain from saying out of respect for his relatives. Three, the other wearer of the sandwich board (whose behavior towards me wasn’t ok, so I’m not ready to open up about that right now). Finally, the other students who wove in and out of the group—who helped me keep it going after the original members graduated. I owe them thanks, too!
Lately, I’ve struggled to identify as a poet. It’s certainly still the genre I’ve spent the most time appreciating, contemplating, studying, utilizing, etc. It has shaped me—led me so much farther than I could’ve dreamed—and being one is a dream that continues to guide my steps… Just not all of them. Not even most of them, anymore. The years I spent so certain of that identity were beautiful, but oftentimes heart-breaking ones... I learned that a poet is a lonely beast of burden here on earth—often tasked with bearing witness to far too much.
Still, it felt good to return… A full twenty years after I first walked through its front door—first put pen to paper in my beloved poetry journal—this so-called cafe has barely changed. The sunken couches and the tall-backed benches look as dingy yet inviting as ever… The wood-paneled walls have sustained another few generations worth of signatures, yet somehow remain the same shade of mustard yellow… The ceiling hasn’t been replaced, and the hand-drawn advertisements look trippy as ever… Maybe some things never change. {to be cont.}
The origin story of she-Hulk... hehe. Love that quote by W. Berry. Couldn't agree more.