An Ode to Spoken Word Poetry

“Let me build myself smaller than you. Let me apologize when I get caught acting bigger than you. Let me always wait for this, let me work for this. The convenient thing about being a magical woman is that I can be gone as quickly as I came. And when you are a whole person for the first time, the movie is over. Manic pixie dream girl doesn’t go on; there’s no need for her anymore. Manic pixie dream girl is too dream girl, and you just woke up. Once, I told you I was afraid of my father, and for a moment, I looked so human, the audience lost interest.”

Olivia Gatwood is one of the first spoken word poets I came to know and love. She is clever and hilarious, and her socially conscious poetry combined with her stage presence is sharp and compelling. The Manic Pixie Dream Girl poem quite literally describes every John Green novel I’ve ever read, and it provides a much needed perspective into the trials of growing up a girl in a world built for boys. Do we drop our personal identity and exist to further the success of our current love interest? Or do we take up more space than we are offered and risk social repercussions? Olivia turns misogyny into a first-person narrative, one that is both relatable and educational for her audience.

“Black privilege is the hung elephant swinging in the room, is the memory of a slave ship, praying for the Alzheimer’s to kick in. Black privilege is me having already memorized my nephew’s eulogy, my brother’s eulogy, my father’s eulogy, my unconceived child’s eulogy. Black privilege is me thinking my sister’s name, safe from that list. Black privilege is me pretending like I know Trayvon Martin on a first name basis, is me using a dead boy’s name to win a poetry slam, is me carrying a mouthful of other people’s skeletons to use at my own convenience.”

This haunting poem by Crystal Valentine, which I watched on YouTube in the comfort of my own bedroom, left me speechless and unnerved for the rest of my day. I am white, but I am on a journey of unlearning racism. Yet none of that work prepared me for the weight of this poem. I think about how heavy it felt on my heart, and then I realize that my feelings are only a fragment of what it feels like to be a black American.

The thing about being a white activist for racial justice is that it is a constant choice. I wake up every morning and decide to check my privilege, to expand my horizons, to commit to the grueling process of learning and unlearning, to sit with my “white guilt,” and to stand up for people of color everywhere.

I could easily just give up. If I stopped fighting for reproductive rights, my life would be seriously impacted. If I stopped fighting against police brutality, not much would really happen to me. That right there is my privilege. It is a privilege to learn about racism rather than have to experience it from day one. Crystal Valentine pulls me out of my comfort zone and forces me to feel what she feels even if it’s just for a few minutes, a few hours, a few days.

That’s why I love spoken word poetry. There are so many experiences that so many of us will never truly understand, no matter how many books we read and documentaries we watch. We will always be an outsider, we will always be looking at something from the lens of our own privileges.

Spoken word, especially when you are physically in the audience, allows you to truly SEE someone, and hear their story in such an intimate way that it almost feels like you are intruding on their innermost thoughts. But the beautiful thing is that this artist is consciously, willingly choosing to be vulnerable and to spill their heart out for the world. Personally, I have immense gratitude for poets, especially spoken word poets who invite us into their inner world, painting us a picture of an experience we may or may not know of. It cultivates a space conducive to both healing as well as empathy.

In my humble opinion, I believe the world would be a better place if we consumed spoken word poetry as much as we do Netflix, and went to poetry slams as much as we do parties. Spoken word poetry has made me laugh, cry, snap in unison with a room full of strangers, sit uncomfortably with feelings I’ve never felt before, and better understand myself and my personal power.

In my mere 27 years of living, I don’t recall a time where humanity was so disconnected than we are right now. So if something as simple as poetry can help to bridge gaps, increase empathy and understanding, or simply create more love and friendships, I wholeheartedly encourage it. Write on, my friends.