Slamming Their Way Into My Heart
My heart is beating uncontrollably. I don’t know if it’s because of the over roasted cup of Starbucks coffee I’m holding in my hand or because I see the future and history up on that stage. One of my favourite quotes by short fiction writer Raymond Carver sums up my experience greatly, “I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone’s heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, even as the room went dark.”
I’ve always dreamt of moving hearts with my writing, and pushing social movements forward. Seeing three poets at a recent slam confess their truths.... made my skin bumpy and my eyes sting with tears. Poetry is the confession of the soul performed in front of strangers. What I did not know, was that these ladies’ words would be the most familiar feeling I have felt in a long time.
The room is fairly small, seating about 100 people, it provides comfort, intimacy and a chance at vulnerability. Mahogany Browne, the host of this event and weekly poetry slams at The Nuyorican Poets Cafe sports a colourful head wrap and a long skirt draping her brown legs. She explains that there will be three rounds of 3 poets reading one of their pieces. So in total, we heard 9 poems by 3 different artists. She starts it off with a poem celebrating her femininity and black heritage. A roar of applause and hoots fills the room. Her words leave us wanting more. The great thing about Mahogany is her ability to go from poet to leader, she changes roles so fearlessly and with a sense of grandeur.
Venessa Marco, a beautiful light-skinned Afro-Latina walks on the stage. She grips her hand to her stomach, as if nervous; her three poems were performed in the same fashion. Her body language told a different story from her words. Her poems were dark and were powerful discourses of racial and sexual harassment in this country, yet her body language reminded me of someone who is nervous or shy. Venessa spoke truths about her experiences being light skinned; about not being white enough for the white kids and not black enough for the black kids. She got me there—I’m a white-passing Latina and that comes with its own set of privileges and discriminations. It’s easy to be grouped with the white kids, who I share no cultural commonness with except for the country we share, than the Latin American kids, who scowl when looking at my white skin, reminding them of our native oppressors. Venessa switched from Spanish to English, it gave me comfort; her voice was smooth and strong, her words were twisted yet powerful.
Roya Marsh gets on the stage and professes her pride and joy and sorrow of being a black woman and of being a black lesbian woman. I am especially transfixed by Roya. The way she grabs my attention, I felt like she was shouting to me, pleading for my help. I felt I was standing idly by as she spoke of her molestation, of her depression, and when she dedicated her piece to “coloured dykes who have considered suicide because of male rappers.” She is not only a poet, she is a performer. Her facial expressions as she screams each syllable hit me like daggers. She blends comedy and tragedy, two entities that for my whole life I believed were mutually exclusive. She ends her proclamation to dyke chicks by saying “we all suck titties for survival… some of us are still surviving.” That got the whole room to laugh and cheer. But not only is it funny, her homosexuality is nurturing, she feels safe expressing who she is and not only is that admirable but that is courageous.
If you ever get the chance, visit a local open-mic night or find a local slam poetry bar, it will move you.
