"We Write Life"

I never expected to be a true poet in high school. But once I came to SLA, Philadelphia Youth Poetry Movement lured me in like a neon sign hanging above my head that beckoned, “this is where your destiny lies.”

After writing a group poem for a month, I edited, memorized, and practiced performance repeatedly, until my first real slam arrived. When I stepped on stage, I was a nervous wreck. My fingers shook, I kept wiping my hands on my jeans, and I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Instead, I looked out to a crowd of blurred faces.

“Wait for quiet!” Mr. Kay said.

Each person on stage introduced themselves to the crowd. Then we tipped our heads down, and locked hands. My teammates slowly slipped their hands out from my grasp to signify that they were ready. All I had to do was take the unifying breath. I placed my lips before the microphone and inhaled. We all exhaled. Then our words came tumbling from our mouths, crashing and falling into the air.

I can still remember the faces of poets in the audience; the applause, snapping, and laughter at lines we wrote. All eyes fell on me, and it reminded me of what I wanted to do in life.

In elementary school I loved writing, because it allowed me to have total control of my voice, in an enclosed space. I created stories in my head that were later forgotten. I loved receiving validation, and leaving people hungry for more of my art. My 4th grade teacher imparted some wisdom on me and my mother.

“One of your daughters, or both, are going to be writers.”

She was right. From that moment on I kept the reminder that someone recognized my talent in the back of my head. I wrote poems in middle school, and performed in classroom slams that were mediocre open mikes. I didn’t know exactly what this passion for writing would turn into, but I knew I was headed somewhere.

SLA’s poetry team called to me at the freshman activity fair. I etched my name into the signup sheet, declaring I was becoming a poet. By December, I had already gathered close friendships with poetry members, and was working hard at the craft.

I’d spend endless clubs writing in the empty halls of school, and later finishing poems on the curb of the parking lot, when the building had closed. We’d huddle together next to the dumpster, fishing for ideas and potential lines to write. When we’d come to a lull in the thought process, I’d run around the parking lot and dance, reviving my energy. After we finished the drafting stage, the long editing process began: lines got chopped up, chewed up, and spit out until they were perfect.

During these sessions Mr. Kay always tells us, “I will never let you go on stage without saying something.”

Part of why poetry means so much to me is credited to writers who continue to assure me of my talent. The acceptance and love that poetry club emanates allows me to put my thoughts to paper, and truly be myself. Our poetry t-shirts have an image of a pen touching a heart, which reminds me where all our writing comes from. We all have a story to tell, and luckily we have the opportunity to do such a thing.

PYPM provides a safe, welcoming space for poets to share art. I proudly stand on stage every chance I get, holding in my heart a love for the people that sit before me, with eager ears and eyes.

My last slam meant the most to me, because it was the citywide Championships. Each time I reached an unfamiliar stage, my anxiety increased. I rubbed my jean shorts continuously, with sweaty palms. This was a performing ritual, the wiping away of my nerves. The tips of my fingers vibrated uncontrollably. The dirty, rusted mirror leaning against the wall backstage revealed my face, and that didn’t help. I wasn’t ready for such a looming crowd to hear my words and watch me perform. This was not the small audience I was used to. I put on a facade, but inside my stomach somersaulted out of the theater.

“I’m gonna pee my pants this time, I mean it.” I said this every time I was backstage.

My teammates gathered around me, and I nervously wrung my hands.

“Wait, ready for our chant? 1, 2, 3!”

“BOOCHA!”

We whisper-screamed the inside joke in unison. Background mumbles of daunting words drifted to my ears.

“Coming to the stage right now is S, L, A!”

With my pen in hand, I point onwards to my future with poetry, ready to hack at yet another piece of paper.