Can y'all hear me?

The story itself needs a lot of work. I'm too ashamed to post what I handed in to my magazine professor (though it appears she liked it because I got an A- in the class?--still, I know it's not as good as it can be). But here's the lede; this still needs work too, thinking about changing the first sentence altogether:

Dim lights illuminate the 307 descending seats that lead to the center of the auditorium. Christiona Hawkins walks up to read her poem. The light shines brightest on her smooth coffee-colored complexion. But her eyes, instead of looking at the audience, focus for a moment on the Webcam resting on the orange plastic-covered podium set in front of her. “Can y’all hear me?” she yells. A few seconds later, an emphatic “Yes” emanates from the speakers, the voices of a group 1,000 miles away filling the room, their own stage at the University of Minnesota projected onto the large screen that hangs behind her. She begins to read, “A Warrior Out of Us,” from her phone. Her kind voice becomes firm, urgent, unwavering as she unravels a combination of metaphors expressing her observations of the African-American experience. The frustration overflows from her voice as she alludes to the false illusions of progress that plague the black community. Don’t be fooled, she says. I’ll let you think you’re flying high, but just like kites, I have strings attached to you. Snap, snap, snap. The audience appreciates her clever prose. We will really see what a disaster our people have become. An eruption of applause and snaps follow the last line. While Hawkins walks back to her seat, the host in Minneapolis says, “Someone in the audience has a special note for the young lady who was just on stage.” “Uh-oh, uh-oh!” shout men from the audience. But the message doesn’t come with the expected flirtation—just admiration: "You are an amazing poet," the person says.

Hawkins, a sophomore international relations and policy studies major, belongs to Verbal Blend, a spoken word program at SU.

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"I'm pulling the dirt together"

Below is a moment I witnessed during my first two hours with Verbal Blend. It was so brief but telling.

Cedric Bolton brings two poems by Joy Harjo in honor of Native American Heritage Month to the last two Verbal Blend workshops of the semester. On the first day, only four poets showed up, two volunteered to read "The Creation Story," and "Equinox," aloud. Afterwards, they take turns sharing interpretations of the poems and decide that Harjo pulls inspiration from nature and the natural to form images of important themes and feelings in her life: creation, love, ancestry, war, guilt, fear. Bolton encourages the poets to use, if they need to, Harjo's words for inspiration during the routine 15 minutes of free write.

Katherine, one of Verbal Blend's newest members--the senior joined this fall, says little during the first hour but willingly stands to share her poem. For 45 seconds, she reads from her notebook, often stumbling over the words; she twice repeats two lines. The most noticeable part of her performance are her feet, which fidget from side to side, and her body, which on occasion seeks the nearest table for support. Despite her slight discomfort, the group loves the poem. Desperation has made me crave a murder of an innocent world that was self built inside my cage's walls. "I love that last line," Michelle says. "Can you read the whole thing one more time for me?" Ruthnie adds. Ruthnie, nicknamed Rae and affectionately called 'Rae Sunshine' by the group, often presents challenges to the poets. Tonight, "I challenge you to keep both feet flat on the floor. If you force both feet to stay flat on the floor then your body will use that energy." Katherine begins to laugh; her feet jitter in her acting class, too.

For the second attempt, the words flow fluidly--save for two times, when Katherine pauses as her body pulls the strength up from her anchored feet and through her diaphragm to force the words brick and crave out of her mouth, clear and unbroken. Not once does she stutter on a word, repeat a line, or move her feet. "Damn!," Bolton says after the last line. Rae, just as, if not more, impressed the second time, breathes out an awed "Gosh!" Snap, snap, snap all around the room. "How do you feel?" Rae asks.

"I feel mad," Catherine responds. "And I feel good that it's in here," she says, lifting her notebook with her right hand. She brings her left to her chest. "Not here."

"I created a separate identity."

This audio clip took me a lot longer to edit than it probably should have, and still it needs some work. But no matter. I posted it because one of the first things I noticed when I began attending Verbal Blend workshops was the way many of the poets transformed when they took the stage. All are students of varying disciplines and before Cedric Bolton (the director of the program) begins the workshop, they talk about their schoolwork, share anecdotes, and laugh. Normal. But after a 15-minute silence period designed for free-writing, one by one, each person volunteers to share. Some sing, sway, yell, cry. And some become different people entirely.