Transcript
Unknown Host (0:01)
If you've been having your McDonald's sausage.
Tracy K. Smith (0:03)
McMuffin with an iced coffee from somewhere.
Unknown Host (0:06)
Else, now is a great time to reconsider. In the Pacific Northwest, it's never too cold for an iced coffee in the morning. Grab yourself a medium caramel, French vanilla or classic iced coffee for just $2.29. Beverage may cause craving for McMuffin or hash browns. Prices and participation may vary. Cannot be combined with any other offer or combo meal.
Major (0:31)
Hey there. It's major. As we take a look back at the Slowdown's deep well of episodes, we're revisiting some standout moments from past hosts. Today, we're going into the Vault to bring you an episode from Tracy K. Smith, one of the voices that helped shape the Slowdown into what it is today. This is just one of the many special selections from our archives.
Tracy K. Smith (0:54)
Foreign I'm Tracy K. Smith, and this is the Slowdown. Every life is many lives. We grow, change, move. Our circle of loved ones widens and contracts, shifting from one location to another. Sometimes I return to memories of my past and feel as though I'm peering in upon strangers. And yet I know something fundamental to the person I now am resides there. I think that's why I love today's poem, A Friend by Seshu Foster. Waking up on a sunny morning, the poem's speaker is reminded not just of the night before, but of huge swaths of his past. The poem gathers pieces of the many different chapters making up one single life. What else do I appreciate about this poem? I like the fact that it looks at the ways people migrate from place to place as natural. I like how it contemplates the fact that our loved ones age and grow vulnerable. It acknowledges the ways we lose touch with the people we care about. It corrals the mundane and the serious into a single tight space, which is what life feels like. And it captures a blur of demands, memories and desires in a way that makes me grateful to be alive. This is Seishu Foster's untitled poem. A friend slept on the foldout couch going home from Mexico. We stayed up past midnight laughing in the kitchen as the children slept, talking about friends in the Bay Area. They used to use our house as a station to send Salvadorans north. We laughed so much my cracked rib hurts. I think about my dad, his broken wrist and broken ribs, sitting alone at the kitchen table in his rooming house in San Jose, almost 70, hurting a bit, too tired to move. His kitchen is not on the sunny side of the house, dad. Our children grow in their sleep. The baby had a bad night, crying for more than an hour, feverish, coughing, a painful dry cough. The phone rings first thing in the morning, everyone as tired as we were last night. Our friend has gotten up before us to shower and hit the road. Before we can say goodbye, he's left behind a note. Instead of talking to him, I'm answering the phone. It's a co worker who wants me to take care of some union business. It's Sunday and I don't want to see her, but her job depends on it. The kids come in to tell me they have a spot growing on the ceiling of their room, a brown stain, something from the winter rains that just passed, like the old days I once thought I was living in, vanished in this bright morning sunshine. It's a rare day in LA when you can see the stubby San Gabriel mountains this clear, and beyond them rolls the Colorado Plateau, a high winter desert crossed by railroad from yards outside of Denver highways across cold, vast empty stretches of America. It's another day. The woman is coming to see me about some work related papers. How to start again, how to wake up. Someone is knocking on the door. The kids are up talking and laughing. I hurry to put water on to boil. The phone is ringing again. I want one cup of tea. One the Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Found. This project is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts on the web@arts.gov.
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