2004-10-21 - 7:37 p.m.
Upon Meeting Benjamin Alire Saenz The knot in my stomach swelled into my throat; swallowing it I stopped tears from tumbling as the volunteer spoke to the man I was heading toward �You are the end of the line.� Then turning to me he said �sorry, but we have to cut if off. If we let anyone else in line there won�t be time for their books to be signed.
She has a media event.� I had been trekking with a toddler in tow, the newborn latched to my nipples now sore and swollen feeling numb not yet attached yet this new life needs me. My feet walked the city miles in search of inspiration, sustenance, strength. We three sat for the words tumbling from the children�s tent from the celebrated author where I pined for my older child the serious thoughtful reader who was not with me now, she who ate that author�s words over and over as if they alone gave her life the daughter whose loss I grieved like a death. I was battered and bruised by the recent banging of the car seat upon my thighs carried through the airport with the sleeping infant to catch flights to and from Buffalo for a battle over custody. So I had ventured out with the little ones I still held and danced though feeling dead, bounced with the characters of cartoons, boarded a magical bus, laughed at the large costumed crimson dog, and the backward bears of the beloved children�s stories. The small children now quietly slept spent and filled and I had thought this was finally my time. I hoped to at least catch a glimpse of the fiction author I just missed being able to meet. Hoped to fill the void of disappointment Reaching for something for myself. Standing at the end of the line I couldn�t enter. I admitted that despite being impressed by her publication hundreds of times over I was never really moved by her story no matter how many ways it was retold. It is always the same story in Western New York winters Frozen and dead with depression The place marred by lack of sun That boasts of the highest national rates of Suicide Substance abuse Teen pregnancy A cold hard legacy of stagnation. a reality I hoped to insulate my children from by moving to the warmer Southern state. I realized that my reading of her work was a clinging to my past most of which, I really wanted forgotten except for the children that have now been left behind there. It was the setting she wrote of that enthralled me with the lure of its paradox. The awakened nostalga for glorious New York Summer and Autumn, the fleeting moment of hope and warmth the bright array of vibrant colors brilliant and beautiful as the trees turn in remarkable contrast before the stillness of white winter sets it. The chill of winters that I still bear the scars from, the frostbite and deadness of dulled nerves. The deadness of Buffalo that for decades has been dying a merciless death with even the cold hard steel that once held it Ripped away Leaving slow erosion and tormenting, never ending pain The pain which at times Alone Is what is left as the sole indicator of life. And I thought to myself �I�ve never even bought one of her books.� That definitive test of personal worth of words I was never so moved to buy one of the books of this esteemed author. I now notice a lone writer sitting at an empty table. The empty tent is an anomaly among the many crowded ones filled with lines of hopefuls waiting for the autographs of greater known authors. I know immediately he must be a poet. I ask him to sign my children�s book He graciously does so, as I awkwardly ask �Who are you?� He tells me he is indeed a poet named Benjamin and adds he has also written children�s books but today is here as a weaver of words.
I hand the poet my children�s book of dancing gum drops the toddlers love to watch on TV , a show I have difficulty putting on (like most others) because it seems so silly and valueless, and most of all makes me feel selfish in it�s use as an electronic babysitter. The poet pens my dictation emphasizing in all capitals �DON�T FEEL GUILTY;WRITE!� Now I walk toward the book sale tent in nervous, excited anticipation almost sure I will like the work of this discovered poet, but afraid of the possibility I might not. I see the work of the woman I this morning was excited to meet, the book I earlier held then placed back thinking of the public library. I stand now with a small paperback in hand the poet�s collection which I would never have found had I not been here now in this place, at this time. I feel goose bumps all over as I open the pages. I read words upon these pages that are starting to wrinkle with the droplets of water spontaneously falling from my face running the ink, ruining the pristine beauty of the once new book. These poems speak with beauty, insight in images, nostalga and sadness, regret and fear, comfort in empathy and familiarity, but most of all of hope as life springs forth from these pages. This weaver of words moves me. I am getting in line to buy this book that my tears have both ruined and baptized as it is not of value in the world anymore I can�t re-sell it for much on an on- line auction yet with it�s now marred pages, this book which has enlivened me is worth buying. Copyright 2004 msafire MAB
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