Make Meaning While You Weep

On the Road with Poetry to Missoula, Montana

Making Meaning While You Weep

I flew out to Montana to be part of the Ignite Arts Integration Conference in Missoula, MT this week. Because of my health, travel has become harder and harder. I chose to accept the invitation to work with this incredible Kennedy Center partner, because of their infectious energy. Yet, I got very weepy when it to go. After 30 years of flying across the country and the world, I have travel fatigue. I’m weary of airports, planes, and hotel rooms. There is no place I’d rather be than my own townhome—my haven—preparing to sleep in my Sleep Number bed come early evening. It brings me both comfort and joy. I miss my daughter Amber and my grandson Julian when I’m away. We are a multi-generational household. I miss my bird visitors, my garden, and my houseplants.

I wept into my wine the whole way on the plane. Why? Who knows exactly why. I am an HSP—a Highly Sensitive Person. I was grieving the act of leaving the surroundings that soothe my aching, pain-ridden body. I was grieving for the world. The senseless killing of innocent people. The erasure of African American culture. The way history and progress are being denied and rewritten. I ache.

I’ve always known my assignment, even when people belittled or bullied me for it. “Why do you always write about Black people?” they’d ask. “Why do you feel the need to keep writing about the Black experience?” As if I had a choice. As if truth-telling wasn’t the very marrow of my art. Some of those same people are only now waking up to the fact that we’ve always been on a battlefield. This is why I write the way I do. This why show up how I show up. My voice, my poems, my stance have always been about justice and widening the margins for the marginalized.

When I arrived in Missoula, I was still weepy. But I persevered. My heart began to shift when we gathered at the Montana Museum of Art and Culture to celebrate the 10th anniversary of SPARK Arts Ignite Learning. The evening felt like a weaving of joy as Sienna Golberg welcome everyone and set the tone. Then assistant superintendent of schools brought full circle talking about the necessity of art—not just in schools, but for the whole community. He spoke of cultivating joy. He was joyful and intentional. I was even more weepy, but now my tears were signs that I was exactly where I was meant to be—amongst my tribe. It was lovely to hear Jeanette Mccune speak on behalf of the Kennedy Center Partnerships. I made a new spectacular friend, Bomani.

The next morning at the conference’s opening, the superintendent Micah Hill led by example. He and his family sang Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds”—Don’t worry about a thing. It was courageous, vulnerable, and deeply human. My friend Jeff Poulin spoke about the power of youth-driven initiatives and changing the narrative. It resonated.

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I taught six workshops: 3 Praise Poems and 3 Creating Kwansabas. After the first day. I went to my first Iron Pour. I may or may not have danced with my fellow teaching artist and friend, Sean Layne.

Though my poetry sessions were designed for teachers, an eleven-year-old attended one with her mother. She was crocheting quietly in the front. When I asked what she was making, she said, “A chicken.” I gasped. “I love chickens! I collect them. They connect me to my grandmother.”

At the end of the workshop, she handed me her creation. A small crocheted chicken. I was honored. She wrote a spectacular kwansaba in the workshop and shared it with us all. She promised to send it to me so I could share it with other young poets

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There is always a thread in my poetic path. I opened my closing keynote with the poem I wrote for my grandmother, Katie Latimore. Receiving that chicken right my keynote was a beautiful omen. The universe knew. It was part of the sowing and sewing I spoke about. I gave the attendees a mandate. If 80% of what we do is who we are as teachers, teaching artists and administrators, we must take care of ourselves. Figure out where we are in our careers: emerging, intermediate or established and get the support we need for ourselves. I task them to write their own poem modeled and inspired after my poem, “Make No Apologies for Yourself.” I was grateful to end the three days on a high note, connecting with such stellar colleagues and creative spirits. I appreciated the standing “O.” It made me cry even more

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I was supposed to end my trip with a visit to Glacier Lake, (you know how I love a National Park) but a weather advisory changed those plans. I wandered downtown instead and stumbled upon the Missoula Pride Parade. Though I’m not a parade person and usually avoid crowds, this felt like a happy accident.

I was astounded by the wide range of organizations marching in support—especially the churches walking their talk. That kind of radical inclusion matters. I was glad to be among rainbow-clad souls celebrating a community that deserves love and safety. I danced. I hollered. I encouraged. I was the one on the sidelines shouting, “You go, gurl!” “Come on boots!” and “You betta walk!” I not a fan of parades, but I understand the need for this parade. These parades. I am here for the pageantry. I am here to uplift other communities that need uplifting. I am that cheerleader.

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This is my last full day in Missoula, and I am still teary. But I make no apologies for my tears with my Highly Sensitive Self. I keep pushing forward. I keep moving through the tears. I believe they water what needs to grow. They help me release, let go, and…

Bloom Anyhow.