. . . alongside us, on our way . . .

 

Mark and I had lived in Washington, DC, for over three years, from 2001 to 2004, so the city was still somewhat familiar when we arrived. This was comforting in no small way, but even more comforting was the village that traveled to the capital with me and had been with me emotionally and spiritually since I first received the news. Mark arranged for us to all stay in the same hotel: my good friend Nikki, acting as my social-media guru; Alison Granucci, my agent from Blue Flower Arts speakers’ agency and also a kind of godmother, offering spirited words and joining me in impromptu dances in my hotel room; Meredith Beattie, a natural-born leader with a rare combination of chutzpah and love, representing City Year, a national school-mentorship program I planned to partner with; my cousin Sergio Baradat, a brilliant artist who would design the cover and interior illustrations for this book, as well as an elegant broadside of the poem; David Naranjo, my publicist, who offered his expertise and energy to help us navigate the media frenzy; and, of course, my mother, brother, and mother-in-law.

When we arrived, the city was abuzz with inauguration activity. There were souvenir vendors all over the National Mall and special inauguration-themed menus and drinks being served at restaurants; details about the ceremony and festivities appeared on every news program. Even as I saw my name flashed across the TV screens in the lobby of our hotel—“Richard Blanco, Inaugural Poet”—I hadn’t quite fathomed the entire scope of such an honor. For the most part, poets live and write contentedly inside the circle of literati and academics, myself included. Accustomed to that kind of relative obscurity, I naively thought I’d simply read my poem, shake a few hands, get back home, and that would be that. Not so. The days ahead proved to be abruptly life changing, filled with unexpected experiences and realizations that were somewhat tangential to the writing of the poem but nevertheless important and unique parts of my journey as inaugural poet.

Ushered around by David, I spent the first few days in the city with my village dashing from one interview to another at major news stations from the United States and around the world (CNN, Telemundo, the BBC, Univision, PBS). Suddenly I was thrust into a whole new world of make-up rooms, microphone wires, spotlights, and newsroom sets, with cameras eyeing me from every angle. It was terrifying and yet wonderful, thanks to David, who dissipated my anxiety with his witty one-liners that kept me in stitches. But more important, he was a cubanito like me, who grew up in my Miami. He knew my story, wanted me to tell it, and believed in it. He empowered me to trust that my story was important and to believe it could make a difference in the lives of millions of immigrants and LGBT people—all of them Americans. I soon felt and accepted a responsibility to speak so that we might all be heard, respected, and legitimized. The sense of serving a greater good, afforded by my role as inaugural poet, was humbling and gave me the courage to look into the cameras honestly and speak the most intimate details of my life to the world without reservation.

But David hadn’t expected a poet to step into the spotlight as naturally as I did. Even I was surprised by how comfortable I began to feel in front of the cameras. In retrospect, I understand that something grander took over my being, rooted in my personal beliefs about the art of poetry. Throughout years of writing, I had come to think of the poem as a mirror in which the reader and the poet stand side by side: the reader catching a reflection of his or her own life blurred with the poet’s life. Connecting to people—and having them connect emotionally to their own lives—had become a kind of personal mission underlying my poems, my fundamental belief that this indeed was the ultimate beauty, power, and purpose of poetry. I recognized the inaugural poem as a great opportunity—perhaps the single greatest opportunity I’d have—for poetry to engage America in this way: “One Today,” a great big mirror for all of us to look into, together. An even greater sense of purpose and duty as inaugural poet emerged as a result, emboldening me to speak about poetry and my story.

Evenings we attended several pre-inauguration events throughout the city, witnessing an interesting intersection of politics and celebrity—DC meets Hollywood. I must confess I had held a slight aversion toward celebrities and most pop icons, believing poetry and poets had no place in their world. But I was proven wrong. At one dinner party I had a most unexpected conversation with Eva Longoria about Latino literature and her initiative for the Latino Museum in DC. She was also one of the minds behind the Latino Inaugural 2013, a special celebration at the Kennedy Center, where actor Wilmer Valderrama performed a dramatic reading of my poem “When I Was a Little Cuban Boy.” Backstage, he told me how much he loved the poem and confessed that he’d been rehearsing it for days, wanting to get it just right. I had similar exchanges about poetry and literature with almost every celebrity and mover-and-shaker I met, from Star Jones to the mayor of San Antonio, Julian Castro, from will.i.am to Nancy Pelosi. Everyone seemed genuinely interested in my story, proud of my selection as poet, and excited about poetry, often asking me for a hint about what my inaugural poem was about. The inauguration had poetry on everyone’s minds, I realized, demonstrating its potential to hold a more vital, popular place in our lives, even in the lives of celebrities.