Sometimes You Win...

In June of 2008, I had one of those crazy bugs that bites the writer, taking them by surprise, and took on a project unlike any I had done before. I wrote a screenplay.

I first became interested in the art of script writing when one of my best buddies, Kam Parker, wrote one in Asheville, NC. I admit when she asked me to read it, I had some reservations. I had never read a screenplay (although I’d read plays) and feared that I wouldn’t care for the style. And seeing as she is one of my best friends, there’s always, “What if I don’t like it?” I had nothing to fear. It was a page-turner. I couldn’t put it down. Even better, Leigh read it and she is picky, picky, picky about anything fictional. She loved it, too. The bug had gotten under my skin.

In June, Leigh suggested offhandedly, after listening to me talk about fishing on the phone, “Why don’t you write a screenplay about fishing with your friends?” Let’s see, because who will be interested in that? Nobody is going to produce a movie about a bunch of butches who love to go fishing? Loyalty and friendship are too sentimental for this century? Who cares?

Turns out, I cared. For once I didn’t think about the audience, the producers (or publishers), the sentimentality of truths I hold to be self-evident. I wanted to do something for me. I wanted to write a screenplay about what I love, what I believe in. Along the way, I gave up worrying about the fact that gay plays don’t make any money, can’t find a market, etc, etc, ad nauseum. They don’t call it a screen play for nothing. And they don’t call us gay for nothing either. I determined to be gay while I played with my writing.

First I checked out the internet for contests or calls for gay screenplays. I mean, we watch movies, too. It’s the 21st century, after all! Somebody has to make gay movies. I’ve seen ‘em myself. And sure enough, I stumbled across a contest called the One in Ten Screenplay contest. They accepted 300 entries from around the world, and the deadline was Sept. 1. I admit “around the world” gave me pause. But only momentarily. This gave me the deadline I needed to get serious.

I got together with Kam in a Dallas motel room where essentially we locked ourselves in until we came up with the basic tenets, plot, and lots of dialogue. I knew what I wanted to do and say, and she knew how to make it work. We scribbled hard for a week. I titled it “Men Only.” Then I went home and worked some more. I worked all summer with many calls and emails to Kam. We exchanged screenplays and edited for each other. I sent “Men Only” out to my friends and took almost all of their advice. Leigh read it over and over. “Cut, cut, cut,” she’d say until I reminded her we weren’t to the filming part yet. But cut I did. And finally, I liked what it said. I liked my characters and what was happening in the story. It seemed like a decent story to me. And it was funny, I thought. But it just didn’t look right on the page.

In a last minute frenzy I called a writing teacher and playwright here in Fayetteville. His name is Bob Ford and he has seen his plays produced in great cities all over the U.S. But the really remarkable thing about him is his willingness to help just about anyone with their creativity. He does so much for the Fayetteville theater community with a gracious generosity. I knew him because I took his screenwriting course when I first moved here. I went to his plays and had watched him work. He knew this stuff and I knew he could help me, if he would.

He did. All the way from Mexico, where he was on vacation, he took the screenplay, scanned over it, and told me immediately, in one single page, what it should look like. In short, he taught me screenplay-ese in a one-page lesson. Although it was easy to read his directions, it was much harder to follow them. I rewrote the whole damn thing. Again. But when I finished this time, it looked and felt right. I put my all into it and that’s the best anyone can do. I sent it in before the deadline.

There was a long wait. Of course, you don’t really wait for these things. You go on with your life, which for me meant writing and teaching and working and feeding the dogs and chickens. As November 15 approached, I began to get nervous. So many times I told myself not to worry about it. Win or lose, I’d done a good thing, a brave thing. I had been true to my dreams. So I tried not to wish too hard.

On Monday, November 10, I got a letter from the contest director which listed the top 25 writers. I couldn’t believe my eyes! There it was: “Men Only by Mendy Knott from Fayetteville, AK!” Okay, so they got the state wrong, but they spelled my name right. As far as I was concerned this was success! In that list were screenplay writers from England, France, Las Vegas, Hollywood, New York. And then there was me, from Fayetteville, Alaska. I did let them know, just in case I made it any further, that the abbreviation for Arkansas is AR.

The day before the final notice for the top 3 was announced, I got a note from Mike Dean the coordinator letting me know, that indeed I had gotten second place in the contest! Now you can go to Scriptdoodle’s One in Ten Screenplay and see my name for your very own self. It’s worth a look. I won $500 and the privilege of having these “connected” people shop my play for me for 6 months. From February to July, they will send “Men Only” out to dozens of producers, directors, agents and the like. My plan had worked! I got a toe in the door my first try. I am amazed, grateful, happy. I thank Kam and Leigh and all those who read and believed in me and my play. I am quite gay about my play.

