Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

Once, I ran into my high school friend Brandon at a gas station after many years apart. He played first string on the football team, had a mischievous smile, and wore a gold hooped earring like one of his favorite football players. His charismatic smile garnered him many crushes. He charmed his way with teachers through most of his classes. Some remained unphased.

That’s when he turned to me. He asked for help with papers and take-home tests. He did a lot of partying and waited until the last minute before completing his work. At our graduation, he acknowledged his debt. He wrote in my yearbook; I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.

He managed to matriculate into a prominent HBCU in Atlanta, so I was surprised to learn that he developed a drinking problem and had to drop out. And here we were years later talking across a gas station island.

I jokingly asked if he still partied. I could see on his face that I touched on a past he would rather forget. He told me, those years were way behind him, he was the father of two daughters, he was a decade into owning his office cleaning business, he was . . . happy.

I was moved by his growth and ashamed by my words. But isn’t that what happens, we presume people stay right where we left them? That implicit assumption often carries judgment. In truth, most people go through many phases.

Today’s poem reminds me that life shapes us into authentic beings. Looking behind at our own journey can sometimes cause pain — but it can also liberate us.

Post-
by Corey Van Landingham

winter, the ice caps mostly unlocked, 
postlapsarian, post-VHS, post-Pac, it will be harder
to evince sympathy from the gods. Post-Prince.
The world formerly known as woolly mammoths 
fumbling toward some heat. Post-puberty 
I fumbled in the dark cars of skinny boys 
and popped Natty Light tops, crop top
pulled off. Post-pill paradise. Post-9/11, I called
the cops on a junior tossing stink bombs 
outside Señora Compton’s class (she bolted
the door as we dove under our desks). I shared
post-shift joints with our manager, Marissa,
Burger King walk-in filling with smoke. Post-
mortem, my father looked like an ancient king
ruling from his living room cot. Post-God.
Post-Plato, poets really got a bad rap—
flaunting our heroes’ breakups and breakdowns,
making even Odysseus weep like a girl. No more 
lamentations of famous men. No more 
steamy Olympus shower scenes. Poster child
of the post-game hand job, arcade backroom
queen, I paid for the Twizzlers my boyfriend lifted
from their giant plastic tubs. Post-
grunge. Post-graduate, pouring wine
for post-Yuppie Portland accountants,
I practiced my affect. I practiced Post-it note
GRE prep on my Honda’s dashboard
before my shift. Before I left the city,
post-certainty, post-cash, I posted pictures
of my couch, my bookshelves, my ratty mattress
that a stranger carried down three flights 
of stairs. I learned a postmodern side-eye,
how to get by post-truth. I learned 
that the word disaster means bad star,
that the planets might be positioned
poorly but good god when we’re close enough
Mars burns red hot in a corner of the western sky.

“Post-” by Corey Van Landingham from LOVE LETTER TO WHO OWNS THE HEAVENS © 2022 Corey Van Landingham. Used by permission of the Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Tupelo Press.