Do you have any idea how important you are?

I come to you to pour out my mind, my heart . . . and you listen. Well, you read.

My friend Emily Culella has gotten into a creative writing MFA program in Chicago. That makes two. She and Nate Parker. One came before me, and one came after. Nate's at U of Alabama. These are important names. These are the names of poets. The glass that poets look through are often not as dark as ours. More than the rest of us, these two find words closer to the origin of truth. "In the beginning was the Word." And they arrange words so as to more closely resemble that divine language, that truth.

Despite my furious desire to be a wordslinger, a poet, a writer, a person in touch with the language of creation, I am convinced that the words I leave off the page are what matter most. My parents are both dynamic people in their fields. Each of them could have written a number of books and become established, recognizable, members of of the literary elite. But I would NEVER trade the words and actions they gave to me, and to the friends and family around them, for any such printed longevity. Love is a word. Love is perhaps the Word. But a word means nothing without a behavior or an action to give it meaning. And not all the written words of the history of this world can communicate love as well as a single action. And so what I DO matters. What I SAY matters. More than anything I write, it is the words that I say to you that matter. And it is the actions I take that change lives and minds and hearts.

All of this makes sense to me. Loosely, anyway. To you it may all seem obvious. But the most simple fact can come upon you like an epiphany. Like seeing a word given meaning for the first time.

This Friday I complete in Fayetteville at the Ozark Poetry Slam finals. There will be no Ozark team going to nationals this year, but the winner will be featured (along with other "prestigious" slam poets from across Arkansas and across the country!) at the Fayetteville Arts Festival later in the summer. I am becoming a part of this scene. I am becoming, at least by slam definitions, a poet. . . . and I am terrified.

In fact, I am terrified of becoming anything. For as long as I can remember I have feared failure to the extent of inaction. Here and there, especially in college, I have overcome it. But as I draw closer to the issue of identity, I become more and more afraid. From the beginning, I was the pastor's son, the superintendant's son. Not just any pastor, but a man no one seemed to disrespect or dislike. As I've grown older I've seen the powerful force that my mother is in the lives of her disabled students and her fellow teachers. My parents have raised a son in the image of Christ, the likeness of which is a light of hope to my wife (who suffered a harsh parentage). Over and over I heard, while growing-up, that Marty Crain is a great man. Or, "I LOVE your mother!"
And that pressure, unintended by anyone, has built upon my back. As much as I treasure the traits they've given me, I am not my father or mother. I have to find my own identity. And yet I have to measure up! And whatever that identity is, it had better be freaking GOOD! My parents have never imposed such pressure on me. They have been lovingly supportive through many pains. They have always encouraged me. . . . but what if I fail? They will love me; take me back. But I will still be the son who couldn't measure-up to his parents. ... or to his grandfather! Do you have any idea how many people came to my grandfather's (mother's dad) funeral?? People he hadn't seen in 10's of years! From all over the country!! The made that much of a difference to so many people as one simple man. And I am his heir.

I want that!

I am desperate to be somebody!

And I am scared to death to be anybody!
Because my synapses have me convinced that I will fail.

In highschool and college I cried into my pillow, and now I cry into my wifes arms, the same phrase to which I always return after I chastise myself for an endless list of percieved failures: "I don't know who I am."

[I have been, and still am, anchored by one thing, and that is love; that is Jesus Christ.]

I have written before that I feel like I am simply pushed and pulled by the waves, the forces of life outside me. How do I find any identity in that?

Perhaps, for some people, the current of identity is subtle. Gently tugging, moving us slowly, toward discovery.

If you have read this far and are not bored or have not rolled your eyes more than a few times, then I want you to know how important you are. You give me a voice. You give me a chance.

If you have read this, then you matter.