The main thing I learned is to be true to yourself. Listen when people give you advice on how to write. Listen to yourself about what to write. Keep coming back to your own experience. Believe. Then work, work, work. Ask questions. Get a book or two on the subject. Use the internet to research your dream. Use all the tools at your disposal. There are more than you think. Once you’ve put the work out there, move on to the next thing. Don’t wait. There isn’t time to wait. There are more ideas and dreams to realize than can ever be done in a lifetime. So get started. Because sometimes...sometimes, you really do win.

You Gotta Love It!

My writer’s group meets once every two weeks. We call ourselves Hen’s Teeth because committed writers are “scarce as hen’s teeth!” We also happen to love chickens and a couple of us raise a few hens and roosters. At the end of each session, one of us assigns writing homework which is usually based on an exercise gleaned from one of the many wonderful writing books that inspire us. Our exercise this week struck me as a unique way to get in touch, not only with good writing, but with a deep gratitude for life.

The exercise comes from Writing Toward Home, a book by author Georgia Heard. Here it is for you to try at home:

“Each day for a week, fall in love at least 3 times. Write it down. Describe in detail what you fall in love with. What is the feeling that comes over you when you experience this falling in love? Each time we fall in love, something that before was closed inside us opens and creativity begins to flow.”

Got it? Three times a day for one week, allow yourself to fall in love with something--person, place or thing--and write about it. That is, “freewrite” about it, meaning don’t think about it too much. Write whatever comes into your mind without editing or even lifting your pen from the page. Simply write until you run out of things to say or your hand gets tired, whichever comes first. My experience thus far is that I might not realize I’m falling love at the time, but when I reflect on my day, I never have trouble remembering three instances and how I felt when they occurred. See if you find yourself, and your awareness of the fat generosity of Life, expanding with each writing. Following is a short write I did after having dinner with friends, Liz and Susan:

I fell in love with the moon swimming out from behind the clouds in the parking lot of Hunan’s in Fayetteville as we exited with two of our best friends. The conversation at the table had been thick with recent loss and potential loss, lightly salted with jokes and laughter. I ate a lot, but barely tasted the food I realized later, filling a hole that was both physical and emotional. Listening intently, I wanted to help but didn’t really know how. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair–this was cigarette talk to me. But hell, nobody smokes anymore. Except me. No apologies, just please, please, please let’s go outside. And when we do, there she is. Rolling in rough weather, nearly full white globe that human-whispers me, “Always here, changes predictable, yet I’m different everytime you see me. Light in the darkness, slow-moving meteor, crazy mentor, I am the moon.” We discussed this writing exercise over Chinese food and fortune cookies, wondering if we really fall in love with something 3 times a day. All our heads swivel on their stems to regard that fat white goddess racing between tatterd black curtains of clouds, and Liz and I sigh together, “Now there’s something I could fall in love with...”

Start with Your Art!

The Power of Persistence–Start with Your Art!


I am writing today, not because I feel like writing but because I feel like I need to write. There are so many other things that need to be done. There are causes to fight for and an election coming up and two wars to protest and my partner is on her way to her first big conference as a vendor for her small publishing company. My bed is unmade, the dishes pile up in the sink, and I need to decide what to fix for dinner. It’s a matter of priorities. And because all these other things take priority on so many days of the week, I decided that what I need to do first is write a new blog entry.

It’s so easy to become inspired by a class, an eloquent speaker, a well-written book, a passionate poem. How fine it is when the fire is in the belly and we know, not only what we want to say, but what needs to be said; what the world needs to hear. Somehow we’ve stumbled on the watering hole where the answers lie magnified and crystal clear at the bottom of the well, and all we have to do is draw the water. And keep on drawing. If we can just keep it up, we can help. We know we can. We do have something to offer. We have these gifts. The answers are right down there. See them? They’re right there. Our proposal, book, screenplay, installation will be ready in, say, six months or a year. Of course, you’ll need another year or so to find a publisher. Once you do, it will take another year to see the work in print. And then, if it’s still relevant; if the world still needs an answer to that particular question...well, we’ll get back to you on that. You know, it’s starting to look like I might as well go ahead and bake some oatmeal cookies for that potluck, sweep the floor, wash the clothes, and clean the petri dishes out of the fridge.

There are so many things I could be doing right NOW. The Arkansas Adoption Act is going on the ballot and we need to protest. There’s a peace march next Saturday I have to attend. Why, this Saturday alone, there are five different activist organizations I support having potlucks, membership drives, and rallies. Not to mention that I could save money if I spent more time expanding my garden, cooking all my meals at home, riding my bike to the library. I’m sure my family and friends would love it if I would emerge from this closet I call my study for more than a couple of hours a day. The question isn’t so much how, but why do I keep doing this?

