It begins with someone believing in your dream.
Often the most vocal ones are the ones who are most afraid. Afraid of looking bad if they support a dream of yours that doesn’t become a reality. Afraid what others might think of them in comparison to your success (or not).
The best ones are the individuals who cheer you on, regardless of what mass or popular opinion predicts.
‘Nobody knows anything’
— William Goldman
Three years on, I owe the momentum of Plates to the ones who believe and invested in my and this publication from the very beginning. Not the ones who belittled this “project” and asked “what’s next?” Not the ones who asked, “When are you going to get a real job?”. And certainly not the ones who assume free copies by association after years of invalidation and beration.
No, thanks. To those people I say, keep your fears to yourself and don’t harm anyone else. And to paraphrase the words of Brené Brown’s riff of Ted Roosevelt’s 1910 speech, if you’re not in the arena, fighting, your opinion does not apply.
Instead, I owe my momentum to you — the early ones at the table. The ones who willingly lined up outside, peeking through the windows encouragingly and lovingly texted words of hope while the scaffolding and tarps were haphazardly obstructing any view of “progress”. The ones who reminded me that progress is different for everyone else.
I owe my momentum to you — the early investors. You, who pre-ordered the magazine (again and again with each issue). You, who bought copies for your friends. And told your friends about what the publication really stood for. You, who pledged an art grant when I presented for the third publication, when I only had the first issue and a PowerPoint to show for at the 10-minute pitch.
I owe my momentum to the early ones at the table — when there wasn’t even a table to begin with. But rather upturned milk crates. You each brought a piece with you to fashion together this makeshift, DIY-ed independent publication, to create a space for discussion.
Your piece may look different. That’s the beauty of it. We bring what we can — and what we want to — to the table. There is no obligation. There is no guilt-trip. The people who are present, show up in their own way, and in their own time.
This table may wobble sometimes. Under the weight of all the issues in the world — many of which cannot be served a la carte just yet. Meanwhile, some passersby may kick the table. While adult-kids may cry foul.
But this is only the beginning. We now have a place. It’s a small and modest platform in comparison to the flashier venues. And that’s okay. We all measure progress and success in our own way.
And right now, I’m learning, with the gift of space, that a lot more is possible. We just need to find the others — together.
To the early ones at the table, thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for believing in the purpose beyond the pages. Thank you for making space. Thank you for watering the seedlings when everything else seemed to run dry. May you continue to influence the change that you seek to create for those, and with those, around you.
