The Brief: Be Audacious (12/2022)

What does it mean to dream bigger, to be heard...?

I’d wager it’s been a restless end-of-year for most, if not all, of you reading. My days have become nights have become days. My dreams have become half-sleep hypnagogic visions of doors and windows opening, being opened, people stepping on through or sliding on in—or being shut-out.

Maybe, in retrospect, we’ll think of 2022 as a year of eagerness and impatience, of promise and cautious optimism, of timidity. This was the year that Biden (prematurely?) declared the pandemic over, AI started stealing art (and adding fingers), New York City topped the Economic Intelligence Unit’s list of most expensive cities (with Singapore), and congress finally passed The Puerto Rico Self-Determination Act (with stipulations that maintain U.S. occupational authority regardless of Puerto Rico’s status). 2022 has also, arguably, been the year we started rebuilding and relearning how to be with others and ourselves. And now, as we approach 2023 having learned some hard lessons (or suffered inexplicable trauma), we should be asking ourselves who we really want to be.

I love the holidays in part because I love gift-giving, especially surprise gift-giving. It’s an opportunity to show a loved one how much you care and how well you know them. The best surprise gifts are the ones you’ve always wanted but couldn’t (for whatever reason) get for yourself or gifts you never realize you wanted. Ever since I managed to get my money right (c. 2018), I’ve done my Christmas shopping early and with eager anticipation for December. Unfortunately, this morning, it dawned on me that I may have forgotten one thing. I needed some cash for a quick (and very cute) stocking stuffer that I’d planned since August.

Today in New York City, on Christmas Eve, it’s 16°F (-9°C). It’s the kind of cold that one has to be really prepared for. So, to make my quick run to the bank, I began layering—thermals and socks and hat and hood and mask and gloves and, finally, a very special scarf—one gifted to me many months before, in April.

A hand-knit muffler gifted to the author by Celia Heath in April, 2022.

In my final semester as a professor at Brown University, I was teaching a course called Losing Record about loss, losing, history, memory, forgiveness. I felt I was near the end of my time at Brown. Colleagues and voting faculty had become very cagey whenever I would ask questions about my future there. They were avoidant, dismissive, or genuinely unkind. So I figured this course, Losing Record, would be my swan song. And my goodness was it a wonderful way to end seven years of a long and lonely road in Providence, Rhode Island. We made some memories in that class! At least I did. From a haiku writing contest (where everybody was a winner), to origami lessons, to discussions of the Indian Child Welfare Act, and on and on. Honestly, what makes a college-level humanities class isn’t the professor. It’s the engagement all parties (but especially students) bring to the course material. And I was truly blessed to have some wonderfully engaged students in that course.

One student in particular (whom I had previously in other courses) managed to get into the class during the initial lottery (to fill-in unregistered or unclaimed spots on the roster). For the rest of the semester, she’d find her seat, pull out her crochet needle, and knit while listening to others or sharing her own thoughts. I didn’t mind at all because it was clear the knitting relaxed her and perhaps even helped her remain engaged in study and discussion. More than once I wondered to myself what she was knitting, who she may have been knitting for, and how lucky that person would be to receive such a gift.

Just before the end of the semester I knew I would no longer be teaching at Brown. Faculty in the Literary Arts department had voted not to even consider renewing my contract (which it likely would’ve been by the tenure and promotions committee, given the opportunity). This certainly left a bad taste in my mouth—one I haven’t been able to wash out (despite my best efforts). But one afternoon, before leaving Providence, I found in my inbox a little, black drawstring bag. The kind of bag one stuffs with towels and flip flops on their way to the gym or beach. Inside the bag was a huge scarf and a note.

Turns out, all along, the student had been knitting a scarf for me. Today, that scarf has kept me warm in freezing weather. Today, the scarf is a reminder that, however ugly or lonely or cruel the circumstance, there is kindness, there is love, there is warmth. Grazie mille, Celia Heath.

I hate to be so cliché, but for this next year, I want you to dream bigger. I want you to be audacious—which simply means, daring to be heard. And I don’t want you to feel bad or sheepish about it. Be boldly who you know you’re meant to be. Because, yes, there are people in this world with a vested interest in your silence. But, more importantly, there are people in this world who want to hear your voice, who want to see you succeed, who need you to be who you are so that they might feel empowered in being who they are. I’m afraid we spend so much of our lives witnessing the world through the barely perceptible scrim of our vulnerabilities. And yes, it is important to recognize our limitations. This is part of wisdom. But, every now and then, we have to take off the lens of our limitation and remember the world as we knew it, when all things still seemed possible.

Our hurts, our scars, condition us to become risk averse. We might become so risk averse that we stop trying new things entirely. We give up on love, on dreams, on whims. Instead we focus on being safe and conservative and living out the rest of our days collecting checks and watching as the world turns. If that’s you, there’s no shame at all in playing it safe. I completely understand. But if this is you, and if you’re unhappy, I want you to consider doing something new in the new year. I want you to try. If it’s within your power to be generous, let generosity be your power. If it’s within your power to brighten someone’s day, let your light empower others.

I, for one, am starting a bookstore. Taylor & Co. Books will be coming to 1021 Cortelyou Rd., Ditmas Park, Brooklyn NY in early 2023. And yes, you’ll be hearing so much more about it in the coming weeks! Needless to say, I am terrified. All of my doubts and demons and bad memories have surfaced to remind me of my previous failures and foolishness. But I also have this scarf. I have my virtuous (lol) friends and people who’ve shown me uncommon support (like the brilliant writers and editors who’ve stuck their necks out for this plucky poet). I have my faith and my family. I have the courage and strength and warmth and competence necessary to make this bookstore a special and thriving place. And, if you’re reading this, it’s probably in part because of you. Thanks for joining me on this journey. We have so much to look forward to. And I hope you’re feeling that hope along with me. Happy holidays to you and yours.