The short answer to why we persist in our creativity in the face of adversity, and in a world that so blatantly discourages authenticity, originality, slow food, home-cooking, and the long answer is–we can’t help it! We crave what is real and can’t be satisfied with short cuts, fake solutions, spam and american cheese on white bread. Quick solutions to big problems: war, the economy, global warming--don’t cut it for us. Part of us knows deeply and intuitively that creation took billions of years and that our evolution as whole human beings will not come quickly either. What we CAN do is begin, and then persist.

Of course, we don’t persist in our art, our writing, to the exclusion of all other work. All work is, or has the potential to be, creative. That is the highest achievement of a life fully realized. We don’t want to compartmentalize our creativity. We want it to be part of everything we do. But part of growing that originality is practicing it, and the place to start is with your art. THE PLACE TO START IS WITH YOUR ART! How quickly, once we begin to truly practice our art, we find our creative, authentic selves showing up in other areas of our lives. Our friendships seem to involve those of like interests. We hesitate less when a workshop or class is offered that might benefit our writing or painting. The book we need falls off the shelf or is handed to us by a bookseller or a friend. There just happens to be a volunteer position on the local literary rag or someone sends you a request for submissions.

Suddenly we find we do have time to flip a few pancakes for peace. We can spare $20 for the local AIDS foundation. We have an hour to spend on the fridge or putting dinner in the slow-cooker. We ask our partner or a friend to share a writing exercise, an art idea, or a gardening project. We watch a movie or read a book in a whole new light, as a learning experience and not merely entertainment. What can they teach us about ourselves and what we are striving to do in our lives? (If the answer appears to be “nothing” turn off the movie, close the book.) We begin to look at our lives in terms of the long view; not what we can accomplish in a week so much as what we can accomplish in a year or two, or even a lifetime. Maybe we stop focusing on what publishing house will pick us up and make us famous and begin to consider what individual will be touched by our words, will take comfort, or find some help, some hope in what we have to offer.

Who out there will be inspired by our persistence? Everyone who knows that, despite the fact we raised three daughters, home-schooled them and got them into college; or that we suffer from a chronic illness, or teach biology to a bunch of restless adolescent boys, or write boring technical manuals, or expend precious energy painting houses to pay the bills, we also maintain a creative practice. We produce! This is amazing! This is admirable! This, my friends, is noble. What you and I must remember is that the very things that seem to (and sometimes do) drain us, also feed us. Challenges stoke the fire of our persistence. What appear to be obstacles, charge our batteries and will not let us quit. They are signs, daily reminders, that our work is needed; is needed now, will be needed tomorrow, will still be needed years from now when it is finally finished. Believe....

Say it Loud, Say it Proud

On a Sunday near the end of August, I was invited to speak at the UU Church in Eureka Springs, AR. Perhaps you’ve heard of Eureka Springs, a beautiful, quaint little town built on a series of hills, (or perhaps a serious hill) in the northwest section of the Arkansas Ozarks. It’s a great place with a grand mix of hippie liberals and Christian conservatives, lots of regional art and crafts, and tons of good food and music. Writers go there for retreats and to workshops at a place called Dairy Hollow. It’s a cool place to escape the blazing heat of the Arkansas summer sun. I highly recommend it for a daycation, a staycation or a vacation, depending on “where you’re from,” as we say around here.

The exquisite little UU church on the hillside was rebuilt by its congregation and it is a lay Unitarian Universalist church. A “lay” church has no regular pastor, but invites speakers to come and inspire them on Sundays to be the fully open and welcoming people I find most of them to already be. I wondered what I could say to these good folks that might encourage them, enlighten their journey, help bring them joy in an economic recession that is affecting all of us, but plays hell with a town almost entirely dependent on tourism.

I decided the best thing I could do was tell them a story. Virgina Woolfe laughingly said that “if you tell them a story, they’ll buy you a car.” She thought that telling stories was the easiest thing in the world to do and simply couldn’t imagine that people would pay good money to hear her tell one. Well, I didn’t get a car, but I did get taken out to a wonderful lunch and was given a free overnight for me and my partner at a fantastic little B&B called Pond Mountain. Fair trade, I would say! We had a great time (more about this lovely getaway later).

So I told them a story. My story. In poems. Starting with childhood and working my way through middle school, the police force, finding my writing self and my true love in the Appalachians, all the way up to becoming a poet for peace and an activist for justice. I used events that occurred in my life; true events that I’ve written about over the past 15 years. These are not complicated or complex poems, but they reveal a sometimes complicated and complex life, as stories and poems do when we tell the truth. Because that’s the way life is. Complicated, sometimes complex.

