There is a line from the group poem “I Am Not A Juvenile Delinquent,” in my newly published book of the same name, that declares “I am happy turned to sad.” I read that poem in my hour-long Zoom launch interview sponsored by our wonderful local bookstore, Oblong Books in Millerton, New York on Thursday June 18, to which many of you listened. Thank you so much. The link to the interview is here for those of you who missed it:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1eXshuT8g5AIfvR-uCNmI-EWiGg5tY0qH/view?usp=sharing
And “happy turned to sad,” is how I’ve been feeling since my last blog post. The book is officially out and in the hands of many readers. My sister just texted that she’d hated to finish it because it was so good. Others have told me it made them cry, was a real page-turner, tough to put down. That’s hard for me to take in. Really? But I look at the book, shuffle its pages, and feel—yes—happy. The book I’ve tried for years to bring into the world has arrived. And people are positive about it and its message. Filled with the voices of a marginalized population, I Am Not A Juvenile Delinquent, How Poetry Changed A Group Of At-Risk Young Women, it feels like a perfect book for this wrenching time in our country, when listening to those voices is more important than ever.
That makes me happy.
But at the same time I am also filled with the same sadness I felt when I was in the rooms with those I call “my girls,” listening to their stories all over again, crafted into poems like this one by Miranda.
GIRL, LISTEN
you’ve heard of it
I’ve tried it
I’ve been there
I’ve done that
girl, listen
there’s nothing you can say or do
that will make me judge you
not care for you
or even forget you
I’ve gotten high on weed
and moved on to worse drugs like meth
I’ve had sex
believe me I’m no angel—
and when the pregnancy tests came in
I cried because of the results
I’ve been raped before
I’ve been called a slut
I’ve been called a whore
I’ve been arrested for assault
yeah, that’s right
I got high and pulled out a knife
I lost my mom
at the age of nine
and then two weeks later
my grandpa died
I used to lie
I used to steal
I’ve run away
I’ve been restrained
(that was just yesterday)
and not too long ago
I hung and tried to kill myself
so what I’m going to do
and I hope you do too
is don’t give up
because there ‘s a lot in life we need to achieve
life will get better
we just have to believe
Martha had asked me to read that poem during our Zoom interview; she thought it captured a necessary message to the world, shouting out as it does, the painful history of just one young woman. Multiply that voices by thousands, millions. See them marching in the streets, crouching in alleys or bathrooms as they shoot up, sleeping in homeless shelters or squalid overpopulated apartments or houses. See their despair, their confusion, their rage.
We just have to believe.
But, Miranda, I’m having trouble believing in much of anything right now, as the coronavirus continues to ravage our country, the social safety net is shredded, the unhinged man we have for a president seems to become more unhinged every day. His loyal cult preaches personal liberty as it refuses to wear masks or practice social distancing, crowds beaches, bars, and rallies. I know, I know, it’s awkward to negotiate familiar relationships, face covered up, six feet apart from unhugged friends and family, I did it last week when at last we were able to see our grandsons, son and his wife. But we have to, we must—for each other. It’s a lot like learning the steps to a new dance, a dance that could make the difference between life and death for many. A dance of kindness and respect.
We just have to believe.
Life has gotten better for Miranda, thankfully. She is doing well, clean, the mother of four beautiful little girls. She worked hard to get where she is and I’m so proud of her.
That makes me happy.
A wash of guilt, a rush of joy. Happy turned to sad. Contradicting feelings banging up against each other. How can I be happy when the world is spinning out of control, when so many live in misery and despair that things can ever change for them? How can I be sad when my life is so fortunate, a broad green yard, a black dog, a husband who cooks dinner every night, good health and my memoir out in the world at last?
Maybe it doesn’t have to be either/or.
We just have to believe.