Get Out of My House, Mr. President
Eighteen years ago I listened to the poet Marvin Bell improvise verse over the top of live cello music, in the grand ballroom of a hotel in gray, sopping Seaside, Oregon. It was my first winter residency as an MFA candidate at Pacific University. George W. Bush was in office. The Long Wars were raging in Iraq and Afghanistan, though at that time we had no idea they’d be waged for twenty+ years. Culturally, it was post 9-11, pre-covid, pre-#BLM. Personally, it was pre-book, pre-spouse-and-child, pre-perimenopause. Marvin jived and rattled, words syncopated and simple, yet cutthroat. Occasionally he read published works; other times, freestyle. His petite and friendly stance hid his battle with depression and – sadly, a deadly cancer that took him from us all too soon. Here’s one of the things he said that night:
Later, a printmaker and publisher teamed up to create the above, limited-edition artwork, and somehow, I ended up with a copy. “Katey, Katey, the CD-lady,” Marvin used to say to me when we passed in the hallways at residencies. I was earning a degree in creative nonfiction; Marvin taught poetry. We did not work together directly, but like all the faculty at Pacific, we saw each other as family. Somewhere along my trajectory at Pacific, he had asked me about indy rock. I answered by making him a mixed CD, and onwards our correspondence went.
The reason I’m talking about this now is because sometimes rage can be beautiful. Sometimes it can be prescient. I see both in Marvin’s poem, and re-reading it makes me long for what felt like a simpler time. Re-reading it also fills me with grief. We’re still fighting the goddamn war, only now the stakes are even higher and the tragic impacts far greater. “Get out of my house. Mr. President. You can get your own coffee.” It’s so simple, and so invasive; the idea that our current would-be dictator could invade our lives so pervasively as to disrupt the sacred, personal, morning coffee routine.
This summer, I was determined to keep Mr. President out of my house by focusing on nourishment. Specifically, I spent three intentional weeks without news or a computer; I worked 13 out of 46 days; I gardened and read and traveled. Our peak experiences as a family were in Alaska, the place we chose to travel using our about-to-expire airline ticket credits from a trip previously cancelled by Hurricane Helene. In one instance, Brad, River, and I took a water taxi across Katchemak Bay, hiked three miles into the woods, paddled 1.5 miles across a glacial lake, and floated on ancient foggy-teal waters while staring at the face of a ¼-mile wide glacier. Then…it calved…the sound like thunder coming from all sides, striking the rib cage, shaking the heart. It was the most beautiful horrible thing I’ve seen and heard in a long time. Another day, I couldn’t sleep and watched the “sunrise” (it was really never dark) over Kenai Lake, lulled by an indescribable ripple-light-reflection-effect of sunlight rebounding onto the underside of alder leaves. I can’t tell you what it looked like beyond that. But I saw it, and now it’s in me, and when Mr. President tries to come and take my coffee, you can bet that light is the inner place that I go to, as I confidently kick him out.
All of this, yes/and – I couldn’t escape early-evening fatigue (a sign the deep rest is still in order); couldn’t forget the impacts of the current administration on my BIPOC and trans family and friends, and on my businesses and bottom line; couldn’t let go of two incredibly drawn-out, stressful IRS errors that have taken hours of my life and are still unresolved.
Heading into the school year, maybe “yes/and” needs to be the theme. I can certainly use all the reminders I can get that two truths can be possible at the same time. Yes, my third-grade son is thriving in school, and he cannot pronounce the R’s in his own name. Yes, the IRS screwed up, and I will still find a way forward. Yes, Brad’s employer sold out as a nonprofit medical provider to a corporate one, and he still largely enjoys his job (just not his employer’s values). Yes Mr. President sometimes steals my coffee, and I am part of a larger movement to defend democracy.
In addition to Alaska, our summer included a camping weekend, backpacking weekend, and lots of community garden workdays. Below, you can see a photo of said garden, which is a victory in and of itself. Why? That beautiful meadow was going to be purchased by Dollar General, but locals contributed to a Go Fund Me and bought it out from under them, establishing a community garden (and other community spaces, to come!). For the first time in my life, I have a full sun gardening space and the difference is absolutely incredible. My family and three other families have joined, turning what could have been a corporate-capitalist-crap-suck into real food that feeds real people and brings real joy.
Also shown are: myself and River backpacking on the Appalachian Trail; proof that River grew 1.25” in five weeks; camping on Lake James (NC); and more Alaska pics including Hatcher Pass, Katchemack Bay State Park, Talkeetna Lake X, Arctic Valley, Kenai Lake, and Cook Inlet.
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