A Poetry Slam Experience
February's Poetry Slam at the wall was a riveting experience with electrifying audience energy. The house was packed, and each performer was buoyed with yards of applause. But in between the raucous moments of fun and excitement, I was touched beneath every layer of my constructed self, to the deep bones of my human soul.
Near all the performers who shared a piece of themselves had suffered from discrimination, from both bullies and friends. One boy tentatively came up at the end. He hadn't intended to perform, but it would have been a travesty if he hadn't. He unleashed his thoughts on a frequently asked question, "What's it like to be black?" He conjured up every ache and memory that question brings to mind. He talked about how no answer could encompass the subtle digs and blatant racism he's experienced. His poem prodded me specifically because I can see myself ignorantly asking some less crude form of that question, unaware of the pain it would cause.
Another girl gave a tender performance of a self-written poem, interrupted by her own choked tears. The poem was called, "I Love BYU". She mentioned all the warm emotions she felt toward BYU, while including the racism she encountered there. The piece ended with her saying something along the lines of,
"I love BYU/So why doesn't BYU love me?"
Although the poem was not to be praised for its astonishing craft, it was seeped in such heartfelt emotions one could not sidestep the message it lent itself to. This poem allowed me to see an intimate side of her. The performance aspect carried the heart of the poem farther than the words needed to.
All in all, I came out of the experience invigorated, touched, and full of food for thought, and in my belly.
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