I have a confession: I don’t always follow the wandering melodies and folkie funky cocktails that are Ani DiFranco’s songs. Sometimes I hear parts in her arrangements and wish they weren’t there, or I hear a hook that wasn’t made a hook but kept a fleeting musical utterance, and sometimes, while I love charming mistakes left on recordings, I hear some that jar me like kitchen pots hitting floors and hate them. And other times—she just fucking nails it, and I play the tune over and over and over, marveling at the lyrics, wishing we could have a beer, pumped by the guitar licks, and inspired to pick up my own old, soulful, waiting, wooden Guild, jumbo, calm, and wise in its beat-up case. Not too long ago, I gratefully accepted an invitation to see Ani at White Eagle Hall in Jersey City. We were early—a rebellious move that allowed us to stand 3 feet from stage, close enough to read the brand names on the snares (plural, arguably unnecessary, but . . . ) and see the headstocks of the guitars resting on a stand in front of her backdrop, which read in big bold letters, “Rise Up.” The room filled gradually; 98 percent women; 2 percent other; 100 percent devoted and poised to scream her words. A baby faced Portlander opened, playing some electric guitar we don’t see every day, apologizing for a migraine, and letting us know this bill was for the gentle-hearted. Bullies go home. Adorable, she charmed us. She finished. We waited.

And then the 5 foot tall beaming artist came out, and I was internally catapulted back to a time when I had first learned of her. The barista at a cafe where I used to sing—where people would pack in, and, get this, buy cassettes—handed me a CD and a note: “You need to listen to this.” She what? Makes her own shit? She owns the label? Turned down majors? Looks like that? Acts like that? Plays like that? Leads like that? Taps that size lexicon for her songs? Because she said so? Because she feels like it?

We’re used to it now, the DIY bit, but in 1997, 98?, I don’t remember too much of it outside of punk, not in my sleepy, gritty, blue-collar town. I didn’t even know one could choose that—such self-sovereignty.  Within a year or so from then, I had graduated high school with no pot to piss in and a long terrifying road ahead, and I ended up seeing her a couple times around then, once at Jones Beach in epic weather under starry skies. For whatever it was worth, learning of her being, reframed my entire worldview, and made me reconsider what was possible, even in part, on one’s journey. Choice. Freedom. Minimalism. Voice. Calling it out. Alienating some, perhaps, but emitting a beautiful overtone that will bring you your tribe. Not being afraid of that. Not needing everyone but certainly not the wrong ones and nothing short of the true ones. Her archetype is it. And something else so simple—wide smile and big eyes looking right into the eyes of everyone in the room. The practice of pure connection and the acknowledgment of interconnectedness.

Years later, after having lived and created and screwed up and built and lost and loved and lived some more, account balances tightly coiled up in the shoulders, curved guitar-holder’s spine, new grays planted by the President, on the precipice of major life changes and new gambles, the boot of  the times pressing on my chest—I needed to see her that night. I, probably like many of us there, needed to be reminded that, while we can’t be happy all the time, power can be tiny, power can be nimble, power can be pure, power can be soft, power can be our own. 

 

Black plastic bag

filled with plastic bags

and the rest of his things

like newspapers

a moth-bitten sweater

an umbrella

and a transistor radio

he bought at Radio Shack

in 1983

been with him through everything.

 

Takes the same table every time

sets up his house

sprawls out magazines and a notepad

writes to the government.

 

He rises every fifteen

to flirt with the barista girls

he smells stale but harmless

nursing the same complimentary tea

since nine in the morning.

 

A regular comes in,

ponytail and Lulu Lemon,

asks, “do you want a sandwich?”

blushing, wide-grinned,

with her he goes to the food case,

like a boy with his mother,

“Which one?”

“Tuna.”

“Two please.”

 

She might be back tomorrow.

 

—Bernadette Malavarca

The smile of a passing dog,

suburban afternoon,

worn, wandering,

taking paces in my American day.

 

Mothers crowd the square,

nannies trail behind them,

children zoom,

high on caffeine dreams.

 

All roads closed,

smartphone says so,

newspapers cling to newsstands,

obsolete like milkmen.

 

Snowflakes,

unrepeatable structures

fall in the predictable day,

melt on my eyelids,

I watched as long as I could.

 

Dream shards

poke through

this winter blanket,

fire flies in the mundane jar

rapid fire in the igloo.

 

—Bernadette Malavarca

 

“He’s just a shitty businessman.” | “She married up.” | “He’s a kid; give him a break.” | “I bet he doesn’t speak English.” | “I’m an entrepreneur.” | “We’re working-class Americans who want our country back.” | “Family-oriented.” | “Monogamous.” | “Like serial monogamist.” | “I’m poly.” | “Dyke.” | “Faggot.” | “As, Christians, we believe . . .” | “Jews are cheap.” | “Young professionals are gentrifying the neighborhood.” | “Millennial are the worst.” | “Handouts.” | “Well, they have silver spoons.” | “There are so many homeless people in Penn Station; it’s gross.” | “His family’s no good; what do you expect . . .” | “Fucking junkies.” | “Flake.” | “Apartment supers are weird; they shoot up in the basement.” | “Couldn’t deal; I’m a New Yorker.” | “Aren’t you like . . . forty?” | “He’s so different on social . . .” | “Guys don’t respect her, because she fucks everybody.” | “Prude.” | “Swipe left.” | “Fat people . . .” | “Refugee.” | “Libs. | “Black man.” | “She’s Russian; Russians are cold . . .” | “She was always the go-getter, my son . . . not so much.” | “The Elite.” | “There’s the 1 percent, and the rest of us.” | “We run a gypsy brewery.” | “Enlightenment.” | “I practice mindfulness.” | “Tasker.” | “So what do you do?” | “What are you going to do? Pump gas?” | “Get a job.” | “Get a real job. | “Follow your dreams.” | “Dreamer.” | “He’s like a Peter Pan.” | “True creatives.” | “Take responsibility.” | “Take risks; you play it safe.” | “We need someone aggressive.” | “Pussy.” | “Bully.” | “Narcissist.” | “Fucking loser with no self-esteem.” | “You could never handle it.” | “She could never do your job.” | “I think he’s bipolar.” | “Well, you need to find your slot.” | “So what are you?” | “I can’t figure you out . . .”

 

—Bernadette Malavarca

 

I don’t know what a poet is,

but here’s a page with my blood on it.

I don’t know who the artists are,

but I made you something.

I don’t know if there’s a God,

but sometimes I see ghosts.

 

I don’t know what success is,

but I think we’re doing okay with these Korean tacos in Asbury,

I don’t know what they mean by “be hungry,”

but I feel pretty full every day.

I don’t know what he wants with “more aggressive,”

but it seems rude to interrupt people.

 

I don’t know my party,

but that guy is a dick.

I don’t know if some sex is a sin,

but it’s none of your business.

I don’t know if women are weak,

but we bleed giving speeches.

 

I don’t know what tolerance means,

but holidays back home feel icy.

I don’t know about holy unions,

but this love has burrowed in my bone marrow.

I don’t know what forever is,

but I’d like this to keep going.

 

—Bernadette Malavarca