Journal, Day 24

Somerville, MA / Major Jackson

Thursday morning and I Get on the Bus; actually I get on tomorrow, but I join up tonight with the traveling band of bards at the Burren Irish Pub in Somerville. I probably should have said “No, but thanks.” when Matthew Z. mentioned it back in March. See, I’m away from my family Monday through Wednesday most of this academic year in Cambridge, Mass., and made a pact with my wife Kristen to spend long weekends home. So today, I would have driven three hours north to the Green Mountain State and picked up Romie from daycare in the late afternoon, then driven to Langston’s football practice and stood on the grassy sidelines, cheering with other parents as the bright, early autumnal light of dusk descended on all of us. In short, I feel heartily guilty. This will probably be the first of hopefully not too many weekends in which I renege. Ever the feminist dad, who overcompensates and cares about the amount of domestic workload he shoulders, and whether or not his wife’s professional career is receiving the same amount of attention, I wonder how many other poets on the bus are suffering similar pangs of guilt at leaving their partners, spouses, pets, children, and laundry.

This brings up for me questions of generational and age difference of the touring poets, as well as privilege. Is it no coincidence that two men came up with this idea (Joshua and Matthew) and another is ably managing it (Travis)? And still another man is driving the bus? I wonder what shape the tour would have taken were a woman involved in the planning? Would there have been daycare options? Seriously, who among us has the wherewithal to abandon their jobs and other responsibilities, and live freely and crash bars and couches? I wonder what sorts of deals, if any, had to be cut at home to join such a historic gathering of poets in motion.

I said yes because my friends Prageeta Sharma, David Rivard, John Yau and Thomas Sayers Ellis said yes. I said yes, also, because I admire a good deal of the poets (including the organizers) who have boarded before me and will board after me; I feel a very strong connection to this generation of poets, artists, and musicians. It’s like a poetic version of hands across America. Also, well, Mary Jo Bang is reading. I'm a fan. I said yes because I always say yes, when it comes to poetry.

I said yes because I grew up in Philadelphia and that will be my final destination. When I was younger, I caught the Septa 26 bus in Germantown to and from Central High School; in the morning, the buses would be packed and bus drivers would be reluctant to open the doors for fear of crushing the many passengers packed in on the stairs. Often, they would just drive on by corners that were full of people waiting in a loose queue to board. If you were running late to school or work, you were relieved to see the bus approach. But, if that bus just drove on, you’d be pissed and probably would curse the driver and everyone on the bus. Those on the bus would smirk and laugh at those left standing on the sidewalks. In the winters, it was tough being left behind.

It's Thursday morning, and I Get on the Bus. The allusion is to Spike Lee’s faux-documentary style movie that follows several black men of varying ages and class backgrounds on a cross country trip to the Million Man March, organized mainly by Minister Louis Farrakhan and the Nation of Islam in Washington, D.C. I did not get on that bus for some very complicated reasons. I get on this one.