They are also stories of compassion and learning and change and evolution. And the truth is we have to trust ourselves, if only a little, to be able to share our stories. We have to trust the universe that sharing our stories will touch someone else’s life because we are, all of us, connected. And somewhere out there in an audience of fifty listeners, or five thousand, or five, somebody needs to hear our story so they can put their own in perspective. Inevitably, at least one person comes up to me after a reading and says, “That happened to me.” “I know what you’re talking about.” “Thank you for telling that story; I wish I was that brave.”

You are that brave. We need to be that brave, for ourselves and for our traveling companions on this journey we call life. We need to tell our stories and listen to the stories of others. Stories, in the end, are one hand reaching out to another, grasping it, joining the circle of humanity as we learn love and acceptance.from each other. So say it loud and say it proud. Stand up and tell us your story by any creative method you choose. Don’t hide it beneath a ton of symbolism or cynicism. Simply tell, write, play, paint the truth of your experience and you will inspire others to rise up and tell their story, too.

Now, let me tell you two stories:

“A Little Lazarus” by Mendy Knott (4 min)
(press arrow to play video)



“Revival” by Mendy Knott (5 min)
(press arrow to play video)

Split This Rock with Me - Part I

(Photo: Poets Joseph Ross, Mendy Knott and Naomi Shihab Nye)

I’m sure this writing will only begin to cover my profound feelings for and about “Split This Rock” Poetry Festival held in Washington DC over Easter weekend, March 19-23 in 2008. Poetic insurrection and resurrection all rolled up in one. Here was a time and place where the peace poets felt safe to talk about their anger and sorrow, their grief and frustration during these war years as the Bush administration holds court in our nation. We also shared the joy that rises to the surface of our ordinary days and lives, fortifying each other where the skin wears thin. Here was a communion of souls, like-minded individuals with hearts too large to keep at home, where too often we feel isolated and give into wild imaginings that we are beating our little peace drums alone. People, we are not alone.

(Photo: A Poet reads in front of the White House)

We need each other, though, and that seemed obvious with the absolute delight we took in one another’s company and words over the long weekend. At Split This Rock no lines of divisiveness were drawn. One could not distinguish the “famous” poets from the community poets, the academic poets from the slam and performance poets. We were all together, gathered as one body to share our hopes and strengths and determination through the rhythms of our voices, our bodies, our hearts and minds. Our voices fell on receptive ears–finally, good soil for the seed. The rock was split, the Earth turned, and ideas were planted around the clock. New gardens were started every hour in workshops and on subways, in the streets and around tables of food and drink as we spoke and were heard, listened, learned and laughed together. And occasionally, our tears watered the beds. People, we were shining!

(Photo: Panel/Hosts DC Poets Against the War)

I think I can speak for us all when I say we felt lucky, indeed privileged, to be a part of this first gathering organized by DC Poets Against the War. What a lot of time and energy they poured into preparation for this event! Their handiwork and dedication was obvious at every turn. We tried to thank them as often as possible: Sarah Browning, Regie Cabico, Jaime Lee Jarvis, Melissa Tuckey, Mary Clare McKesson, Joseph Ross. Sponsors like The Institute for Policy Studies, Busboys and Poets, and Sol & Soul made life easy for the participants and created an atmosphere in which poetry thrived. We could never thank them enough. Their efforts made it possible to practice communion, not just on Easter Sunday, but every hour on the hour for four whole days. People, we were fed!

(Photo: Word Warriors Panel)

(Photo: The Princess of Controversy)

Our poetic pilgrimage took us from the Thurgood Marshall Center to the Center for Community Change but our home was always Busboys and Poets with its peace slogans and peace makers graffitied everywhere. Always packed wall to wall with diners, wait staff, poets, booksellers, authors, young people, old people, people of every color, orientation and national origin, words bouncing off the ceilings, lying in open notebooks on the tables, spoken, shouted, prayed, sang. It all began there with Sonia Sanchez and her poetic chant/scat rhythms as she implored us to reach out to the young ones and make them want to not just live, but come alive. Appropriately for her opening words, Busboys and Poets held the late night open mics, the high school poets and the women word warriors: Alix Olson, Theresa Davis, Karen Garrabrant, and Natalie Illum. The Princess of Controversy was a high priestess of poetry and our waitress, following a long line of tradition by serving the public in more ways than one. People, I tell you, the joint was jumping!

