I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

After I finished my MFA at University of Oregon, I packed up my worldly possessions, some

clothes, a lot of books, and my beat up minivan and was off to New Orleans.

A week prior, I was called with an offer to teach at Xavier University, an HBCU there.

The job didn't pay much, but I could mostly make rent.

I was teaching five courses of composition writing, each semester to remedial students.

In my idealism, I was doing more than passing along the mechanics of writing.

By teaching my students to express their realities and opinions, I was teaching a pathway for

them to control their future.

The job didn't leave room for much else.

I thought about the students' papers in the morning over bowls of oatmeal and while

brushing my teeth at night.

And yet, when anyone asked what I did for work, I never mentioned the job that paid the bills.

I pretentiously announced that I was a poet, often to a quizzical looks.

Even though I desired to be seen as an artist, truth be told, I wasn't writing.

I hadn't published a book yet.

I just had a few poems and journals.

I was posing.

I told myself the intensity of grading crushed my creativity.

When I showed up to write a poem at my local coffee shop with its rows of tables and green

lamps, I siped my latte, fiddled, and looked around at all the Tulane lost students studiously

buried in their law books.

...