Tamara J. Madison
Awkward Agency/Salient Survival
Me:
“Good morning, I am traveling
to Auburn, New York. I
will be reading poems
from our family tree in
Ms. Harriet Tubman’s
church at 5:00 pm
this evening in a
celebration called
FIERCE!
#elevatetheancestors
#tribewithme”
#1 Son:
“Good morning love to
start the day off with
good news have a
great time travel
safely”
Daring Daughter:
“OMG!
That is HUGE
Go mommy
REPRESENT”
Wash Belly Baby (Son #2):
“Pulled up with gang
and them. That’s
what I’m talking
about Ma
(5 pairs of “!!” in bold red)”
Those were my children’s responses to the texts about my latest excursion. They are used to seeing the bags packed and waiting at the door the night before, checking my itinerary shared on Google Drive complete with flight, accommodations, and host institution and personnel. Perhaps it is a speaking engagement, perhaps a residency in Wyoming or a retreat in Italy. Perhaps it is a convening panel or a road trip across states to discover more of our family history and lineage for my research. Whatever the case, they check Instagram for pics and posts and respectfully listen to stories about my adventures upon return (without thumbing through their phones). They are my most consistent and supportive cheerleaders who encourage me when my energy is low, my thoughts hesitant. They often beam with pride when their friends ask, “So where’s your mom now?”
…It hasn’t always been this way…
They were drafted into this poet/writer-artist life. It began with me pregnant beneath stage lights in performance, poems spilling from my mouth their lullaby in utero. Soon it would be messy diaper changes and nursing backstage before disappearing behind the curtain praying they slept peacefully. Flash forward a few more years and my first born would boldly walk onto the stage in the middle of my featured reading at Elliott Bay Bookstore (Seattle) grunting under his breath that he would rather be home playing with his action figures than present with all “those strange people.” (My composure, kind words, and glass of water would have him returning to his seat to patiently wait until Mommie finished.) Years later while I hosted, my daughter would lie on the stage (Atlanta), propped on her elbows, dreamy eyes focused on the next poet blessing the mic. Another decade and the youngest would have to adapt to Mommie away teaching at a summer arts camp for 4-6 weeks at a time. Each night he would cry, and sometimes I would too as I tucked him in as lovingly and gently as I could via phone.
With a blended family of six children, one year we had an actual summer arts camp in the house. The siblings planned comedy skits, rehearsed dances, and of course, wrote a newsletter with feature articles and pictures. The community and neighborhood attended the “camp closing” with two sets of a final show on a rainy Sunday afternoon staged in the cleared garage. I sat in the audience with the baby who was too young to participate other than clapping and laughing at his siblings along with a host of their peers and elders. We all recognized; this was special.
While many other children fell asleep to Disney and Nickelodeon and took trips to theme parks, my children fell asleep to me reading to them. We had an in-home cinema with a TV screen smaller than the monitor I am now using to type this. The VHS tape and later DVD would often be paused in the middle for a discussion of “character development” and “the story behind the story.” Cinderella was not really about the prince but about how the lead character was empowered by her fairy godmother, and X-Men became a dissertation on how everyone has superpowers; we simply must have the courage to discover and develop them. My children still joke (and complain) about how they could never watch a movie in peace and how they were forced to share their Halloween candy with the entire apartment complex knocking on doors to “give candy away” after trick-or-treating for themselves earlier in the evening. No one else ever had to share candy like that. This story returns to family gatherings occasionally even after decades.
It was not always easy living this “othered” life. It was often a struggle, but after many years, the complaints turned into curiosity and critical thinking, compliments and blessings from wonderfully self-determined, creative, and well-rounded human beings.
For this mother/poet-writer-artist, such is life and legacy.
Such is love…
Tamara J. Madison is a writer, poet, performer, editor, and instructor. She is a MFA graduate of New England College and Anaphora Literary Arts and Ucross fellow. Her work has been reviewed and published in various journals and literary magazines including The Amistad, Poetry International, Cider Press Review, and World Literature Today. Her most recent poetry collection is Threed, This Road Not Damascus (Trio House Press). She is completing a new poetry collection based on ancestry.
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