The Poet

So, I found this picture and it reminded me of the poet incident at LACMA few months ago. I was sitting outside studying in the perfect LA weather. I looked up every now and then to people watch and observe the kids running through the big yellow exhibit.

At some point, a woman comes up to me. She was slightly hunched, with big frizzy, grey hair adorned with a large sun hat and was carrying a few mis-matched bags. I believe she said she was 78. She certainly had the spunk of a teenager.

"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm studying."
"I'm a poet."
I smiled and looked down at my book, thinking should would get the hint. She continued to stand there staring at me.
"I've won a lot of poetry contests. Would you like to take a break and hear a poem?"

Now, I know I could have shut it down at this point by politely, but firmly saying "No, thank you." But here's the thing. She looked lonely and relatively harmless.  I had the time, in fact, I literally had all night.

She sat down, unloading her multiple bags and items on the floor and table and proceeded to tell me how she used to be successful, how she used to perform in poetry slams and compete in competitions. Now she lived in a group home for senior citizens. She liked to get out a couple times a week and go to LACMA or other local spots to be around people again. She commented several times on my necklace - it matched the ring she had on.

She told me about her daughter who was going through a hard time - a divorce and a bad job. Her daughter would call her and complain about things and then scream at her new puppy, hurting her mom's ears. All she had to give her daughter was her time, she couldn't do anything else for her now, but listen.

A woman from the museum staff was cleaning off the tables, sending off sounds of clanging chairs. The poet woman asked the staff to be quiet, then gave me a choice of two poems. "I won an award for this one," she said before launching into a very rhythmic, almost rap-like piece about a girl who had so much potential.  Then she did the other one for me. She was good. She was very good - articulate and well-versed in the nuances of performing poetry. The words were not only well crafted, they came alive.

After an encore performance of the first poem for the woman she previously asked to be quiet, she turned to me, and thanked me for stopping and listening to her. "I just miss connecting with people" she said. She hugged me and asked my name for the 4th or 5th time.

The many thoughts running through my head caused me to feel sad. What was this woman like in her youth? How did she get here? This was someone's daughter, someone's mother, perhaps someone's sister. How long was she going to last? How long would she continue to board a bus a couple times a week to "be around people?"

I gathered my things to go to another section of the museum to grab a seat for a jazz performance. Before I left, I thanked the woman and gave her my necklace. There's no way to describe the joy mingled with tears in her eyes. "I'll treasure this forever" she said.

I can't even remember what necklace it was.