For almost a year now, I’ve been teaching at The Speakeasy Project, where I serve as a Poetry Mentor. I have never in my life enjoyed this kind of workshop experience as much as I have at The Speakeasy. I’ve tried to find ways to stay connected after each workshop ends; so a little over a month ago, I reached out to former students, and asked the following questions: “With the midterm elections upon us, what is keeping you going? What does your hope look like?” I’m honored to share their words below; in ways they already know, their work has kept me going.
And to all poets out there, keep writing. Don’t give up. I tweeted this recently, that another poet wrote me she admired my work and how often I publish, I just want to reiterate that this was not always the case. I’ve failed a lot in my life, and not just in matters of writing; it’s part of the process. I’d go as far as to argue that failure is part of hope itself. So, to anyone who’s struggling out there, keep at it.
—Rosebud Ben-Oni
The world feels like sand beneath my feet, and not the kind by the beach but instead quicksand; quicksand swallowing me whole and seeping into every inch of me exposed. The worst part about quicksand is that you’re not supposed to move. Counterintuitively, you’re supposed to stay perfectly still to slow your demise. Especially when it is easier to simply accept the collapsing order around you, numbly absorbing the anguish you receive daily from the news and amplified by those around you. But being still is a lie I have been telling myself—in fact the quicksand is only an illusion produced by a despairing mind. I cannot lie still and watch a few powerful people tear down everything good. My numbness only brings me closer to accepting defeat in the form of this status quo. In these times I remind myself that I am not alone, as there are many of us feeling equally broken, shaken and afraid of their next step. We need to take this next step though we may not know where it takes us, because it is still a refusal to accept that this is our future. So we need to take this step in solidarity, to rise from our despair and shape our future: sand, after all, provides unlimited possibilities.
—Vanessa Tsao
His name is Malik. His eyes are the color of cornbread drizzled with honey. I was visiting a non-profit wolf center whose volunteers educate the public about wolves, their behavior, and habitat. Or rather, they demystify the wolf’s bad reputation. The center also fosters healthier relationships among people and wolf packs living in close proximity. While I was talking to the caretaker, Malik came up to the fence, sat, and looked me directly in the heart. Unwavering, assertive. No lies. Truth has the eyes of a wolf. It’s hard to describe what I felt, but the closest words that come to mind are intimacy; connection, vulnerability. Not as in prey, but as in partnership/friendship. As if it’s ok to be raw and to hurt. As if opening up does not require a single word. Malik laid down right up against the fence and I sat on the other side. We remained like that for the better part of an hour in silence. As I think about how humans have projected ferocity and dominance onto wolves, I feel a deep sadness. It is always easier to blame another. I have profound respect and admiration for those who can see through the fallacies and show that there’s always another way. But only if we’re willing to listen. Wolf has been othered, targeted, hunted to the brink of extinction, expelled. Like immigrants, refugees, native community members, black and brown people, LGBTQ people. Other people. But that morning we received the news at the center that wolf OR-7 had crossed the California border after decades of absence. Today, there’s a pack. Hope has the eyes of a wolf.
— Leonora Simonovis
The morning of my father’s cremation is cool, a pale blue pearl in the heat of an Indian August.
Mantras vibrate, find harmonic frequencies in the hollows of my body. My brother follows the priest’s instructions, lights incense sticks with steady hands and places them, still burning, on my father’s chest. On my father’s stilled heart, a lotus flames.
Over the next few days, grief suppurates in my body causing a festering, bleeding gum, then a pus-filled breakout on my chin.
I bring my mother back with me to New Jersey in an impossible attempt to help her escape the persistent small voice of the ordinary gone awry, the pin-pricks of memory from before, the emptied vessel of the after.
After a 24-hour journey, sticky and bearing the smell of travel on our bodies, I stand with my mother in the line for Non-citizens at Immigration.
A fusillade of questions: Your mother was here in June. Why is she back so soon? Does she have ties in India? Any blood relatives? Why will she live here another 5 months?7 months of the year in the United States. Don’t you know that’s against the rules?
I want to say, sudden death is not against the rules. Turning to your children when your roof collapses is not against the rules. I try.
He listens. Inhales. When he looks at me and admits I would do the same if it was my mom, the baby grief in my gut lifts its head.
It pads up my throat and into my eyes, looks into the face behind the Plexiglas. We see each other. I know I am one of the lucky ones. Child and mother, we cross the border together.
