All 10 poets took to the stage, in front of the 300-capacity African American Research Library auditorium—housing friends, family, and HBO. Now was the night we had all been preparing for. The process was something like Akeelah, training herself for the spelling bee, reading from the dictionary and jumping rope to the rhythm of the words. Four more poets (I was number fifth); it would be now or never.
Along with FAU freshman Jasmine “SwEEt VenoM” Bailey this would be my last shot, the cut-off age is 19 and I would be 20 after Brave New Voices ended for this year. The anxiety was through the roof, for this was one of the most unconventional slams many of us had ever participated in. Never before had I ever had to perform my poetry while my competition stood and stared me in the mouth and calculated my mannerisms. But this one was different. If you weren’t number one or 10, you had it easier. This was something like an open mic, you had no choice but to get comfortable because some of us had a while.
Not only did we have to stand on the stage with our competition, but it was a three round slam. Each round, two poets would get eliminated except for the third round, where six poets would be left standing. Each poet was very talented, and it was truly anyone’s guess who would be left by the end of the night. I didn’t know if I would make it, but Jasmine kept reminding me that we had to speak things into existence, and that I was just as good a poet as the others.
Come the third round, we were allowed to hear our scores and most poets did not score under a nine on a 1-10 point scale. The sixth poet performed, the judges held up their white score cards, the score keeper dueling as a score counter did her duty, and the scores were in the hand of the host. My chronic elbow pain began to kick in, and I was ringing my hands like I had juvenile arthritis. I mumbled a quick prayer as we had all been doing throughout the competition night and I stared at the ground, the lights beaming down on the poets and the cameras waiting to capture the team came together.
The host reminded us that it was about the poetry and not the points as we waited for the news. First place SwEEt VenoM, 2nd place Jon K, 3rd place SOULfire, 4th place El Nino, and 5th place T.P. topping off our 5-poet slam team.
When SOUL came out of the mouth of the host, I was gone, I ran to the left of the stage to SwEEt VenoM and it was on. We nearly broke each other, as I type this I relive the moment and I want to go back. The euphoria of those seconds and that night could never be duplicated. I made the team and I was going to experience it with my best friend.
Jasmine and I had discussed scenarios that could possibly take place. Going to Washington D.C. together was not one we were sure would play out, after all my best friend was my competition—whom I met a year prior when we were in high school, in what could be more ironic than, competition. We were thinking we would have to slam off against one another because of a tie, or she would go without me, or me without her. But on the stage we cheered one another on, exchanging looks to affirm one another’s performance once we finished our poems, and our famed handshake (come to a slam or open mic on campus to see).
To have something to look forward to makes living worthwhile. To know that hard work pays off drives me to keep on going when I think I can’t go any further. Cold midnights spent reciting my poems in the breezeway while students study in the 24-hour lounge, practices in front of Jasmine in the pits, bathroom performances and flashing my radio flash light equipped with a siren in our eyes—I would do it all again even if it meant I wouldn’t make the team.
--All to make a long story short, very short.
Peace
No comments:
Post a Comment