The Prodigal Returns
Never Left and More Left Than Right
Sunday, I read poems in the little town I grew up in, Alberton, Montana. A few old friends who’d settled there in the ‘70s threw a homecoming “reading” party for Pam and me. We left Alberton forty years ago, so those old “newbie” friends from fifty years back have now lived there twenty years longer than we did, making them the “older Albertonians.” This shit is important in the minds of small-town folk, one of whom is barking at you for the duration of your stay.
When I first agreed to go out there, we planned to book the gathering through Humanities Montana’s Montana Conversations Program where I have been working since becoming Poet Laureate back in 2021. That way I would receive a small honorarium and my milage would we paid for upon completion of the event. The Alberton Historical Museum operates on donations and volunteer commitment, the kindness of locals and strangers. Alberton has no excess resources; they are doing the best they can to keep the school doors open. In a rural state like Montana that was what made Humanities Montana so important. Those speakers brought conversations about art, history, culture, and stories that fed the souls of small-town locals and the soul of the community. I’ve always thought of art and humanities programs as “social glue.” They put people in situations that created sharing and communicating like one big extended family sitting around the dinner table or convened in the living room, maybe on the porch or in the back yard, down at the school multipurpose room or in the gym, some gathering place under the big sky.
Well, we all know what happened to that idea. The crocodile hunters shooed all of us leeching toads off the shoulders of the poor taxpayers, ran us out of the swamp so the gators would have more elbow room. Of course, I’m tempted to go down this rabbit hole again and scream again the same shit I scream again and again, but I’m determined to stay focused on this message of joy that I experienced with a group of folks who went out of their way on a lazy Sunday afternoon to make the trip and sit in a crowd to hear poetry read aloud. Some I knew, some I hadn’t seen in forty years, and many I met for the first time. And given what we know about the political makeup of the American electorate, probably a good portion of them cast a ballot for the Asshole in Chief, Mr. T. (Sorry, he stalks me, even haunts my dreams.)
What amazed me was that for an hour and a half or so, they sat shoulder to shoulder in rapt attention. I watched their animated faces responding to the language employed to recount stories, thoughts, and feelings that all of us have regardless of background, race, religion, age, or politics. Listening to stories, we can’t escape being human and allowing our emotions to identify with the characters in the poems. It warmed my heart, made me feel like we were on the same page, that we could work together and accomplish anything we put our hearts and minds to achieving. like we were on the same team, part of the same family. And we are. That’s what it means to be an American by definition. We came here from all over the world (unfortunately for those indigenous people we tried to exterminate) and said, “All are welcome here to live in freedom and peace.” We all see the irony, the absurdity in that, right? That’s so “American.” We are a bunch of outlaws yo-yoing back and forth in an effort to choose the “best” selfish path for ourselves. Being individually “great” we value more than being a “great team player.” That’s our Achillies heel. We push “free agency” over team “dynasty,” the “successful” vision of equality and social justice for all.
Those of us who recognize this contradictory nature in ourselves and our country, find ourselves at best laughing at the absurdity of it all (because we can). I imagine the current suffering “expendables” don’t find it nearly as laughable. But our laughter is not the “Ho-Ho, Hardy-Har-Har” kind of funny, it’s that “edgy, shitty, what else are you gonna do” kind of sneering, teeth-gritting chuckle that says, “Someday we’re gonna pay for this shit, you stupid fuckers!” As you can see, it is difficult for me to keep this narrative out of my head. It’s hard for me to comprehend that many of my fellow citizens choose to ignore the Nazi elephant shitting all over the parlor furniture.
This is why I fell in love with this group of people who came to a poetry reading in a “podunk” town in a mostly red state to sit together and listen, then interact warmly and openly. It was evidence that we are capable of getting along and appreciating our differences, celebrating our humanity, our strengths and weaknesses, able to tolerate and most likely help on another, the way we used to when I grew up there, do what Jesus would do, the real Jesus, that mythical God-like man who cared about all of us and resented those who took advantage of people in need. And there it is once again: that fuckin’ Golden Rule. It ain’t rocket surgery! For Christ’s fucking sake, My Friends, Love Your Neighbor! Or just try not to be an asshole. Be kind.
