Today I put eight copies of my poetry collection into Little Free Libraries around Portland and Beaverton. I did not wake up this morning planning to do that. I had a stack of author copies of Small Corrections sitting around the house, test prints and copies I’d ordered from Lulu. I’ve temporarily taken my own books off the Black Root Press website because I want to establish the press as a home for other trans and nonbinary writers and artists first. Eventually, I’d like people who want to support the press to be able to buy my work there too.
But in the meantime, I had books. And I’ve spent much of my life afraid of taking up space. That has been changing. Part of The Black Root Press’s unlikely origin story involves a friendship that went very wrong. I’m not going to name the person because this isn’t really about him. He’s another poet, and for a brief period we became intensely close.
At first, I was excited. Here was someone doing some of the things I’d been thinking about doing myself: publishing poetry, creating literary community, organizing things around writing. We talked about helping each other. I was going to contribute to some of what he was building, and he talked about helping me. Then I started wanting to actually *do things*. That’s when everything got strange.
The closer I got to turning ideas into movement, the more the dynamic seemed to change. There were increasingly uncomfortable interpersonal boundaries. Attempts to turn the friendship into something romantic. Promises and plans that seemed exciting when they were abstract but became something else when action was required. Eventually, I had to step away. I was angry about it for a while. Some of that anger wasn’t even about him. It was about me.
Because I was watching someone confidently occupy enormous amounts of space while I was still standing at the edge of my own life, asking whether I was allowed in. I could identify a hundred reasons I wasn’t ready. The press needed to look better. I needed more followers. I needed to understand printing better. I needed a perfect distribution model. I needed the perfect website. I needed permission from some imaginary literary authority to call myself a publisher again. Meanwhile, someone else could simply say, “I’m a poet. I’m a publisher. This is what I do.” And people believed him. At some point, my reaction stopped being, “Why does he get to do that?”
It became: “Wait. Why don’t I?” I don’t have to become louder than everyone else. I don’t have to become arrogant. I don’t have to pretend I know things I don’t know. I don’t have to make myself enormous. I can take up space politely. But I still get to take up space. So today I took one of my books and drove to a Little Free Library in Beaverton. Before putting it inside, I opened the cover and wrote:
To anyone struggling to be seen, you are enough. Luke Allis ’26 Cedar Bench
The library was attached to a cedar bench. That was it. I took a picture and left. I had done the thing. Then I found another Little Free Library in Old Town Beaverton. It was completely empty. I had intended to leave another copy of Small Corrections, but standing there with my own book and an empty box felt wrong. I didn’t want to use someone’s community library as an advertisement for myself. So I went home. I’d already weeded my books recently, but I looked again. Suddenly, I saw books I’d been keeping mostly because I felt guilty about getting rid of books I hadn’t read. They’re books. They’re supposed to be read. I grabbed a stack—including a Sherman Alexie book, which felt particularly appropriate for a Pacific Northwest little library—and went back.
The library had been established in honor of Jean Upton. I wrote the same inscription in my book, added Jean’s Library — Old Town Beaverton, and mostly filled Jean’s empty library back up. That felt better.
I drove across Portland. I left another copy in Hawthorne. Then, while walking back toward my car, I noticed another Little Free Library just down the street. I found a rainbow-painted Little Free Library and left a copy there. That one made me particularly happy. I left another in Foster-Powell.
Along the way, I saw an enormous, almost magical-looking oak tree. I found a free vintage wooden dresser sitting on the street. My wife has been talking about learning to refinish furniture, so apparently the universe decided today’s literary distribution route also needed furniture acquisition.
There was another stop I had been particularly excited about. A friend told me his church had a “poetry box.” Perfect, I thought. I drove all the way there. The poetry box was a binder. Literally a binder containing individual poems. I stood there with an entire published poetry collection in my hand and thought, absolutely not. Fortunately, the church also had a Little Free Library. So the book went there instead. Another small correction.
Yesterday was the anniversary of my dad’s death. He died in 2022. At some point during all of this, I heard the Beatles. They were one of those things that immediately made me think of my dad. I found myself saying, essentially, “Hey, Dad.” If that’s you, give me a sign.
Then I saw 222. Later, 555. Then 333. Later still, 111. You can decide what you think about angel numbers. I’m not particularly interested in convincing anyone. Grief teaches you that some experiences don’t become more meaningful just because you can prove them. I asked my dad for a sign. Then I spent the day noticing signs. That was enough for me.
By the end of the afternoon, eight copies of Small Corrections were sitting in Little Free Libraries around Beaverton and Portland. I had also helped refill an empty library. I’d put out new Black Root Press flyers. I’d crossed Portland in traffic. I’d found a rainbow library, an oak tree, a dresser, a poetry binder, and apparently every repeating three-digit number available in the metropolitan area.
Then, when I finally stopped to get something to eat, I randomly saw my guitar teacher. She’s trans too. I’m not actually sure she knows that I am. That made me laugh. Because maybe that’s what all of this has been about. For a long time, I was very good at being invisible. I learned how to pass through the world without explaining myself. There was safety in that. There still is. But safety can quietly become disappearance. The Black Root Press is, in part, me experimenting with what happens when I stop disappearing. Not when I tell everyone everything. Not when I make myself the center of every room. Not when I become the loudest person in it. Just when I stop apologizing for being there.
Today, eight physical objects with my name on them left my hands and entered the world. Somebody might pick one up tonight. Some might sit there for six months. Someone might hate the poems. Someone might need one. I have no control over any of that anymore. That’s the point. Maybe the lesson I accidentally took from a bad friendship was a useful one after all. You don’t need permission to make something. You don’t need permission to call yourself an artist. You don’t need permission to build the thing you’ve been waiting for somebody else to invite you into. And you don’t have to take up all the space. You just have to stop pretending you don’t deserve any.
A little later, I passed a house with two enormous flags hanging outside: a trans flag and a bisexual pride flag. The trans flag was particularly worn, faded, torn, almost coming apart in places, but it was still hanging there. I stopped and took a picture. Maybe I was already feeling overly symbolic about everything that day, but it struck me as a pretty good metaphor. There are easier times to hang a trans flag than right now. There are easier times to be visible. You can get weathered. You can get torn up. You can look a little worse for wear. And you can still hang the fucking flag.
To anyone struggling to be seen: You are enough.
