Last night I opted to be in the best possible place during an election that was scaring me a little too much: safe inside the Young Chicago Authors home base, surrounded by the passionate genius of poets, rappers and performance artists mostly under 21. From the rainy street, the high glass box room over Division and Milwaukee was a beacon; lit up with laughing, relaxed bodies and pumping hands and cheers, a bright spot of peace in community amidst a misty night, and a murky political moment.
Inside, people were singing, rhyming, truth telling, sooth-saying, making each other laugh and call out and sigh. Folks were aware of the hinge of the hour… songs and stories touched on personal beliefs and politics sometimes… but there was no sense of anyone holding their breath; no sense that the calm, clear connectedness that was there in the room was pending or predicated upon anything outside.
