I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

Too hot inside. The building AC out.

Everyone worn down from extreme temperatures. We sat outdoors, forming a makeshift classroom at a writer's conference.

By midweek, after much laughter and camaraderie,

we were bonded beyond acquaintance,

which is to say, there was trust.

Many were there reflecting on a life full of experiences.

One had quite an air of elegance about her. She was reserved, poised, and shy. She walked

alone during outbreaks. After some time, she read her poem out loud, which quieted the room.

Bless the teenage boy who said he'd rather kiss a swarm of bees. And bless the sorority

sisters who shunned me after weight gain. And bless the man who blocked my promotion and blessed the date who said after several

cocktails I was sad as a cardboard box left in the rain. The poem chronicled a series of hurts that upended assumptions we may have made about her.

Many in the workshop teared up as they listened,

and everyone clapped when she was done.

I felt honored that she shared a poem in a space

that we all co-created together. Our protection allowed us to enter without

worry of judgment each other's universe of anguish and joy.

When I first started to teach poetry, I believed all taught during workshops should be

about mastering craft.

But I was saved by the poet Toye Derekad

who, and quick reaction once to my critique of a fellow workshop participant

...