TRANSCRIPT

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

As kids, with rocks in our pockets, my friends Darnell, Walt, Lefty, and I scaled a ten-foot wall that enshrouded a group of buildings that resembled Greek temples. John-John lived across the street. We often looked out his bedroom window down at students in ties and jackets with the letter G emblazoned on their chests. We presumed that the exquisitely kept grounds belonged to a private school filled with private school kids.

With marble Corinthian columns, its buildings looked like opulence itself, stately compared to the modest two-floor rowhomes that we lived in.

We stood on each other’s shoulders, then pulled ourselves up. Darnell slipped and badly bruised his arm. But we did not care about the risks. We were determined to give expression to our feelings of unfairness that the school stirred in us.

What we didn’t know was that the school housed orphaned boys. Girard College was founded in 1833 by the shipping magnate Stephen Girard for the purpose of educating "poor, white, male orphans.” The students were not to blame.  

I long felt guilty about our need to retaliate in reaction to our relative poverty-stricken lives. It would be many years later before I developed an empathetic imagination and an art practice to channel those emotions of anger and rage.

That wall, however, contributed to my attitude in life about all walls; they must come tumbling down. It also engendered a desire in me to be emotionally self-sufficient, to not give over my power to the injustices in the world. It is why I collect art, broadsides by favorite poets, old vinyl of musicians I love. Grounding myself in beauty grants me the mental fortitude and wherewithal to resist without fear. 

Today’s poem reminds me, in the midst of rapid changes and the assault on freedoms, that we must find ways to protect our health and each other, to harness our capacity for joy, to shore up our hearts, minds, and bodies.

Forge
by Ethel Rackin

Forge a temporary structure for feed—for nesting
for things you’ll lose along the way—
the highway from here to Missoula
from here to Lubbock—from sea to—
pack a roll-out, a canister for tears
record your dreams and take note
of sounds and scents around you
forgive your mother her trespasses 
your loves the pain they’ve inflicted
friends their betrayals and disappointments
befriend small animals and children
form groups—call frequently—rather
than texting—make an appointment
with loss—with griefs you didn’t know 
you had—with lumps you’re too afraid
to discover. Attempt to start a fire—
use sticks for this. Sit on a pelt atop
the cold firm ground. Remember
the animals in your dreams—
you may need them later.
Place your loved ones’
pictures in a locket
traverse forests 
learn to see in the woods
at night without a flashlight.
Learn to cook over an open flame—
almost anything—nettles, berries, bits
of dandelion leaves. There will not always
be meat. There will not always be adequate shelter.
There will not always be water.
There will not always be string.

"Forge" by Ethel Rackin. Used by permission of the poet.