Last weekend I got a last minute ticket to the closing performance of the play, The Potluck, produced by the theater I’ve had the honor of serving on the board of for many years, Soho Rep. The play was written by the visionary playwright, César Alvarez, who goes by they/them pronouns, and directed by the eminent theater director Sarah Benson. I went in knowing almost nothing. I came out transformed, with the beginnings of a poem I’ve been trying to write for five years.
The Potluck tells the story of the Greensboro Massacre, a horrific1979 state-sanctioned killing of five anti-racist activists in Greensboro, North Carolina—all of whom were close friends and comrades of César’s parents—by Klansmen, in broad day light, during a protest. The Klansmen were acquitted twice and never brought to justice for their crimes, despite the brutal incident being captured in full on 16mm film. (The footage appears in the documentary, “Red November, Black November” directed by César’s mother, Sally Alvarez.)
At a young age I began writing poetry thanks to my parents' community of artists, writers, and activists. As I’ve written a lot about here, one of those friends would go on to become my writing mentor, a father figure to me—someone who altered the course of my life: the late Poet Laureate of San Francisco, Jack Hirschman. Like César’s family’s friends who perished in the Massacre, Jack was a Communist who translated impoverished poets in more than fifteen languages, wrote over a hundred books, and advocated tirelessly for the poor, the homeless, and a Free Palestine. He once got fired from a university professorship during Vietnam for automatically giving all his students As so they wouldn't be drafted. By the time I was a teenager, he'd taught me to translate my own feelings about self-worth, silencing, and longing into language I could define myself by, finally on my own terms. (Here’s an essay from our archives on my creative relationship with Jack.)
Jack died of Covid in 2021, very suddenly and overnight. It leveled me, and many in the international poetry and activism community. It felt like my own father had died—ripped away before I could say goodbye. For years I could not find the words in me to write him a poem. Every time I sat down to try, it felt like picking up broken glass off the floor with my bare hands. It hurt too much to touch.
In The Potluck, César Alvarez writes themself into the play as a character grappling and wrestling with inherited grief and survivor's guilt while trying to write about the massacre. César wasn't even born when it happened—they were named after one of the activists killed that day, César Cauce. In one of the most breathtaking moments, César's father sings to his slain friend, César Cause, telling him everything that's happened in the world since he's been gone. It was in this moment I could not stop the tears from running down my face. Because this wasn't just a play about César Alvarez and their family's grief—it was a play about all of our collective griefs, our survivor's guilt, the painful years of the Covid pandemic and those we lost and the brutality capitalism currently in full swing. It made me realize that so much of my own grief about Jack is not about what was left unsaid between us—what I wish I would have said to him while he was alive—but what I wish I could say to him right now, about all that's happened in his absence.
How powerful, to watch another artist stand inside their own unresolved grief and have it be the thing that finally unstuck mine. Watching César find a way in—both on the stage and on the page—I found my own.
In honor of César’s powerful play and Jack’s legacy, write something to someone you loved, who impacted your life, who is gone now. Write to them what you’ve witnessed change since they’ve been gone—what you’d want to tell them if they were here, standing right in front of you today.
Use this prompt as your beginning: “In your absence.”
Example:
In your absence, exactly two solar eclipses,
five blood moons,
and the veins of San Francisco full of driverless cars.
In your absence, a hundred letters addressed to you I couldn’t finish.
In your absence, another war, another child pulled from rubble, another dictator’s term.
In your absence…
As always, tag me and share it with the world, if you feel comfortable doing so. I can’t wait to see what you write.
Substack Lives coming up including Joan of Arcadia show creator Barbara Hall and more!
September 3rd @ 2pm ET: A conversation with nonfiction writer and poet Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz on finding humor in the gruesome, writing across genres, and her new book The Ballad of the Fugitive William Parker: A True Tale of Love, Murder, Treason, and Ordinary Folks Who Saved America.
September 14th @ 2pm: Joan of Arcadia, Madame Secretary, and Judging Amy fans: Brace yourselves, we have the one and only show creator-extraordinaire Barbara Hall in the house for a conversation you won’t want to miss.
October 14th @ 2pm: A conversation with one of our most gifted fiction and short story writers and educators on the craft of dark humor in storytelling, managing chronic illness as a writer, and her new murder mystery, The Four Wives and Five Deaths of Richard Milford, Nafissa Thompson-Spires. (Live link coming soon!)
Upgrade to a paid subscription to hang in the comments and ask questions of our amazing guests, as well as catch up on the replays of recent interviews with guests like Roxane Gay and R.O. Kwon!
The Sharpening is a reader-supported newsletter run by me, Amber. Upgrading to a paid subscription keeps it going—and growing. Your support lets me dedicate real time to crafting original, timely creative prompts and bringing in some of the most compelling artists working today for interviews and webinars.
With a paid subscription, you get:
Access to all Substack Lives and Zoom webinars featuring artists whose work sits at the intersection of the political and the personal.
The ability to comment, ask questions, and engage directly with featured guests— plus recordings of everything, so you never miss a session.
Invitations to in-person meetups and early access to virtual and in-person events.
Behind-the-scenes updates on my upcoming projects, book tours, and events— plus three years of archived content from my previous newsletter.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.