“Well, we had peanut butter and spinach sandwiches for lunch.”
“Oh, so that’s how you got here so fast! Well, I couldn’t make a sandwich, because I’d already gathered all those dandilion greens, and you know, you have to cook them right away, or they go bad.”
Smiling to myself at the foreign-to-me-but-normal-for-them conversation behind me, I thought for what was surely the third or fourth time since I’d arrived, Who are these people? I was sititng in the park, futilely trying to shrug off the lingering cold, and waiting for the annual Poetry Fest to begin. I’d seen a flyer in a flower shop advertising this event, and after appealing to every local friend I knew, I had decided it would be kind of fun and mysterious to attend alone. Among “my people,” I’m the slightly whimsical literary nerd, but I expected to be a little “normal” with this group. I knew it would be mostly older, highly educated and overly cultured participants, and I was more than a little curious to snatch a moment in their world.
The friends behind me continued their conversation about a thousand foreign topics: the best way to cook nettles, the meaning of some French lyrics, the new, non-commercial radio station that would use poems as filler between programs. While I tuned in without appearing to notice, a woman in front of me turned to ask if I intended to recite. “Oh, no. I just wanted to listen, today. I was an English major, you know, and so I can’t resist a good poetry gathering.” I continued to overspeak, feeling like I needed to justify my presence in this elite and mysterious world. She asked me questions about my life, told me she teaches Cultural Anthropology at the University, and then smiled, and let me return to my obscurity.
Things settled down as the recital began. More than a dozen volunteers had signed up to read or recite original or classic works, and the emcee for the afternoon was determined to keep things flowing. After each performance, she’d announce who was next, and who was “in the on-deck hole.” She sort of stumbled over the phrase the first time she said it, but then was quite pleased with it, and used it proudly for the remainder of the event. As I looked around at the crowd of literary professors,yoga instructors, librarians, and even the occassional beat poet (dreads, beads, and beanie cap included), I wondered if any of them there noticed that the phrase was just a little off. They seemed equally pleased with her cleverness, and my lone knowledge further separated the divide between us.
The final poet finished his original work right as the most eager raindrops slipped through the saturated clouds. For the first time that afternoon, the lines of distinction were blurred as we all hurried to fold up chairs and take down the colorful banners. And after the last chair was tucked safely away, and all the loose papers had been secured under the welcome tent, I slipped silently out of their world. As I walked back to my car, slowly waking from the dream of fresh poetry and alternative lives, I smiled - grateful to have been allowed a short visit into a completely different existence.