Jalen Eutsey’s latest chapbook, ‘Bubble Gum Stadium,’ is a marriage of verse and memoir

Jalen Eutsey’s latest chapbook, “Bubble Gum Stadium,” is a marriage of verse and memoir, born from the poet’s unexpected longing for home in his early 20s. The collection, an exciting and cherished glance into his Miami, strays away from South Beach in favor of an otherwise world where a West Perrine Park baseball diamond transcends the majors through memory. What began as a documentary film idea morphs into a well-rounded collection worthy of all of our time. The collection’s cinematic kindling truly ignites into a thrilling work of art that I enjoyed from the first stanza to the last. 

Bry Reed: Bubble Gum Stadium is an exploration of sport and family, and place. Where did the journey of crafting these poems begin?

Jalen Eutsey: I moved from Miami to Baltimore to do my MFA in poetry at Johns Hopkins, and something about being out of Miami unlocked my ability to write about it. Also made it feel more urgent. Two things happened: with distance, I could see things clearly, and the movie Moonlight taught me how to write about it [Miami].

I’m a wallflower. I’m shy. I’m often on the periphery of things. I think the poetic storytelling of Moonlight, the dialogue, and the colors are resonant and shift between the periods in the film. That taught me that I can tell this story/my story and say something about Miami that feels more natural to me. I have seen that movie a dozen times, moved out of Miami, and am nostalgic for Miami, but I am also honest about the place and see the similarities. People think of good time fun when they think of Miami, but it’s pretty redlined. I lived 16 miles or 45 minutes from what people think of when they think of Miami, which is like South Beach. I was at the edge of the thing people associate with Miami. Moving to Baltimore and learning about the city’s history of redlining was like “Ok, ok, there’s more similarities here than people expect”. 

Incredible. It’s this journey about your distance from home and then your longing. The way that cinema influences how you get more interrogative about your hometown.  

The perspective in the book is like an intimate outsider. I was fortunate enough to have a lot of opportunities [for development], but everything was taking me out of the community. When I played baseball, I was doing it 15-20 minutes away. When I went to school, I was doing it 30-40 minutes away in Coral Cables or Coconut Grove. There are all kinds of statistics about how it’s good for people from different socioeconomic backgrounds to interact with each other, but it put me in a position where I was shielded from the socioeconomic realities of my neighborhood. 

At the heart of this is growing up a Jehovah’s Witness, being shy, and all the distance involved. I wasn’t at block parties, but I’d walk down the street, and people would say wassup to me. I have memories of walking down the street and people knowing who my dad is and saying, “Little Hiller!”. I remember one time I was playing basketball at the park, and someone called my dad to tell him I looked like I was playing the wrong sport because I looked like I’d be a better basketball player than baseball [player]. Being back home [in Miami] and doing those interviews felt like a community and really grounding. I walked into a living history of pride in community and Black baseball. 

Do you consider yourself a Southern poet? 

People like to say Miami is not the South, but it’s many things. It’s in the U.S., so issues with policing are there. It has a Caribbean feel to it. It’s also very suburban and atomized. My approach is a lot like Terrance Hayes’s.

How was it workshopping across forms as a poet? 

My education at Hopkins introduced me to a formalist, meter tradition. I have some sonnets in the collection, but they’re more American sonnets than traditional sonnets. For the sonnets, I read Terrance Hayes’ “American Sonnets”, Diane Seuss “Frank Sonnets”, Ted Berrigan’s “The Sonnets”, and a few other collections of sonnets. I don’t like when I’m writing in meter and it turns into math—it takes me back to being in a classroom, hoping someone doesn’t call on me. 

I tried to maintain a loose iambic structure and a fair amount of internal rhyme and sonic play. The sonnets are interesting because I wanted to write about the same thing over again without it feeling redundant. Sonnet is a pretty referential form, and it helps the audience not get lost.

I’m really interested in prose poems because I like language. Sometimes I think people want language not to be my first subject, but I like the prose poems because of their hybridity. It makes language its subject and a movement of the mind. Sometimes it feels like you edit that out of other forms, so I like that the prose poem allows for that. 

Are you proud of your sonnets?

I like them, and other people seem to like them, which surprises me. I’m always waiting for someone to tell me my work isn’t a real sonnet, but they seem to resonate with people. Maybe I should write some more of them.

Where do you draw poetic inspiration from? 

Ross Gay, Danez Smith, Hanif Abdurraqib, and I’m a big fan of Mary Ruefle. I don’t know if anyone believes that reading these poems. Elizabeth Bishop was a big influence, and folks say they can see that influence. I’m interested in the detritus and refuse. 

“Cinema Verité” is a poem in which the second stanza describes a pile of trash that I saw in the neighborhood. The third stanza has the cheeto bag in it. I remember being in Chicago and asking my friend if we could walk on a particular street because it’s where the people are. I’m not super drawn to nature; in some ways, the detritus of city life becomes a kind of nature I explore. There’s an interest in what’s in the gutter and what it says about life.

Any insight on connections between sport and life now that this collection is complete?

So much of what I’m interested in about life comes from aesthetics. Like the leg kick of a baseball player, their hair, or their style of play. My dad’s reflection on his time made me interested in looking at the Hellcats. He never spoke about it casually, like he was just playing with his friends. He talked about it like he was in the major league—these are major league memories. In a world where everything is specialized, it’s easy to feel like you didn’t make it. What about the people who don’t make it? What if you’re a legend in your community? My dad’s perspective is why I wanted to explore that. 

How are you feeling as you prepare for the public to read Bubble Gum Stadium?

I’m proud of the book. It has some of my best work. The love is in the book—the love of Black boyhood and trying to make sure there’s freedom and agency for Black boys.