(Photo: Poet Naomi Shihab Nye)

(Photo: Poet Martin Espada)

(Photo: Poet E. Ethelbert Miller)

In the evenings we gathered in our poetry cathedral, Bell Multicultural High School where we listened to the words of poets who have been long in the making. Their words, ringing with truth, were pained with the suffering and injustice to which they bore witness. Sensual with imagery and metaphor, their poems made us mad, made us laugh and made us cry. Naomi Nye took us flying with her while keeping us rooted firmly in our humanity and delighting us with the confectioners sugar that has sifted the shirtfronts of all of us at one time or another. Martin Espada, E. Ethelbert Miller, and Alix Olson kept it real and we started off the first night with a bang.

(Photo: Poet Alix Olsen)

...To Be Continued in the Next Post

Split This Rock with Me - Part 2

(Photo: Poet/Yogi Jeff Davis)

I took the “Yogic Path to Poetry and Conscious Action” Friday morning and found the poets both stunningly beautiful and flexible. Jeff Davis was so conscientious about sharing time that I didn’t get nearly enough of his words and presence. He left me wanting more, as a poet should. Kazim Ali, Susan Brennan and Jeff complimented one another’s styles wonderfully and I am only waiting for Jeff’s book From the Center to the Page to be re-issued in print so I can turn my friends onto the power of combining yoga practice with writing practice.

(Photo: Poet/Yogi Kazim Ali)

At “Off the Page and Into the Streets” Nathaniel Siegel regaled us with ways to reach the regular folks as they go about their everyday days, walking to and from work or heading to the local grocery. He offered great ideas about reaching out, keeping your protest and your activism “human-sized” which made so much sense to me. Put a small poem in someone’s hand and they’ll find it in a pocket later. Offer a strip of tape with “Peace and Love” printed on it. Who doesn’t want a little peace and love in their lives, right? Nathaniel delivered his ideas and comments with a grace that serves him well in the streets and makes me want to be THAT kind of activist.

(Photo: Poet Nathaniel Siegel)

I found Elijah Imlay’s “The Healing Role of Poetry in Wartime” to be particularly moving and the kind of workshop I myself like to lead. There we listened to some of Elijah’s experiences as a Vietnam veteran (a veteran myself, I appreciated this) and he read us some poems written by other war veterans. They were hard to hear and they were why we had come. He then had the class do a freestyle writing based on a painful memory of our own pasts.Those of us who cared to, were allowed to share. Again I found myself not ready to leave when this workshop ended. Our hearts had been opened and we had bled. It was good and it was necessary fodder for future work, but I found it difficult to return to the Washington streets. I needed to take a break and I missed the 5 pm readings while my friend Path and I returned to our rooms to rest.

(Photo: Poet Mendy Knott & Poet/Artist Path Walker)

We made it to Bell Multicultural HS in time to hear Jimmy Baca, Brian Gilmore, Semezhdin Mehmedomovic, Patricia Smith (one of my all-time faves) and Susan Tichy read. Then it was back to homebase at Busboys and Poets where the first open mic was being held. Slam-jam packed, it was, with a list an arm-long of poets waiting their turn to read. I signed on and it was good to look around that room and see so many active poets and their supporters. And it was good to see Naomi Nye, Alix Olson, Patricia Smith “in the house” as our host, Regie Cabico, continually pointed out one world-renowned poet after another who was there to hear US read! We ate the body politic, passed the cup of sorrow, shared our many stories and walked away fortified, everyone with a hammer the size of their writing hand, knowing we would never have to split this rock alone again. People, we rocked the house!

(Photo: Poet Patricia Smith)

(Photo: Poet Regie Cabico)

(...To be continued in Part 3)

Split This Rock with Me - Part 3

I missed many excellent workshops on Saturday morning in favor of having some special time with my sister who lives in the DC area. I needed this time with her as I don’t see her nearly often enough, but I know I sacrificed some excellent learning opportunities with the DC Walking Tours which featured Walt Whitman’s Washington, “Harlem” Renaissance in Washington, and GLBT Writers of Washington. “Writing Isn’t Lonely” and “Poet as Oracle” were certainly enticing workshop titles led by poets such as Susan Tichy and Coleman Barks. I didn’t join up until later in the afternoon when I enjoyed “Word Warriors–Women Leaders in the Spoken Word Revolution.” Again, time felt too short when the high school open mic began just as soon as this crew of women warriors finished speaking.

(Photo: Mendy at Bus Boys & Poets)

The high school open mic was just what some of us older poets needed to remind us that, yes, there are young ones waiting and willing to carry on the torch of peace, freedom, and poetry. Every poem was so vivid and fresh, every verse a lifeline slung out from one generation to another. Here is another chapter in the book of Revelations that Split this Rock opened for me: We need a high school/ youth open mic in my town of Fayetteville, AR. I came back with a renewed dedication to seek out the young poets and get them to come to Omni’s Peace Open Mic and to HOWL, the open mic I host in celebration of women’s voices. I stood to read as the room’s OLDEST teen, getting a by from host Regie Cabico because the subject matter of my poem, “Education,” was autobiographical, having to do with coming of age in a newly integrated junior high school in Jackson, MS in 1968. I felt right at home in a room full of teens, but then I would. I wanted to say it over and over, “You, Young People, the world can’t change without you!” People, these kids are the Future!

