Anne Sexton, Malcolm X, Allen Ginsberg and Me

When I was a junior in high school, I decided I wanted to be a poet when I grew up. 

What I meant by that was that I figured I’d wait tables, maybe have a baby, and write poetry. 

It hadn’t occurred to me to go to college, and I had no idea there was such a thing as a professional poet or MFA programs. One thing I did catch wind of though, in my high school creative writing class, was that poets read poetry.

I mean, I had always written poetry and journals non-stop—in my room, at parties, in the back of classes, on the bus, sitting by the river running through the Michigan State University campus. But I wasn’t much of a reader, not of anything other than Judy Blume, that is (Starring Sally J. Friedman as herself is my personal unsung fave!)

So I went to the local bookstore and went to the poetry section and looked around. I found Anne Sexton’s book 45 Mercy Street and saw her picture on the back. 

And then I read this:

“…where the butter sits in neat squares/like strange giant’s teeth” !!!!

I was hooked.

Because I felt like I actually met Anne Sexton that day in the bookstore, though she had been long dead, I felt like I, too, could be a poet. 

Thank goddess, a kind friend from the back of English class senior year told me I should go to college. And not just any college, but Antioch College. I had heard of it from my reading about Anne Sexton’s life, especially her letters, where I learned that she had published poetry in the Antioch Review. 

When I arrived at Antioch and was given a work-study job to offset all the financial aid, I chose to work at the Antioch Review as the office assistant. The first time I was left alone, I rifled through the index card files where all the submissions were tracked. 

And there she was! 

Someone had made notes of Anne Sexton’s correspondence with Robert Fogarty, the editor (and my boss).

And then I felt like I, too, could start submitting my poetry. 

Which I did, and to some delightful success! I began publishing my poetry in national journals as an undergrad (You can read some of my more recent work here. And trust me, there’s a lot more where that came from…). My poetry professor was very supportive. I took a short story class and loved that too! Soon enough, I also learned to love academic writing.

I took a sociology class on race and learned about Malcolm X—I read his autobiography, his speeches and biographies and watched all the documentaries on him, becoming obsessed with his spiritual seeking and intellectual growth.

I was especially moved by the way he taught himself to think and learn by reading the dictionary in prison. And then I, a young radical myself, was blown away by the way he grew out of his conflict with the Nation of Islam, developing a deep spiritual calling to help heal from generations of systemic oppression and internalized racism. And a hypocritical leader.

I wrote about his willingness to be vulnerable, to change his mind publicly, and to be a shameless agitator, devoted to refining his understanding of the world, politics, religion, and race.

And, of course, being an Antioch student, I wrote a Marxist analysis of his early views of race. In my room, I hung up a picture of he and Fidel Castro, chatting.

At the end of my years at Antioch, I decided to apply to an MFA program. My boyfriend, my best girl, and I all wanted to move to the NYC area together (those were the days when poor kids COULD!), so I applied to Columbia, Brooklyn College and Sarah Lawrence. 

I got into all three.

I was given scholarships, loans, and teaching opportunities in all three, too.

But Brooklyn College offered me an ACTUAL teaching position—like I’d have my own Composition class—whereas the other two only offered Teaching Assistant jobs. And I knew I’d have to make a living out of this writing thing. PLUS, Brooklyn College cost a fraction of the other two (and would be even less after I established New York state residency) PLUS Allen Ginsberg taught there, which seemed pretty cool, even though I thought all the Beats were just patriarchal man-children.

So I went to Brooklyn College. It was one of the easiest and best decisions of my life. I was able to write my heart out, live in Brooklyn, and grow a career without going into too much debt. 

And Allen Ginsberg turned out to be more than cool. It was in one of his classes that I first heard the Heart Sutra, one of the most foundational teachings of Zen Buddhism. He actually sang it. This is what I remember: 

No old age and death

And no end to old age and death.

That little seed of something was planted in Ginsberg’s classroom that day, and years later, I moved into Zen Mountain Monastery to practice Zen full-time.

On the whole, Brooklyn College was VERY cool. I also studied lit theory, met Judith Butler, and made life-long friends, one of whom just reached back out to see about some book coaching

So what’s the point of all this?

A: Writers: You don’t have to look far from your life to develop yourself as a writer. If you’re a mom, investigate motherhood. If you’re a bartender, bartending. If you’re a poet who needs to make a living and can’t bear the thought of a full-time job EVER, take care of business and just keep writing. Whatever you do, never stop telling the story you can’t stop telling.

B: I’ve been incredibly lucky to be influenced and guided by so many people—some in my real life and others in history, whom I met only because I was given the time and opportunity to do so.

Because I’ve been so fortunate, especially this year which has wreaked havoc on so many, I want to support others, particularly those with tragically limited access to the kind of creative and intellectual empowerment I’ve come to value so deeply. Since I started practicing at Zen Mountain Monastery in 1998, I’ve been involved in the National Buddhist Prison Sangha, first as a coordinator, and then as a correspondent, writing letters to people in prisons around the country who would like to practice Zen.

As of this January, I will be offering a percentage of my profits from my Book Coaching work to the Bard Prison Initiative (BPI).

BPI gives people in New York State prisons access to a college education and supports graduates who wish to pursue their professional and personal passions when they return home. Since 2001, BPI has created groundbreaking opportunities for college within America’s prison systems. These programs transform the negative impacts of criminal punishment and create radical inroads of access and opportunity to higher learning.

Today, BPI enrolls over 300 incarcerated students full-time in programs that culminate in degrees from Bard College.

Amazing, right?

You can watch the documentary about this inspiring program, produced by Ken Burns, here.

And donate here.

Because a creative, intellectual life is a human right.

I’ve fought hard for mine, but not THAT hard.

Are you with me?