I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

On a recent Zoom meeting for a literary magazine, I ask a guest contributor, if you could narrow your essay to a single sentence, what would it be?

As soon as I blurted it out, I regretted it. I have been asked similar questions about my poetry.

It feels like these readers are allergic to ambiguity,

like they resist the poem containing multiple, sometimes contradictory truths.

My colleagues on the call

rolled their eyes and began a round of not so hidden back channeling on their keyboards.

I was ashamed. I could only imagine what reticue my inane, although well-intentioned

question generated. I have made similar blunders in my life and subsequently launched into a week-long

surmise of inner doubts, likelihoods, and depressions.

Like that time, I mistook someone at a fundraiser

in a festively lit ballroom for a long ago acquaintance.

Or a time that I clearly othered someone by asking

where are you from? I self-corrected to, where did you grow up?

But it was too late.

The compounded question made it worse, proving to me that sometimes it's best to listen before imposing my curiosity.

In such instances, I find that I try to cover my tracks for fear of being viewed as anything but charming, thoughtful,

kind, and caring.

I drown in embarrassment.

Yet these feelings are small relative to the shame I felt after my divorce.

I didn't know how to handle the disappointment of family and friends

...