Transcript

I’m Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

The cold days have returned, and I am reminded of my grandfather. As a bricklayer, his work was seasonal. And thus, money was tight during the winter months. Construction halted when the snows came. He and my grandmother were forced to “make a way out of no way,” that is, to be resourceful during hard times. They kept an eye on the thermostat to keep their oil bill in check. They wore itchy sweaters and thermal layers. Delicious evening meals were magically produced out of few ingredients. They ate lots of stews, soups, and bread. The temptation to be frivolous was put on hold until Spring. My grandmother mended her dresses for Sunday morning church services. My grandfather repurposed disposable items. One winter was particularly difficult, but they kept a cheerful outlook. They still found a means to be joyful and happy and full.

When I first read today’s poem, I thought I was going to write about California — a state whose sublime nature cannot be overstated — and, to write about my love of the Northwest, and my many friends there whose laidback outlook, fierce progressive politics, embrace of the environment, and keen intelligence have fed me — in short, it was to be my love letter to the West Coast.

But that will have to be put on hold. Because what I appreciate in today’s poem is the speaker’s indomitable outlook that echoes my grandparents’ optimistic spirit, especially in the face of deprivation and difficulty. Today’s poem lands on what is both a beautiful notion and a pragmatic belief: that even in our states of lack, we still live a miraculous existence, where love and natural beauty abound. 

The Pacific
by Jennifer Jean

Without a boogie board,
you’d fling your body
into the curve of the Pacific.
Without baby oil, you’d still burn
& be tender for days.
Without a blanket, you’d drop
your faded Eddie shirt, 
sit—& later, shake it out,
mop off your salt. Without
shades, you’d razor
your hand like a visor—squint
at five footers rushing up,
at gulls. Without money
you’d drink from a fluoridated bubbler—
you’d eat that deflated pb&j,
box of raisins, yellow apple.
Without a comb, your hair would turn
to loose dreads—damp
with foam, with mist. Without shoes, 
your hot, calloused,
hobbling feet
would be fleet, would crave
the Pacific. Without a boom box, 
you’d hear other people’s music—
& walk the slanted shore
till you found your Summer
song. Without some body’s love,
there’d be a miracle—
there’d be today.

“The Pacific” by Jennifer Jean from VOZ © 2023 Jennifer Jean. Used by permission of the poet.