The attempt to destroy the public support for the arts and humanities is more about preventing us from getting together and remembering how decent and trustworthy our neighbors are, than it is about saving money or getting out of debt. Because if we did more of that getting together and talking, we’d probably figure out what these super-greedy pricks were up to and decide to do something about it. Like we’d think, “Just how in the fuck is giving these ultra-rich assholes who pay little to no taxes as it is an even bigger tax-break? Why would they need more money?!” Maybe then we’d start agreeing that it’s time to take these fuckers to task. We can do that. It’s been done in the past (unfortunately this is nothing new) and the system is in place. We did it in the ‘30s almost a century ago. It’s past time to do it again because we don’t need a decade or two of a Great Depression exacerbated by the increasing havoc we are precipitating through atmospheric and climate related disasters. Am I worried we are going to destroy Mother Earth? No. In true human fashion, I’m concerned with self-preservation, covering my own ass. You should be, too, so I mention this as a team player. I may be dead before we create massive climate related disasters (I hope so) but I do care about the future existence of my sons and all your children. Let’s elect people to change the operating rules for the machine: bust obscene wealth, take hoarded excesses and redistribute it to take care of our home, Earth; make sure all peoples’ basic needs are met including food, shelter, healthcare, and education; then focus on the economy. Our consumption-based economy is wasteful, addictive, and unfulfilling. More is not better. Our desire to fill an endless hole, that vortex sucking us into the inevitable, our death, must be faced. Our modern models for living are designed to distract us to avoid thinking about the great unknowns and facing those questions we all have: What the fuck is going on? What happens when we die? And why are we here, what is the point to this whatever it is?
Once we have confronted the simple fact that we don’t know shit and that nobody has any answers for those questions, it’s a kind of relief. We come to understand that we are all in the same boat: we are here, along for the ride. The trip has its ups and downs. Some of us are better off than others when it comes to basic needs. So that recognition ought to make us want to help those other folks find the kind of day-to-day stability we already know. Right? Who doesn’t feel that way? If we know we’re all going to die sooner than we think, and none of us know shit about any of this, why would we want to see anyone suffer? The only answer for that kind of lack of empathy is fear. Selfishness is a fear of not having enough. As Franklin Roosevelt pointed out, fear is a game-ending choice. In the midst of the Great Depression, he reminded the suffering that, “the only thing to fear was fear itself!”
Crazy-assed, power-hungry, attention-grabbing narcissists like the nut job in the White House are extremely afraid. Yes, they are personally and desperately aware of the strong motivation of fear, so they employ it to manipulate the masses. If they can keep the people afraid, anxious, focused on irrational boogie men out there and pretend that they have it figured out and can get things under control if you will only give them unlimited power, then all will be well. They will save the day. They have the answers. This is the kind of bullshit fearful people consume by the bucketload. They want a savior. Jesus H. Christ, it’s hard to believe that human beings are susceptible to this age-old trick again and again. Shakespeare knew it, Barnum relished it, and Trump has ridden it into the most important job on the planet twice! It blows my fucking mind. The marriage of stupidity and selfishness is a recipe for disaster.
Okay. I’ll get off my therapist’s couch, leave you alone, and get on with really living the rest of this beautiful day. Before I go, I want to get back to my thoughts on returning to Alberton and reading poems for the folks there. I really enjoyed it and want to thank those who came and those who made it happen. I so value the opportunities when we can get together in groups to experience and consider art, language, the contradictions and complexities in the human heart, sitting together listening and processing the words in our own heads while allowing our neighbors to process the same in their own way, then talking to one another about their visions and memories, the benefits and pleasures of doing all that. I know I can and can’t go home again. I do it in my head all the time, but I discovered that we can sometimes literally make the physical trip to the place where we grew up and can be rewarded with a spiritual afternoon steeped in memory, community, change, and the generosity of a kind of forgiveness, maybe take the opportunity to forgive ourselves.
The Prodigal Returns But he never did Really fit in, Did he? His dad Always played The devil’s advocate, So it’s difficult to blame the son For acting out the contrary one. Talking back to authority Gets easier each time. You gain power, self- Confidence, And that’s addictive. Individuality can corrupt When you take yourself too Seriously. Trying to represent Others can be lonely when They leave it to you To carry The load Alone. That struggle, Integrity, can be hard to hold. When the son, grown old, returns to A gathering of friends reminiscing Around a fire, he knows he’s come Home again seeking forgiveness.