Tonight, two other writers and I will be sharing our stories at a reception for current and potential First Person Arts supporters. Now, if you know me at all, you know that I can "do" a reception. Show up, smile, laugh, listen, insert witty comment here, refill my sparkling water with lime, eat another crab puff and then find someone to join me in the shift from would-be-supporter to current supporter. (We won't just eat together, we will also write checks together. There's safety in group spending!) Eat, drink, and be merry - I can do that! But I don't write poetry!
I will share the wonderful story of Lise Funderburg's great workshop on Object and Memoir in another blog or perhaps in my book but I have to introduce her here because she is the catalyst for my involvement in the First Person Museum. In her workshop (at the Art Sanctuary's 26th Annual Celebration of Black Writing), she asked us to present or think of an object to share with the class. Every object has a story and we were to share both object and story. The story that emerged on that day was the story of my "conspicuously absent" wedding band. (I should know by now that any time I resort to dark humor or flippant remarks, something is brewing beneath the surface.) In the last few minutes of the workshop, we wrote about our object and I dove right into the assignment. What I did not expect was the form and shape of my story. I found myself writing from a place that was unfamiliar to me. I was writing the story which emerged as a poem...but I don't write poetry!
When I finished writing my story, I put my pen down and went to the ladies room to collect myself because I could not believe what I had written. I came back to the room where others were still writing and I waited for the inevitable invitation for a volunteer to share what he or she had written. Someone else was brave enough to go first and after her wonderful story about a photo of her father, I thought, "No way am I reading this corny thing!" But it begged to be read aloud and I vaguely remember raising my hand and offering to share what I had written but then, I heard myself apologizing to the group for what was certainly an unexpected exercise in bad rhyme. I began reading the piece entitled, "This Thing - This Ring" and when I came to the last stanza, I felt my throat tighten and the tears burning my eyes and I used my public speaking trick to press through and finish the last few words of this story-poem. No one spoke for a moment and then Lise accused me of writing it at home and smuggling it into the workshop and I don't know if anyone else laughed, but I did. (And thank goodness because I think I had stopped breathing for a good 5 minutes!) I was speaking publicly about my married life and the death of my marriage...and it led to an invitation to participate in the First Person Museum.
In just a few moments, on a sheet of cheap notebook paper, with one of my favorite pens, I managed to write the story of my troubled marriage, my pending divorce, my 'clergy conflict' and my resolve to continue to believe in marriage while accepting the end of my own. Tonight, in a room full of strangers, I will read the poem that tells the story of my troubled marriage, my no-longer-pending divorce, my 'clergy conflict' and my resolve to continue to believe in marriage while accepting the end of my own. With the ink still damp on my divorce papers, I will stand before the group and eulogize my "conspicuously absent" wedding band...but maybe I won't tell them that I don't write poetry...