—Yamini Pathak
*Content warning for description of suicidal ideation*
In October of 2016, I found out that a close friend had died by suicide. In the following weeks, I mourned with fervor, sobbing until suicidality found its way into my mind’s eye as well.
Thus, I listened to Legally Blonde: The Musical.
Until this point, I had modeled myself after Elle Woods and her melodic determination and positivity. Now, however, I turned instead to the musical’s title track. Here, Elle is at her lowest. She barricades herself in her room, cuts off support, and gives up when her professor harasses and fires her. There is no Greek chorus to stave off her self-doubt, nor a “Bend and Snap” to sashay past her pessimism. Lost in misery, we would therefore sing this plaintive ballad together. Our only hope was that we might someday arrive at the tracklist’s remixed reprise, where our friends’ support and a costume change might remind us of our strength.
Over the past two years, my family and friends have indeed helped me move past this song and into its zealous reprise. In truth, it has been this battle more than any other that I have fought to survive. As we in this country continue to face a daily onslaught of violences, I hope then that we are able to value the extraordinary resistance that we all perform in continuing to exist. Life may never be as narratively logical as Legally Blonde, but like Elle Woods, I believe that through the power of our communities, we can all work past the dark (blonde) nights that plague our souls and our society. If our only resistance is to live and give life to one another, then I have hope we are closer to remixing our reality in this country into one even better than before.
—Patrick Mullen-Coyoy
Feathers + Bird = Hope
Is this the correct formula? Or is it some other kind of equation? Or does hope come with the photo of a busload of dogs and other pets rescued from flooding due to Hurricane Florence? A week ago, when I first drafted that thought, this would work.
I struggle these days, especially while the hearing for the Supreme Court nominee, Judge Kavanaugh is happening. Suddenly, I am sitting on the worn couch in the house I shared with my boyfriend and his friend, watching Anita Hill testify in front of a panel of white men. I see the photos of many of the same men sitting in front of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. I recall multiple instances of my own traumas and alternate between tears and wanting to throw bricks through the windows of the hallowed halls of government. I want to sponsor, host, lead a woman’s rage book club.
I want to save all the words, to freely use the word clime in my poems, to talk about warp and weft of fabric, to bask in the specificity of weather words. In the words of the Senegalese singer, politician, occasional actor, Youssou N’Door, My hope is in you.
My hope is in you poets and writers. Thrill me with your metaphors; slay me with your similes. Make me cry with the beauty of language—words—heal. My hope is in me, too. I pick up my pen and become part of this grand chorus of voices. A collective shout to the ethers—the noesphere—the call to engagement. Your tweets keep me laughing, thrumming with energy. They lift me up and make me think.
Feathers + Poetry = Hope
—DeAnna Beachley
*Epigraph: In 1991 Senator Hatch holds up a copy of The Exorcist before Clarence Thomas, asking if he’d ever read it, suggesting that Anita Hill had made up her allegations basing them on popular culture.*
Spirit of The Divine, we call upon thee.
A chandelier poised from a vaulted ceiling surged the loaded room
Bringing focus to the carpet’s crimson pattern and tables dressed in radiant green
The row of pale faces all but camouflaged
Against the marble slabs behind them
Oh Spirit who yearns for a saving of all beings from a cunning evil daring to deceive a nation
The room’s leer rose with her
Chin steady as her hand paralleled
Dressed in electric blue,
She summoned a current through a cast of all male questioners,
Their eyes beginning to narrow and yellow
A committee chairman’s face pinked as he sucked at air through snarled teeth
His finger hooking into his collar as those alongside him did the same
In the presence of insolence, Spirit of The Mother, may you be compelled to exhume these roots of evil and prevent further harm
Both palms of her hands splayed out above her head
As she called upon The Spirit of womankind to expel the vessels of evil
Hands shot out, fingers gnarled in pain, arms bending back at the shoulder
Attempting to stand only to hit the deep red floor with their writhing bodies
Contorted to inhuman positions
Their heads snapped to the side then whipped downward as their eyes widened
At the black wisp slithering from between Biden’s lips while he regained
His footing, his hands clasped before him in forgiveness
Still on the floor, clawing at the room now thick with anguish,
The men called out for mercy “save me too”
Oh venerated Spirit, drive out all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, save us all
—Corinne Contreras