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The Truth about the Benjamins

I'm nearing the end of my first week-long stretch. Just like any other feature, the "show bag" is stuffed with books and CDs. Don't even bother with the zipper. In fact, being able to draw the gaping seam together at the end of each night would mark a success.

Counting the number of CDs and books I'll be taking with me back to Milwaukee, however, I'm reminded that I'm not that poet who can measure their success or impact in CD sales. Sure, the Taalam's and Sheba's and Nam's of the world count their sales by 5s and 10s (Bless 'em!); but not me. And, to be clear, this is not a revelation to me, just a reminder. I know I'm an ackward and underachieving salesperson ... I've got deep-seeded issues in that Asking Folks for Stuff department that go waaaaayy beyond poetry.

Still, I usually do okay (by my standards, anyway). Just a little short on hustle this trip. But I left my heart swinging from every microphone, like I always aim to do at my features. So, the after show rewards came to me in somewhat foreign currency: an angel in Corpus Christi (it was Halloween, after all) told me that every word I'd said rang like truth for her. Truth? Cool. In Austin, I was told that my work was pitch perfect. Me? Honor. A barfly-bystander in Houston claimed to have been bitten by the spoken word bug after listening to my feature. A conversion? Sweet.

And in San Antonio, a woman announced that she wanted to become an organ donor and was going to insist that her entire family to do the same. Mission? Accomplished.

I like to think I connect with audiences at every show; that's what they tell me and what I feel, anyway. This trip has felt ... richer, somehow. I guess the Council of Gods mean for me to tuck away a different nugget every time I hit the road. Ohio was a plain ol' ego boost; Chicago 1 and 2 was about extending partnerships; and Vegas was my show-and-tell slam dunk for my husband. Texas, I've surmised, has been a reminder that my purpose is to serve as a messenger as well as raise funds for Chase's memorial fund. This is not like the kids in my neighborhood peddling pizzas and tins of peanut brittle for a school trip.

Could I be a better/more assertive salesperson? Well, that's a nother post ... but possibly. Did I need a kick in the pocketbook to remember that there are many dimensions to my mission? Obviously. Whether they take my product home with them or not, people are listening when I speak. That is an honor all on its own. That they keep my words with them in tiny, zippered compartments as a result of this mini-crusade affords me the grace to cradle my son again.

That, in my mind, is the definition of redemption. And, dollar for dollar, an empty show bag could never compare.

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