We are all poets. And WHY that matters this holiday season.

From 2016: I showed up. It was the best I could do, had no clue what I was getting myself into. But I pulled up and paid for parking- I HATE to do that- in a little suburb of Atlanta. The next 5 days changed my life.

Here was the situation: I'm white, a mother of two, in a middle-class situation with substantial emotional baggage- typical stuff for the territory, right? What I showed up for was the National Poetry Slam competition. What I found... well, let's not skip ahead. So I walk in to the first venue, a sweet coffee shop with an outdoor stage, and two things slapped me in the face, in opposite order of importance: I was in the minority, and the poems were fire.

I've always considered myself to be a person who is open, in fact, thrives on differences, and let me say as empathy for my friends who share a similar background to me, that there was an element of shock in being in the minority; never unsafe, but there was a lack of physical belonging that I don't have to feel on a daily basis that just felt uncomfortable, unsituated. Granted, it is a flaw in my ego that I feel that way in a room of people I know, too, so it was merely exacerbated. But the feeling of shock, in the long term, has been absolutely liberating, because in facing the vulnerable human inside myself, it has made me realize the vulnerable humanity of all of us.

Poems, y'all. Three minutes for an artist to crack open their soul and pour out a story, a piece of the human heart that beats in all of us, and leave it exposed there on stage. I laughed, I cried, my jaw was permanently dropped open, I had to step out of the room because it was so heavy and so much.

I heard about a black man who was dragged behind a car by white guys- like, recently, because he couldn't have been out of his 20s.

I heard a trans girl speaking of fearing fireworks like gunshots- at her.

I heard people talking about love- straight and gay. About hope- with or without status. About fears for their kids all along the spectrum of race. There were connections.

Here's the thing, for my readers who grew up similarly to me: there may have been things I agreed with, things I disagreed with, things I found offensive, or things I absolutely adored. But here's the more important thing: when you are privileged enough to enter into (or hear) another PERSON'S story, the intersection of your opinions with various aspects of their lifestyle do NOT matter. You are meeting a God-breathed soul for the first time- and none of us have it all figured out. The appropriate response in a meeting of souls? Honor, privilege- a holy space of sharing in humanity: what a PRIVILEGE.

Poets have the gift of inviting you to enter into their story, to meet them where they are in their struggles, dreams, angers, and hopes for life. They open up avenues for your soul to meet theirs in places of connection, no matter what outside connections seem to be 'lacking'. And they do work by being voices for people who are voiceless. Because poets are real people, like me, like you.

I arrived back to the Queen City and had to jump on the train. What if, I realized. What if everyone is a poet? What if "they" are poets? What if "those people you are suspicious of", the Other, are poets? What if that person across the street who looks different than you has a story to tell? What if the shy girl holds deep pain under her facade? What if the big black man loves his family and is scared to death that he won't make it home to them? What if the entire population of white people struggles with depression {just saying}? And the jerk: what if he just suffered another heartbreak and feels like he might be dying inside?

What if we are all heart-beating, soul-ish human beings just trying to stay moving on this beautiful and messy planet? What would you do if the fear was gone?

What if we are ALL poets? What if, instead of fearing the Other, we see them as containing the most poignant story ever told? And what if you might have more of a voice, or more power, than even YOU think you do? What good would you do if you realized that we're all in this together, that your actions and inactions tell YOUR story without words, and these stories can be compelling witness for good- or for evil; it is your choice? Who would you be, in the secret, with your children, and for all people around you? What if the strangers in your own extended family have a story?

But the bigger question that is just as important, now as much as always, is what if family extends beyond biology, to the very people you think you feel most uncomfortable with? Because what I found, when I showed up to hear other people's stories, was that I had found my way home.