(Photo: Path on the train)

Path and I took the train one stop to Bell Multicultural HS to watch a lineup of poets you had to see to believe. Swept away, I was, in their words and the movements that accompanied their words. Their hands were like well-formed birds shaping their verses before they flew from the stage. Often, their bodies did a little dance or swayed with the rhythms of their lines. Some couldn’t stand still long enough to photograph. These poets were on the move. This was a bus stop, a way station on the road to more activism, and they moved us right along with them. We sat at the feet of poets such as Coleman Barks, Belle Waring, Dennis Brutus, Kenneth Carroll, Mark Doty, Carolyn Forche, and Alica Ostriker.

(Photo: Poet Mark Doty)

They taught us with metaphor, yea, even with parables. Can I get a witness? We practiced the sermon on the mount, in their presence, in their words:
Blessed are the peacemakers.
Blessed are those who mourn.
Blessed are the meek and humble,
those who hunger and thirst after righteousness (feed them).
Blessed are the merciful (for everybody needs a little mercy now),
the pure in heart,
the peacemakers (persecuted for all the right reasons).
Blessed are the poets
who say the words, paint the pictures, report to the public
and tell the truth whenever, wherever they can;
who never, ever, ever, give up....

We left our cathedral feeling like we were the salt of the earth. We are the light of the world and we are being called to return to our homes as poets and prophets, place our cities on hills so they can see again, become like potato chip people, yes, that salty, which imbues others with a thirst for truth and justice. And we read our poems to one another at the open mic, on the sidewalks, in the subway stations, on the trains, and all the way back to our rooms.

(Photo: Poet and Organizer Sarah Browning)

We awoke on Easter Sunday with one mission, to get to Busboys and Poets in order to hear the panel made up of DC Poets Against the War and to learn how they were inspired and able to put this event together. We left our baggage at the State Plaza Hotel (which we loved for its old-fashioned charm, roominess, and incredibly helpful staff) and headed once again to our favorite home away from home. The DC Poets were terrific as we heard them read some of their poetry and talk about the fundamentals of organizing Split This Rock. They discussed the importance of putting together their book of poems against torture, “Cut Loose The Body.” What amazing people, good as their words; serving, organizing, inspiring.

(Photo: Poet Naomi Ayala)

Our last trip took us back the way we came to the Cafritz Conference Center on the George Washington University campus. Here we were blessed and fired by the words of Naomi Ayala and Galway Kinnell to begin our pilgrimage to the White House, our final stop. We gathered outside the center on the sidewalk. We picked up signs with quotes by various poets and peace activists. We hung them around our necks on string or waved them in the air as we walked, without a word, to Lafayette Park across the street from the White House.

(Photo: Poet Galway Kinnell)

(Photo: Easter Tree)

Here then a preacher’s kid turned poet and peace activist finds new meaning in an Old Story once again. I loved this silent march, this mishmash of someone else’s Easter ritual into my own. How quiet it must have been that early morning in the land where war never seems to cease, when the disciples went to the cemetery looking for what they could not know they’d find. There were bird singings and the sound of sandals (sneakers) flapping against stone. A white tree bloomed atop a tall building, and for the moment it caught the corner of my eye I imagined the resurrected Christ, a holy ghost, a dove. The wind tunneled the streets and alleyways as we walked to the big white sepulcher with its guards and gates. Sure enough, centurions rode up on horseback and brought their dogs to search for bombs. But we had come in peace and it seemed they would be disappointed not to be able to send us away. For they and we all knew that words are stronger than swords, and last longer, too.

(Photo: DC Street Poet)

People, we wanted that stone to roll away--far, far away and not come back. We wanted that rock to roll, to set free the spirit of compassion, of love and truth and wisdom. But it wouldn’t budge and so with the hammers of our voices and twelve strikes each, we began to split that rock ourselves. Each of the 300 or so poets there pronounced a line of twelve words into the microphone directed at the White House, and we created a Cento with quotes that would ring in the air long after our departure. We split the rock and we are splitting it still. Peacework is all about splitting rocks instead of hairs. And the work, my friends, is never done. Won’t you come and split this rock with me?

(Photo: Naomi, Path, Joe and Jeff)

Instrument of Peace

Take two oaks and a cotton cord
then wrap the rope around the trunks
back and forth let the rope unwind
tie it tight and what do you find?
A earth-friendly, wind-catching
homemade clothesline.
Ah, the world is full of images
and instruments of peace–
what we take for granted is
that wonders never cease.

