Echoes from the Black Box (edited)

The more I write the more it becomes evident that I am an absolute weirdo. There are times (like now) that I find myself thinking of things that should no longer hold relevance in my life. Random thoughts involving apparitions from my past never seem to go away completely and always find a way to creep up at the oddest of times.

The person who comes to mind right now (at 1:33 in the morning) is a woman I once knew briefly. In fact our acquaintance was so brief that by any reasonable standard our “relationship” is really a misnomer.  And since we barely knew each other, lamenting over this experience as if she was the one that got away seems a little ridiculous, yet here I am.  When I met the woman in question I was young and quite fond of myself. She knew this, which is probably why we never even became friends.

It was during the 90’s when I was an idealistic poet. Although I’d still like to think of myself as idealistic, a poet is something I have not been in quite some time. She is still a poet/writer and has earned many accolades. During those times when I wrote much more than I do now I thrived on peoples’ perceptions of me. I loved going on stage every week and spinning twines of verbiage which I spent days prior perfecting hoping to be rewarded with a rousing round of applause once it reached the stage. In hindsight, I see clearly how shallow I must have seemed to some, but I can honestly say that during those moments on the stages of the Brooklyn Moon or the Nuyorican Poet’s Café I really felt as if I was part of something that was larger than life. I felt like I was part of a collective of geniuses. She was among those few whom I deemed as such. I had great respect and admiration for her.

I remember one night after a performance at the Nuyorican I had an opportunity to walk to the train with her and some other folks whose names escape me. We walked for a few blocks making small talk about the night's showcases, the sound system, etc. until we reached a part of the journey that became very awkward. It was as if she pulled out a sword and sliced away all pretenses when she abruptly uttered the words “I hope you don’t think you are coming home with me because you’re not”. Needless to say the proverbial bubble was burst. There was nothing left to do accept deny the notion and make my way home. I suppose it would be stupid for me to “front” as if the thought had not crossed my mind, but in my own defense I have to say that it was no more than a passing idea that would go through any man’s mind when given the opportunity to talk to an attractive and brilliant woman like her. But I must also admit that if it was my mission it was inchoate at best.  Her words uprooted any such ideas before they even had a chance to germinate. Her approach was so direct that it left little room for any other interaction with her outside of a hello and some possible small talk in the days, months and years that followed.

It is not as if this sort of thing hasn’t happened before in my single life which seems eons ago. Neither is it a secret that for every moment of triumph that exists in the life of a young “player” there are equally as many if not more times when he will crash and burn. I suppose these memories are kind of like my own personal black box that has been recovered from my own personal wreckage. What is unique about this situation is that my plane never even left the runway. It actually exploded before I even thought about boarding. Honestly, it’s quite laughable. Part of me wants to blame it on my friend “T”, who was considered a notorious player back then. It’s quite possible (at least my ego tells me) that my guilt by association with him is what really killed my chances with her. But that would be a cop out of course. What is important is that she has gone on to accomplish many of the things that I had always hoped I would in writing. She has written poetry, which I have taught in my classroom.  One poem was so moving; I literally fought back tears in the middle of my lesson. I remember seeing her on the street after some years and mawkishly gushing to her how much her poem affected me. Her response was a blank stare.  I believe that that was her way of telling me to stop trying.  And whether it was her physical home or a place in her well-guarded sensibilities, I was not invited.

I realize now that during the time of our acquaintance when I was merely performing poetry, she was using it for a greater purpose that I am only now beginning to understand. At the very least, it was a way and a means for her to navigate through the often murky landscape of identity and gender in a land where such concepts can be landmines waiting to explode. Somewhere inside of me I believe I understood that then, but it would be some years later that such insight would make its way to the surface; like in my classroom on the third anniversary of 911 a half a breath away from tears.

I suppose this post is an open apology and a thanks to her; an apology for ever giving her the slightest impression that I would undermine her or her mission as a writer; a thanks for bringing me deeper understanding of myself. It is often that the most humbling moments in our lives are the ones that give us the most wisdom.