The spotlight shines down on the MC. His name is Jive Poetic. He introduces the rules, the area, and the Nuyorican Weekly Poetry Slam. He ends by saying, “Poets, please recite only one poem. Don’t end it and begin another one because then it will be 2 many poems.” His corny jokes don’t fail to humor the audience.
Let’s start the night over again. Standing outside in the cold on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, I run into a classmate. The line begins to move and soon enough, we are in. We have become a part of the Nuyorican Poetry Slam. At the table we are sitting at, I meet Georgette. She’s number six. She had been attending and performing at the Nuyorican for over three years. She’s a veteran and she sure sounds like one. The audience is packed with performers and friends and family. Even the bartender is an active member of the poetry slam, sometimes reciting lines of his own. There is no doubt that this place has talent, and moreover opportunities for up and coming poets. Even Mos Def started his career in that very room.
Blacks, whites, Asians, and browns fill in the seats and cheers from the audience. The diversity of ethnics present parallels the variety of topics introduced. Poems ranged from topics of love to racism to sexism. None of the poets were any bit less talented. None were any bit less encouraged. None were perfect, but none of them wanted that. Every poem was different and honestly, beautiful in its own way. Even if certain topics were repeated, the tone and the wording separated each poem vastly that each poem was appreciated for itself.
One of the poems that stroke me was by a man named Brett. He titled it “Bleach.” He touched about the notions of racism and how children were once taught to believe that racism was okay. He said that children were taught to believe that “removing stains kept America beautiful.” He felt bad for the one African-American who entered the wrong neighborhood to receive the wrong glares. Another poet, Drew, stunned the audience with the line, “My poem is dedicated to those who felt the pain of the recession before the recession ever happened. It is dedicated to the white, black, brown, red, and yellow whom this society has no tolerance for.” He continued on with the line, “How despite the lack of English, citizenship, gender, and color, somehow this recession affects your community the most.” These lines moved everyone in the audience in their own separate ways. We were all located in New York City, one of the most diverse populations of immigrants. Racial prejudices affected us all, or at least had at some point.
Finally, the most captivating lines were recited by Ms. Sick Prose, a young white woman who did social work. She talked about suicide and feminism. Chills ran down my spine when she said, “Have you ever been with a man who treats his liver like a shot glass and his women like a shot gun?” (She actually hit a perfect score.)
All these poets moved hearts and minds in inspiring ways. Some poems weren’t as good as others. But throughout all the numbers, the audience and the judges never failed to still cheer the next poet up. When the scores didn’t do the poet justice, the audience booed. When the scores rose higher and higher, the audience was equally as excited as the poet himself. And the poets all had one thing in common: an undying passion for poetry and expressionism. The ambience of that night, I will never forget, because it was filled with encouragement, warmth, and of course, a couple bottles of beer.
Nice review