It may look like I don't update my blog, but really what happens is this:
1.) I have an idea, a good one, for an article
2.) I write
3.) I edit
4.) Doubt and worry sets in that my article is a piece of trash
5.) I revert to draft, or permanently save as draft, until I have edited it to perfect perfectness
OR
1.) I have an idea
2.) I start to write
3.) Too long, I never finish
Edgar Allan Poe said something about this: write only short stories so you don't bore the reader and also don't bore yourself. I've already said too much in this introduction, so here's what I really wanted to write about: meeting Eavan Boland.
A long time ago, my mom's college class was going to a poetry reading, and she invited me to go because I was into poetry and writing and stuff. I was super excited, because I had imagined it would be a seedy underground place, filled with smoke, with hipsters and cool people snapping their fingers and saying things like "jive" and "groove." Something like this, with less music.
Anyhow, when we got the address, I was surprised to figure out it was at a tiny little arts theatre, dedicated to some famous writer or something. A well-known hole in the wall.
I instantly felt underdressed when a man in a tuxedo opened the door for us, only to feel relieved when he told us we were at the wrong side of the building. The real theater was very small, with two stages, and delicate, deatailed architecture and ceiling decor that made you look up so high you'd almost snap your neck trying to see it all. There were people in informal outfits milling around; my mother got our tickets and joined her teacher, a jolly woman with a PhD who insisted on my calling her by her first name. The classmates trickled in. The doors opened, and we were shown into the theater.
It was actually rather small, if I remember correctly, for a theater: about the size of an elementary school gym. The stage had three women seated behind a pulpit. We took our seats. I realized that there was a mural on the ceiling and that above us there were balcony seats! People hidden in the shadows! They murmured softly as everyone began to fill in.
I remember someone shoving papers into everyone's hands; they were all identical, with a poem on them written in someone's scrawly, looping handwriting. I tried to read it, but I didn't really get it; poetry is difficult enough without having to decipher the hieroglyphics it's written in.
People around me shushed each other, and a spotlight snapped on, highlighting the pulpit. A woman introduced the poet and their program, comparing her to the famous women of Shakespeare's time, and announced that the reading would begin.
The poet was an Irish woman, Eavan Boland. She didn't sound Irish at all. Rather, she sounded like an Englishwoman; she reminded me of a gentle mother or grandmother, and she had a warm and friendly laugh and a good sense of humor. She sat down, adjusted her glasses, remarked on her lack of an accent (to people's amusement), and began to read.
Ms. Boland began by explaining her poems and her background. I can't remember everything, but I do remember most of what she said. I remember that she spoke of her people, and their struggle for freedom, and to define themselves and to keep their language, long dead, alive.
She spoke of the fighting, and starvation, and love. She talked of a couple who died together, and were found, frozen to death, the man's stiff body warming the woman's feet even after death. She spoke of a little Irish girl burying her identity to become English (that explained the accent). She read a simple narrative and talked about books, shelves of them, and we smiled with her.
And then I heard a sea of crumpling noises all around me, and saw people unfolding their papers. I did the same with mine, because she was about to read the poem written on it. But I didn't end up reading along with her as she spoke. Instead, my eyes were focused on her, and they were full of tears.
Why was I so moved?
Because I felt the force that flowed underneath her words that night. When she talked about her childhood, she wasn't just talking about the loss of an accent - I felt her pain at the loss of a language, the same pain that worries me daily as a first-generation child of immigrants.
And when she talked about the starvation of her people, my mind wandered to a place I'd heard stories of long ago, when my mother would comb my hair and sing to me before bed.
I was teary because her pride for her people's history, and for their culture, and their triumphs, was my pride in my own, and her every word was resonating with me. This woman, whom I'd never heard of before tonight, had showed me everything I'd always felt before, in words.
Later, when she said she'd be selling her book, I stood in line and silently grabbed a copy. I shuffled forward, my brain full of the things she'd said and the way she'd said them.
And when it was my turn to meet her, I stood there for what seemed like an eternity.
There she was, in front of me. So much to say, so little time.
I wanted to ask, can you speak the language of your forefathers? Does it hurt you that you can't? Do you weep when you think of the lost deeds and songs, the stories and smiles, the pain and the pride and the essence of your ancestors, lost?
I wanted to tell her that she'd almost made me cry, but the only words that came out were, "It's a pleasure to meet you, and I really enjoyed your reading."
On the car ride home, I held a copy of her book to my heart; it was inscribed with her blessings for me and my sister - short, sweet, and impersonal.
The book is still with me, but the feelings have somewhat faded because my mind is always clouded with a thousand things, especially now that I'm entering the busiest years of my life.
However, occasionally I will reach up to my closet's highest shelf and dust off the cover, attempting to recapture the raw emotion and spiritual connection that I felt that night when Ms. Eavan Boland performed her ode to her people.
One day, I hope to perform my own.
