When you get to the top of the mountain
Pull the next one up.
Then there’ll be two of you
Roped together at the waist
Tired and proud, knowing the mountain,
Knowing the human force it took
To bring both of you there.
And when the second one has finished
Taking in the view,
Satisfied by the heat and perspiration under the wool,
Let her pull the next one up;
Man or woman, climber of mountains.
Pull the next hand over
The last jagged rock
To become three.
Two showing what they’ve already seen.
And one knowing now the well-being with being
Finished with one mountain,
With being able to look out a long way
Toward other mountains.
Feeling a temptation to claim victory
As if mountains were human toys to own.
When you ask how high is this mountain
With a compulsion to know
Where you stand in relationship to other peaks,
Look down to wherefrom you came up
And see the rope that’s tied to your waist
Tied to the next man’s waist,
Tied to the next woman’s waist,
Tied to the first man’s waist,
To first woman’s waist … and pull the rope!
Never mind the flags you see flapping on conquered pinnacles.
Don’t waste time scratching inscriptions into the monolith.
You are the stone itself.
And each man, each woman up the mountain,
Each breath exhaled at the peak,
Each glad-I-made-it … here’s-my-hand,
Each heartbeat wrapped around the hot skin of the sun-bright sky, Each noise panted or cracked with laughter,
Each embrace, each cloud that holds everyone
in momentary doubt …
All these are inscriptions of a human force that can
Conquer conquering hand over hand pulling the rope
Next man up, next woman up.
Sharing a place, sharing a vision.
Room enough for all on all the mountain peaks.
Force enough for all
To hold all the hanging bodies
Dangling in the deep recesses of the mountain’s belly
Steady … until they have the courage …
Until they know the courage …
Until they understand
That the only courage there is is
To pull the next man up
Pull the next woman up
Pull the next up
Up
Up.
- Marc Kelly Smith, “Pull the Next One Up”
I heard this poem performed at the Green Mill in Chicago in early 2002. I had just moved to Chicago after having left New York right after September 11th. There was a long road of Bush still ahead of us and it was already so bad, but we all knew it was going to get worse. Needless to say, this poem is one of those things that I heard exactly when I needed to hear it. Marc is a fantastic performer and host, and an interesting and controversial figure in the poetry world. He isn’t actually one of my favorite writers, but this is one of my favorite poems of all time and had been since that day.
I was competing in the slam that night. (I almost won, lost by fractions of a point to Joel Chmara, very worthy opponent). But I stopped slamming very soon after. I was in a painful growing place, re-evaluating a lot of my life and the person I want to be and shamed by my own self-image into not being able to be onstage and let the work speak for itself. It became about me and I couldn’t handle that.
Whenever I look back at that time and think about my path right now and think about why I believe in or care about the things I do, why I speak out about the things I do…
Why keep going and keep trying? Why poetry? Why writing at all? Why activism? Why fight privilege and oppression? Why are words so important?
This poem is one of my touchstones now that I go to, to remind me that it’s not about me. It’s not about being right or righteous, it’s about people. It’s not even about being your best self or you own values, even though that can factor in. It’s about connection. It’s not too sentimental for me to say that it is the intersection of work/purpose and love.
I was thinking about all the blogs I read and how so many of them have pieces of writing, essays, thoughts that stick in my head, as much as this poem did. How inspiring it can be to read other people’s questions, art and ideas. Why livejournal was an important part of my life for a time and why tumblr is now.
When people don’t understand blogging or don’t read blogs, I think there is a misconception that it is a purely self-indulgent medium. That people are doing it to draw other people to themselves. In my experience, most people do it to put themselves out there and become part of something else. I can’t tell you how many very personal blogs I have related to, and have helped me feel connected.
It is not easy work and very often not paid or recognized work, but it is insulting to say it’s a hobby or distraction or that it is somehow separate from real life.
To bring it back to this poem:
There are artists at all stages of their work and life experience, who don’t always feel like “real artists” and they are posting their work and accepting scrutiny and feedback on the internet anyway.
There are people who admit they are still learning and they don’t have all the answers when discussing complexity in politics and violence and war and privilege, because it’s about what is true, not “winning the argument”. They get attacked for this. Often the same people who care most about integrity and recognizing sources are also those who write their truest and most vulnerable feelings. This is humbling and it feels like shouting into an empty canyon because it is thankless and invalidating work.
Right before I looked up the poem, I was thinking about feminist and activist bloggers I read and follow on tumblr who circulate under reported news and start conversations that really need to be happening. There are a couple people who I see write about topics that hurt, depress and anger them on a daily basis and endure tons of hateful and terrible and triggering comments. And they do it anyway.
So if any of you are reading this, this is what I want to say to you:
This poem is about people like you. You are the climbers and on many issues, you are the first ones up and then you have to keep pulling and pulling. I know it’s lonely sometimes. I know it’s so difficult, but I want you to know you do reach people. Even the hateful comments happen because your truth bounces around the brains of people who willfully want to ignore and stifle it. That is happening because of the power to connect that your work has.
Your work helps me up. It helps me want to pull more people up. You connect. Thank you for your work and courage.
Until they know the courage …
Until they understand
That the only courage there is is
To pull the next man up
Pull the next woman up
Pull the next up
