Catching up on my stack of Harper’s magazine, I came across a remembrance of the poet Etheridge Knight, and it stirred a long buried memory.
Etheridge? I paused, before remembering he was a black inmate of the Indiana State Penientiary when he began writing seriously. Damn good stuff, as I discovered.
My introduction came in the mid ’70s when Roger Pfiingston asked if I wanted to go with him up to Indianapolis, aka Naptown, to a reading and open mic. I was free that night. The trip from Bloomington was a little over an hour, and he was driving.
The event was at a bar in the inner city, not a familiar terrain, and Etheridge was hosting. I should go back to my journals for details, but I recall it as a warm and comforting evening. I think Jared Carter was the featured reader. Another damned good Indiana poet.
I was a bit nervous about one of the pieces I’d brought with me, one that quoted a friend’s father about a lover in the ’30s, but I read it anyway.
The line in question triggered delighted, loud laughter from Etheridge, especially. I was sooooh relieved!
Looking back, I see it as one more confirmation – and welcome – as my identity as a poet.
What a wonderful community!
Jnana's Red Barn 
How very wonderful, Jnana, to read of that evening back in the 1970s when you traveled to the Hummingbird Cafe on Talbott Steet in Indianapolis, and to have your memories of Etheridge Knight and Roger Pfingston. Etheridge was a wonderful impresario of those gatherings. Roger, who is still with us, added to the variety of the Thursday-night readings. I’m touched that you remember being there, and I hope things have continued to go well for you.
They have! May we pass the torch as well.