Looking out the window, hands in the kitchen sink
washing up the dishes gives a person time to think.
I see our colorful clothing fly, 
this old Arkansas home’s prayer flags;
from t-shirts stitched with slogans to denims and dust rags.
The blessed sun shines down.
The breeze it blows and fills.
They sail and pull at pins
as if the billowing clothes
could keep this old world spinnin’
spinnin’ spinnin’ spinnin’ spinnin’
spinnin’ round.

My clothesline is a work of art–
I hang those damp clothes out,
arrange each piece to suit my mood
then watch them blow about. 
I ponder how this ties me to Palestinians and Jews,
Chinese, Pennsylvanians, Iraquis, Zulus, too.
And for a moment all the world
is gathered here beneath my trees
hanging clothes of many colors
on lines in a merry breeze.
Here we are together
dependent on each other
holding hands we shake out wrinkles,
share a perfect crease–
feeling for a moment we’re all instruments of peace.

Oh, the world is full of images
and instruments of peace.
And what we take for granted is
that wonders never cease.
‘Cause the blessed sun shines down.
The breeze it blows and fills.
The clothes pull at their pins.
as if their billowing sails
could keep this old world spinnin’
spinnin’ spinnin’
keep her spinnin’ round.

Mendy Knott Sept. 2006-2007

Leading Women

I suppose my title could be "miss leading" or "misleading" depending on how you interpret it. I'm willing to bet that a lot of readers' first image was one of an actress, star of stage or screen, because these are venues where we've learned to associate the female sex as "leading women." Hollywood couldn't be farther from my mind today.

I rarely use this blog as a forum for women's rights or for any other kind of outright political activism. However, the issue at stake here is a women's issue and one that potentially affects us all. I am talking about leading women; that is, women who choose to lead. Women who dare to stand against a veritable tide of criticism, negativity, and derision. Women who refuse to be seated, driven out or defeated. Women who will attempt again and again to stand before their boardrooms, their classrooms, their communities and their nations and say, "I believe in my intelligence, in my intuition, in my ideas. I believe I can help change this situation for the better and I am willing to take the inherent risks to carry my ideals forward."

I'm not just talking about the presidential candidate. I'm talking about women everywhere. And I'm not just talking about the men who would rather not see a woman in power, for there are plenty of them; those hypocrites who elect a man because he bowed his head for a picture on Time magazine or managed to squeeze out a tear for one dead soldier while killing thousands of others. These are the very same voters calling Hillary a crybaby for showing emotion in public. That's hard to take, all right, and it's hard to imagine having to deal with that same kind of bullshit for 4-8 years, but I am willing to stand in defense of "Madame President." What is harder, really so much harder, is having to defend her from the onslaught of vindictiveness we hear from our own--the multitudes of women standing by to join in the name-calling. Already I've heard Hillary Clinton called a power-monger, over-aggressive, too assertive, pretentious, self-righteous. And these are just the names I'm willing to print here. I asked several women my mother's age why they wouldn't vote for Hillary, and their answer was, "I just don't like her."

Women, we have a problem. For I find this phenomena of putting a woman in a position to lead and then playing firing squad against her when she does, applies in more than just the case of a major election. We do this sort of thing all the time. We ask someone to speak for our community, to host an educational event, to lead a discussion on the library system. We elect women to smaller public positions and they just "never seem to live up to our expectations." Men often don't have to say a word. Women are more than happy to do the dirty work, especially if it will win them the approval of others; men, women or both. Are we really that insecure? Heaven forbid if a woman has any kind of past at all. We like our "leading ladies" to have sprung fully formed from their father's brains. Can you imagine Hillary Clinton with a DUI or a record of snorting cocaine? Puh...leeze!

Maybe it's true we don't want all that power concentrated in the hands of a single woman. Need I point out that we've been content to allow men that kind of power for years and years? A truly good leader, male or female, delegates power. A true leader doesn't want to be crippled by too many responsibilities, but knows her expertise and where to concentrate her strengths. A good leader knows that "It takes a village" to run a village. What a leader has done is to show she is willing to make the necessary sacrifices in order to lead. I don't think the respect and support of her women's community should have to be one of those sacrifices.

To put our faith in a leading woman doesn't mean giving up our own personal power. Instead, allowing a woman to lead us should increase and bolster our power, both individually and collectively as the leader accomplishes the task of empowering her community. Let us ask ourselves, what are we really afraid of here? Has that old message that a woman's hormones and emotions will make her incompetent really sunk into our subconscious? Will she somehow make us seem less feminine? Will she set a new high standard for being beautiful or butch in such a way that we won't be able to compare? Do we prefer male domination as opposed to the threat of a woman who would have the chutzpa to lead us? And if we think we can do better and if we want to do the leading, why don't we? Maybe we can't handle a standard of comparison clothed in our own sex that points up all that we could be doing and aren't.

