Meghanarchy

These last few weeks, I’ve been teaching some camps at the community center. One of the classes was my spoke word class. It’s hard to just teach a one time class. Especially because most of the kids knew what it was. I would have preferred them not knowing so I could dish out all this information. But I guess slam and spoken word is really quite the above ground movement these days. Le sigh. 

So I walk into the classroom and there are 8-10 kids slumped in their chair. I let my friend finish up her workshop on film and just stood in the background. You know how I should have come in? Booming. With my arms flailing, getting the kids up and moving around, and using my diaphragm as much as possible. (and not a gold one either. badum-chh. anyone know what joke that references? it’s not a nice one. but it’s funny) But, I came in. Asking who knew about spoken word, slam poetry, yada yada. Then I went into my Dial Soap piece. I don’t even remember version I did. I was so excited to do it; I’d been practicing all week long. Some of the kids smiled but meh. Most of them just sat and stared. And yeah, I wrote that when I was 14, but it’s still funny.

We did a few writing exercises. I read them stuff from when I was 17 which was pretty embarrassing. I hoped it would encourage them to read their own, but no. So I just started calling on people. And their stuff was good. Their ages were obviously reflected in their pieces, but you could tell that some of them were getting places. But felt nowhere near comfortable yet. I smiled the whole time though. Because these pieces they had written were because of me. Whether they liked them or not, I didn’t give a shit. 

So I read them my stuff, Big Poppa E stuff, and Lennon Simpson stuff (1. because they fit the age range. 2. I lost my Slam book :( ) 

And for REAL they just SAT there. Christ. It was such a tough crowd. I do, now, realize all the things that could have been done differently. But. Then they filled out their surveys. And I got mostly 4s and 5s on how much they liked me and felt engaged. 

So WTF? 

This is my revelation:

Just because a kid is sitting there with the most bored look on their face doesn’t mean they’re not interested. Teaching creative writing is not going to be like youth poetry slam practice. 

It was a good revelation to have. Because if I managed to go through my entire schooling career and not realize this, I would probably cry on my first day of teaching in a high school. Of course, that might still happen ;)

I have another blog where I post poetry that I’ve written every day. I wasn’t going to do that here. But this is the poem that I submitted to a poetry contest just now. I don’t really give a shit if they contact me. It’s whatever. I figure hey why not, this is a good poem. I did have to chop it up a bit to fit on one page though :(

Still Lives are Still Life

In my head, I couldn’t be any stronger.
Couldn’t be any tougher or badass.
I play it cool just on the brink of chip on the shoulder when I go on dates.
Ignoring every compliment and rolling my eyes when you hold the door.

All of a sudden my “You can’t handle me” remarks are quickly coming back to smother me.
Busy mouthing off about how I can hold my own as you’re holding me down.
You think my hip bucking is me grinding against you and that my furrowing brows are my O-face.
You are so wrong. So young. Yet so powerful.
When I take fistfuls of your hair I’m not playing it dirty, I’m not asking you to do it back to me.
I just don’t want your mouth on my neck.
I can feel your humid words penetrate my skin, as you say:
“Is this how you like it?”

This “cool girl” persona has got me in quite the pickle.
One grip on my wrists cutting off circulation, my pulse pounding in my ear like a West Indian drum.
Your other hand, frisking me like a blind cop looking for some toxin between my legs.
Involuntarily spreading eagle as you got me in some sort of wrestler’s hold from high school
We’re not on the mats.
We’re on a cold basement floor where the air is hanging low and thick enough to muffle this atrocity.
You’re getting off on the fact that you can throw me around the room like a game of catch with an attack dog.
Saying that’s how I like it.
I am mute. Squeezing my eyes tighter.
Trying to reserve my faux-dignity without being called a tease.
You think the more I struggle, the more I’m pleased.
But how can I say “No” when you are pushing my face so far into the floor, I feel like I’m drowning in quicksand.

Just because I cum, doesn’t mean I like it.
Just because I cum, doesn’t mean I wanted it.
It’s just one of those a+b=c equations
It’s physical chemistry
It’s something I have no control over.
It’s like turrets or a stutter.
And you don’t know it’s not normal because the “Ooh-ooh-ooh”s and “Ah-ah-ah”s you usually hear are from pleasure.
They’re not normally the sounds someone makes when you’re breaking their ribs beneath you.

The popping noises bring me back to reality.
I am a voyeur within my own body.
Watching the entropy of the scenery reconvene as some sort of still life.
I’m picking pieces of myself off the floor, pieces that I’ve always been told can never be taken away from me.
But if you’re shaken hard enough, things start to fall out of place.

Never saying a word because in my head when you apologize later, I’ll just say I wanted it too.