By Britani Nestel
Last Friday night upwards of 40 people crammed their sweaty selves into a Victorian aged parsonage–home of Gloucester City’s own little intentional community. It was a wonderful conglomeration of old friends, newly connecting ones, total strangers and a handful of high school students from Camden. Delightfully awkward conversations abounded as we awaited the arrival of the night’s guest: poet, Derrick Brown. He was set to share his poetry at 7:30 in conjunction with an out-of-school assignment from Camden teacher C.J. Reynolds and Haddon & Fern’s own Events Team.
Eight pm rolled around and neither C.J. nor Derrick Brown had arrived. At 8:15 we got a phone call explaining that C.J.’s car broke down in Staten Island, and that they were working on a way home. It would be at least 2 hours, but the majority of us decided it was worth sticking around for. The students had prepared poetry to open the show with, and we decided that they should just go ahead and share as we waited. Right as we finally assembled ourselves to listen, another phone call brought the tragic news that Derrick Brown was going to stay in Staten Island because he had a show in NYC the next day. We were already gathered. Poetry was still going to be shared. We decided to just go with it.
What ensued was probably better than if Derrick had shown up and spoken his own words. The poetry of C.J.’s students was remarkable. These kids were rappers and artists, and honest words rolled fluidly off their tongues. Though they self-admittedly felt the most out of place, they were the ones who boldly set the space for the rest of us to share. Kent Ellingson ran home to grab his guitar and sing a song he had written for Shalom House. The guitar was borrowed, originals were played and Neutral Milk Hotel was inevitably covered. As more people stood up, more people gained courage to do the same. The night ended with Jen Hulfish drawing on the energy of the night to speak words that led her closer to healing from the loss of a neighbor.
Sometimes open mic’s are horrendous. What was beautiful about this one was that it was so humbly grounded in the space we were all gathered. Some words were recycled, but many were written on the spot, drawing from the peculiarity of this gathering of people; Adam Malliet’s beard, the oldness of the house and the warmth and acceptance that was so apparent. Madeleine L’Engle describes these as ‘thin places’ of our reality that allow a few more drops of God’s presence to get through than usual. New life spoken with aged air from the ancient bits of matter comprising our lungs in an old house in an older town left us all drenched.
