On October 2nd a local high-school teacher invited me to her classroom to speak to her students about writing and poetry. More specifically, the lesson of the day was one in which the exploration of a subculture took place. Subsequently, the questions that were posed to the students in the beginning were: “What does a poet look like?”  What would a poet sound like, conversationally?” “What kind of clothes would they wear?” “What do you think makes someone want to be a poet?”   As we got set to go forward with what became an easy and enjoyable group conversation, it all seemed a bit esoteric to me and I began to wonder if I was indeed the right person for this particular gig.

I started to wonder if I was a poet, if I am a poet.  What does a poet dress like? How did I come to be a poet? I know my backstory, as it relates to the when and why I write what I write and way that I write it.
But, in the end, we talked about the subculture of poets and poetry, the need for more human interaction, the thrill of the live poetry reading and the fact that this particular subculture that I am a part of also tends to be sought out by those from other subcultures. I explained what The Thunderbird Sessions are and what they continue to mean to me. I explained that we have a regular attendee whom is very obviously wracked with anxiety, but that he comes to life under the lights and through the PA-system at Unplugged during a Thunderbird Sessions event.  Additionally, I explained that we have, often, subcultures within subcultures represented at a Thunderbird Sessions reading.

It seems that the fringes, the weirdos, the people who don’t quite fit in anyplace else, fit into the robes of the poet or the writer, because people that write have an escape hatch, they have a valve that releases the pressures that they feel every day and in almost every way.

I have done my best to make sure that my subculture is as accepting of any other subculture that might step through the doors of anywhere that I might be reading, writing, or otherwise existing. Because, really, the only culture that matters is the culture of kindness.  

Before that roomful of high-school kids was done with me, I told them that despite the fact that I didn’t know them, I loved them unconditionally. I told them this, because no one told it to me outside of my own childhood home and family. I felt like I didn’t fit on the planet. So, I found music and books that made for good companions when I needed them. Records and books are often quite a bit more reliable and dependable than people. People will let you down at every turn.  It’s a pretty rough room out there right now, so I’m trying to be one of those people whom you know will absolutely not let you down. I hope I’m doing okay.

A few days later, I got a thank-you card in the mail. It seems that I failed to communicate thoroughly enough on the subject of subcultures. No one wrote: “Hooray! Now I know a real poet!” “Now I understand how a poet should dress!”  “Now I know how to talk like a poet!”   Instead, the teacher wrote something like this: “Those kids remembered how you told them that you loved them unconditionally despite the fact that they were strangers to you. That really meant a lot to them.”

I want to do more of this sort of thing. It’s the only way I feel like I’m doing the very most good that I am able to do.
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-JBClaywell
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