My wife, Lea Deschenes, calls the National Poetry Slam Finals her “mobile family reunion.” Some days it’s easier to agree with that assessment than others. Certainly, in a year in which allegations of perfidy were afoot, the idea of an immense (if dysfunctional) “family” of poets can be a bit suspect.

Still, the Slam holds immense personal significance for both of us: Lea’s been involved since Asheville ’94, I’ve been in since Portland ’96, where we met, and we both cherish the friendships we’ve made through Nationals. Indeed, it was a funny moment when we realized that we were rooting for a certain Slam team in this year’s finals because two of its members had slept on our couch.

Let’s get one thing straight before we go any further: the faults of the National Slam will always be more glaring than its good points, because the bad is always more visible. The allegations of cheating and poor sportsmanship and “OHMIGOD HOWCOULDTHEY GIVEJAMIEKENNEDY A1.7” will always cloud the immediate experience, but rest assured, it’s the spirit of camaraderie that endures.

This year was a little better for me in that regard than most. Although we live in Southern California, Lea’s one of the founders of the Worcester, MA Poetry Slam, and I’ve spent a good year out that way myself, so we were both viewing this as a sort of homecoming, all the more significant because we had just gotten married the month before. To fit everything we wanted to do into one trip, we arrived in New England a week early. On Sunday, June 30, we spent the afternoon surrounded by a hundred or so of Lea’s relatives. That evening, we journeyed to Worcester to read at the Java Hut reading hosted by Tony Brown, where we read to just as many people, and where the love was just as strong and, to be fair, even more energetic.

Later in the week -- after trips to the Boston Aquarium, Provincetown and Hammond Castle -- we returned to Worcester to participate in the SlamAmerica Bus reading. A nation’s worth of poetry spilled from the bus to the stage: Gary Mex Glazner, Danny Solis, Ken Hunt, Brenda Moossy, Matt Conley, Cass King. . . the list goes on, interspersed with locals such as Bill Macmillan, Seren Divine, Sean Shea, Lia Klunk and others. Lea and I were considered “locals” for the purpose of the reading. This struck us as incredibly cool, but I can’t even begin to describe the positive energy that radiated not only from everyone, but between everyone. It was like some psychic circuit breaker was routed through us all.

In between the Bus reading and the send-off party for the Worcester slam team that night, Lea and I had dinner with Bill and Sou MacMillan, their super-cool child Liberty, Viveee from Detroit and members of the Detroit slam team.

Am I talking too little about the actual slam? Too much about what happened before the game even began? I apologize, but for me, this aspect of Nationals is considerably more important than who scored higher than who. For my money, sitting in a Providence Thai restaurant with Laguna Beach slammer Derrick Brown and New England poet Sean Shea ranks up there with who won or lost the evening's bout.

There were many small details that, to my sentimental mind, redeemed the ugliness that is serious competition: the way the Texas poets supported each other in the semi-finals. . . .the amazing poem Austin’s Sonya Feher finished the semi-final bout with, which had everybody in my line of vision gasping, not least Chicagoan Reggie Gibson, who was cheering on just about everyone. . . .the incredible “Taking Apart Tinkerbell” reading, hosted by Seattle’s Paula Friedrich, which was the single best side-event in my long recollection. . . .Cass King’s riotous “Sex With A Wookie” song at the Multi-Voice Showcase (Word is a CD of that night will be released -- I’m buying it just to have that piece.). . . .a local hip-hop artist protesting the city’s allegedly corrupt mayor on the steps of the Mayor’s Reception for the Slammers -- and the under-the-breath mumblings of many slammers that they’d like to be out there with him. . . .Kenny Mostern showing support for local striking workers at the Multi-Voice Showcase. . . .Danny Solis harassing passers-by with a bull-horn before the Latino Showcase, which he opened into a Latino and Native American Showcase. . . .the scrappy San Antonio team and the astonishingly talented Normal, Illinois team, who were just a pleasure to observe. . . .the noble Al Letson pleading that the organizers allow Dallas poet GNO into the Individual finals, “even though he’ll probably kick my ass if he does”. . . .Oh, and giving Orange County poets Mindy Nettifee and Steve Ramirez the tour of my father-in-law’s immense day lily garden -- we don’t have open space like that in SoCal. . .

Sometimes, when you step back from the petty politics and grumblings and competitiveness, it’s easy to tell why we do this, over and over: because there really is a sense of love that permeates. A sense of family. And may we never lose that to mere scores.

--Victor D. Infante

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