Poetry is Bravery

Dawson sat in the library anxiously, his leg tapping. His shaggy blonde hair hung in front of his silty blue eyes, and he wore his best flannel. It was orange and azure and clung tightly to his broad shoulders. He didn’t expect this many people to be here today.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to do this anymore. More and more people filed through the glass door, masks of all colors on their faces. Next to him, Chloe breathed heavily. She was going first today. She wore a puffy winter jacket and a tiny maxi dress; no tights. It was 15 degrees outside.

Dawson scanned the room casually, stretching his arms out on the small chair. He didn’t recognize anyone besides Christina, their teacher, and his peer’s families. Even though he knew no one was coming for him, he still found himself looking. Stupid.

Christina slinked up to the microphone, adjusting it to her middle height, her black hair lightly rustling the microphone. She waited patiently, and did not clear her throat. Dawson admired how she could attract attention from a room without even speaking.

“So, we are gathered here today because these students have been working hard this past month,” She nodded towards them. The kids shuffled their feet in anticipation.

“For the past month, I have been visiting Ocean Therapeutics and teaching poetry. Specifically, the art of spoken poetry. The kids have learned that there are three important components to poetry. The poem, and what tools we can use to strengthen the poem technically. The poet and what they are looking to express from their life. And you, the audience, provide listening and insight on the poem.” Christina paused. 

“We have 10 poets that will be reading today. Please do not record them for the sake of confidentiality,” Christina welcomed Chloe to the stage and stepped away.

Chloe read a poem about society’s beauty standards, and Katy read a poem about summer campfires. After that was John who read a poem about anxiety and depression, and how he saw it everywhere he went. Madison read a poem incredibly softly about her first love. Rowan went up just before him, and her poem sounded like a serenade. She confessed she wrote it last minute. Everyone snapped their fingers and clapped louder. 

“I wish I could write like that at the last minute!” Christina laughed. Each poet that had gone up to the stage so far held a yellow rose. “Now, please give a warm welcome to our next poet, who will be reading two poems. Come on, Dawson!” The room echoed with light stomping and “woo’s”. 

Dawson walked up to the stage, keeping his head high. He held his piece of paper harshly in his fist, detailed with a story too private for all these strangers. He gulped at the expectant faces watching him attentively. 

“So, now that I am here, I’m nervous, and I didn’t think I was going to be,” he shared with the audience, and glanced warily down at his faded paper.

The room grew with noise and claps, of “you can do it”’s and Christina nodding at him. “We want to hear what you have to say.”

Dawson took a deep breath. “Alright, alright.”

He was doing it; his poem blew flames around the room and brought tears to a girl sitting far in the back. As the praise grew in the audience, that they resonated with him, his voice grew louder and bounced off the walls. His hands and arms were in flow with his inflictions and fierce syllables. The ending was priceless; it was like making a perfect dunk during basketball. The people were in an uproar in the quiet library! 

He noticed the girl in the back wasn’t the only one weeping. He felt as though he had taken his power back from his alcoholic father by reading it aloud. You may be my father, but you aren’t my dad. This time I’m the one who won’t pick up the phone. Little did he know that he had helped the people in the audience take their power back too.

After a few more poets read, the residents of Ocean Therapeutics were allowed to mingle with the crowd. The poetry event wasn’t open to the public. Christina had personally invited people she saw as community leaders. Besides family, the kids weren’t allowed to interact with the public while they were in treatment. So if you didn’t have family in town and didn’t like your peers, you were pretty lonely. This was a special event for more than one reason. Not just to be heard, but also seen.

The mayor introduced herself to the kids. Dawson was greeted by English teachers. Then the girl in the back came up to him tentatively. She stood off to the side, flicking her eyes from him and behind her. Dawson continued his conversation with the teachers, then he heard his name somewhere in the crowd. He flipped around to see her right there, her large hazel eyes and copper-brown hair. 

“Hey, I wanted to tell you that you did an amazing job.”

“Thank you,” Dawson replied.

“You truly have a talent. You know, I was stuck in this same place years ago. When you get out, you’re going to go places. I can tell. That took courage to read, and to read well,” she said. “I’m Viv, by the way.”

Dawson smiled but didn’t really know what to say to such a compliment.

“After I got out of OT, I wrote a book of poetry. I’ve donated it to your classroom. It has poems that I wrote during my rehab and after,” she explained.

“Oh, I’m getting out on the 11th. I feel ready. Going to take all that I can from the program, you know,” he summarized what he had told his therapist. 

“Well, sounds like you’ll be the first to read the book then,” Viv chuckled. “By the way, I had an asshole dad-father, too. Because they may be our fathers, but they aren’t our dads.” She winked.

 Little did she know what an impact her book would make in the rehab’s library. Neither of them truly understood the impact their poems had on one another, and the next stranger, and the next. The kids would read it and see someone like them in that place could recover. Not only that, but that their words and experience of addiction and depression allowed them creative openings. Dawson decided to write a book too. He slid his book spine next to Viv’s. He had a feeling she would find his book.