When I was a little girl, I was led to believe that I could do anything, be anything I wanted. Then it seemed that the world set out to prove that statement was a lie. And the ones who worked the hardest at belittling or offsetting the "masculine" things I wanted to do or be were the very ones who would have benefitted most from my accomplishments--other women. Men barely pay any attention to a woman until she has achieved a certain stature--in business, politics or money. Up until that point, they know they can leave their henchmen, other women, to do the work for them. We are way too comfortable putting powerful, self-empowered women "in their places" and undermining their confidence long before they reach the first public platform.

When we, as women, learn to support our own, believe in our own, nurture our own... When finally we quit practicing the envy and jealousy which is so often our downfall... When finally we refuse to resist our own success, then and only then will a woman lead the way.

Snapshot: Saving for a Rainy Day

My partner Leigh shared a bit of writerly wisdom with me not long ago which she took directly from her cell phone. At first, I was hesitant. Although they seem to have a valid purpose, I find cell phones mostly annoying. I have one, but I don’t like having one, if you know what I mean. I don’t play with it or try to figure out what all it can do. I’m lucky to remember to take it off the charger and put it in my Baggalini. Whoever calls me is lucky if I have it on, am near enough to answer, or recognize that’s “my song” playing.

Yet, they have come in handy for hundreds of people in emergency situations. And think of the moments that have been captured and preserved since cell phones had cameras added to their repertoire of handy little capabilities. Once again, we can see the good, the bad, and the ugly that can occur as a result of trigger happy cell phone users. Simply check out My Face or You Tube and there you have it--cell phone abuse at its finest.

Metaphorically, however, there is something for the artist to learn from the inimitable cell phone’s ability to catch the moment. Leigh told me that all she has to do is select “Camera” on the phone and the word “Capture” appears which she chooses if she wants to snap a photo. She came to me while I was writing in my journal the other day and explained the concept, “image-capture,” to me.

She asked, “You know how when you want to photograph something with your cell phone you select image capture and then you’re able to snap the picture?”

I said, “No.”

“Well, you can,” she continued unperturbed. “And I’m using that idea metaphorically in my writing. You know how boring writing in your journal can be when you start every day with ‘Well, I did this and that and this and blah, blah, blah...?”

“Absolutely!” Now we’re talking my language, I thought.

“So every day now when I write in my journal, I include an ‘image-capture’ kind of like my cell phone. I take a moment from memory--it can be the past 24 hours or it can be from 24 years ago--but I just paint the image in words as vividly as I can and then I have a snapshot which may inspire a poem or an essay on any given day. I (*) star the image-capture entry so I can find it when I go back through my journal trolling for ideas.”

“Beautiful!” I answer, not nearly so surprised by another bright idea issuing from my most brilliant muse as by the fishing metaphor implied by the word ‘trolling’. “I’ll try it.”

I did. And it works! The pages of my journal now contain not only the necessary mental health rants, but are filled with ideas and images I can use in my creative writing as well. Today is a good example of what I’m talking about. From what will one day be a book of poems called “Remembering How to Breathe:”

Nine hours of pool-watching with a silver whistle around my neck, white lanyard bright against brown skin. Hours of wary guarding from shallow end to deep, babies in water wings to high school diving team. This early September day, the rain, the lifeguard’s friend, drove them all away. Thunder, lightning, thrashing trees closed the pool early and left me here alone. But now the clouds thin to spots of blue, and the air, cooler, harbors a touch of fall, even this far South in Mississippi. I am 19, alone, bare-skinned, a healthy young female animal. Thirty-five meters of blue pool stretches out at my feet, not a wave or a splash to mar that perfect surface. The knowledge that water, which looks so solid, can be entered and enjoyed from within as well as from without, is intrinsic to my way of seeing things this summer. There is nothing obscure about water, I think. I climb the steps to the high board, feeling the ridged steel beneath my concrete-torn toes. I take the requisite three long steps into a deep bounce, experience flight, jackknife and plunge. I pull the long blue length, green trees blurring the edges of my upward vision. The water is warm compared to the air, a dive from a brisk day into a pair of sweats, fit to my body like one big glove. Underwater, I flashback to childhood dreams I had of breathing without surfacing, oxygen entering through hidden gills. Remembering, I swim the entire length, emerging not breathless, but elated. Bursting from the warm waters, womb of my youth; baptized, full immersion, born again.