After riding the crowded elevator, higher and higher after each floor, a few full of pulsing music, others brimming with people seemingly enjoying the art, then others trying to force their way into the elevator, I finally arrived on the 5th floor. I struggled for at least an hour, scavenging, trying to find the reading. It felt like the performance was hidden away almost, as if the attention of the night was on the Jazz music and the exhibits on the raw history of Black Power, which were both on the main floors, however I was utterly wrong.

Wearing a thick puffer jacket to protect me against the chilling Saturday night wind, I felt the humidity of the crowd as soon as I stepped off of the elevator. My eyes glanced to my right and my eyes locked with that immense crowd: the sea of people intently listening to the voice that was booming across a long white room, sourced from two barely visible speakers. I couldn’t see a thing, until I weaved my way through, and suddenly I could.

Set in front of a grand yellow painting of a black man, was a poet: Omotara James, her hands on her hips and her voice commanding the crowd as she spoke the words inspired by the age of Black Power. Her poem Assemblage, analyzed how much the black community unconsciously analyzes their “blackness” within each little component of their lives; whether it be in their hair, their demeanor, their idols, their poems, etc. She brings to light a struggle that I am not familiar with, but am trying to understand.

As Omotara James spoke the words of Assemblage, she held a command in her voice that intrigued you and pulled you in to listen. It was strong, and powerful; it was loud, and it was full. For most of the performance she kept her hands on her hips, like a superhero exuding confidence and strength. She looked down occasionally to read the words she had written, but at times with certain lines, her eyes would scan the crowd, as if she were speaking to each person individually, thus impacting us with her voice and her message (though I didn’t seem to fully understand it). For some reason, it was difficult for me to process everything all at once: her performance, her words, the message, the crowd, the dripping humidity. It was a lot to take in, which I eventually did, but each on its own.

James’ performance felt very much like a conversation between two people: her and the crowd. Often times when she voiced a line of her poem, the crowd would laugh collectively, and shout out, responding to rhetorical questions Assemblage demanded the answers to. The interaction from the start was never a one way street. Somehow, Omotara James, was there to be listened to, but somehow also to listen. She responded to the way the crowd responded to her and her poetry. No reaction or cry of disagreement or agreement stopped James or slowed her down; it only built up her momentum and exemplified the lack of wavering in her voice.