Skip to main content

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.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Requiem for The Weedman

Requiem for The Weedman Dasha Kelly Hamilton Tony never talks to me about terps                                                                     Katie didn’t mention percentages or strains Mike doesn’t brandish a logo, but his product and customer service -- always fire Julian can’t name the co-op of growers, but the strand is described with war tools Meeting Moose is most natural in parking lots Ant delivers to the house Max is still making moves after bar time Serena can’t come through til after work Sam’s stash is personally vetted Percy doesn’t partake at all Ericka responds to texts, never calls Ed rewards loyalty with free samples and extra shake Jake is not opposed to credit Denver needs her money every time Cast our votes Decriminalize our connects Yelp our transactions Ease them to the margins of utility, of enterprise beside the bank tellers, book sellers, taxi cab drivers and market cashiers Alisha doesn’t have a sto
Post a Comment
Read more

Hope is a Bruise

Hope is a Bruise Dasha Kelly Hamilton Paintball pellets batter shoulders and thighs at 190 miles per hour I count the purplish bruises and smile at the post vision of us toasting laughing, being vibrantly alive The woman who pierced my nose Rushed outside afterwards for a cigarette Whether my nostril or her nerves were to blame We both survived an ordeal that day I don’t think of the sweat on her lip  or the tears on my cheek when my jeweled  Black nose disrupts canonical spaces Agony delineates child bearing from child rearing Pain is the anticipated toll: the impossible stretch of skin and orifice, wrenching of organs, the pinch and nip of nursing I received no pamphlets about the pangs of panic and impotence The deep marrow rupture when their ache explodes beyond your reach A formation of police fired rubber bullets at my child 200 feet per second in defense of hatred and spiteful ignorance She raged back in protest until her throat ras
Post a Comment
Read more

Tiger Pause

At eleven, my daughter's fears were getting mauled by a tiger, injured a car crash and being a victim of rape. We talked a lot over the years about sex, sexuality and patriarchy, music lyrics and power, media, shame and the law, discretion, integrity and the whispered fragility of boys. At sixteen, I rocked her as she wept. Her slender shoulders were violent from crying. One of her friends had been raped. Months ago, but was only beginning to share. Months ago, when she started losing weight, stopped hanging out before pre-calc, and kept exhaustion shadowed beneath her makeup contours. We sat crouched on the stairs leading up to my room. She'd called out my name from the dark hall. Her voice, normally expectant and full, had been small and reaching. I peeled away from my husband to find her on the landing, shaking. My daughter felt helpless and hurt that her friend had gone through so much all alone. That she didn't know. Couldn't have known. That it was so unfair.
2 comments
Read more