My hands were shaking. I couldn’t read my notes. I felt like doubling over and the act of speaking itself felt like trying to build a bridge out of gelatin. No, I hadn’t contracted some terrible, brain-eating disease; I was reading my own poetry out loud at a poetry slam for the first time, and I couldn’t have been more terrified or excited.
I had come to the Rookery restaurant where it was being held with another literary-minded friend, looking for some colorful inspiration for our bookish, prosaic pursuits, nothing more. When we were offered to fill the blank slots on the yellow performance sign-up page, I had accepted with little to no thought, (something that I find is required to make most of the best decisions in life). My friend stayed wisely behind in the wooden chairs, out of sight.
Finally, after a long wait, they had called my name. I made my way up to the rectangular space on the dark wooden floor that stood for the stage, which felt like the biggest stage I was ever going to know, and boy was I starting to regret putting my name down.
It’s been said that most people are more afraid of public speaking than they are of death. So you know that it must have taken quite a series of decisions to get me there. Hear my story so you may avoid going down the dangerous path I did. You see, it started quite innocently when I started dabbling with poetry in grade school. In that time of life the imagination is so strong, and I, like many of us, considered myself to be an artist, a musician, a writer and more. However, I didn’t manage to fully grow out of this phase.
You can say it’s generalizing, but I don’t know that Juneau has really grown out of its imagination either. Any walk downtown, especially on, say, a First Friday, and you’ll see constant evidence of this city’s emotional, artistic, poetic side. In the more suburban parts of the city, the poetry goes to home and sleeps, but it’s no less present. But I should make myself clear: the city itself isn’t inherently the source of the art, nor is it in the sum of its individuals. It’s the gathering of people, of community. Sure, Coppa is a fantastic place for coffee, baked goods, ice cream and wall-space. But without the collaboration of artists and business owners, or artists and artists, that wall-space just stays wall-space. It takes a collaboration to turn it into a galleria.
If you’ve never been to a poetry slam, I should probably explain by now what it looks like. If you can imagine a crowd of people, one microphone, one announcer and the energy of a small rock concert directed at a handful of playfully competitive performers. The content is original, and the room is hot with enthusiasm. It’s not the bongo-playing, Steve-Jobs looking coffee house performance space that you might remember from classes on the Beat movement, or from your dorm in the ‘90s. Although, hey, poetry slams are pretty welcoming, and if that’s your thing, you could definitely bring that and it would be appreciated.
Of course, no one told me that. Or if they had I wasn’t listening. But the path I was on was one already beaten down by Juneau and the art communities. See, it starts when it’s raining. Then you get bored (maybe the internet is down, I don’t know), and you start letting your immature, artistic side out. Maybe you break out that saxophone from high school, or pick up that screenplay or those oil paints. Next you meet up with a friend, join a band or find a Facebook group. Maybe you attend a poetry slam or a university lecture. By now you’ve started down the slippery slope, and it’s only a matter of time until you, at one point or another, end up showing your work to more people than you ever imagined. And no — don’t imagine them in their underwear. It doesn’t work, I promise.
So I stood as far as I’d ever been down the road of expression, and took one more step. I centered myself in the rope-lit stage box. I took a breath. I hesitated for a moment then lowered my manuscript. It helped that the audience was so responsive — pausing politely when I forgot lines, clapping until I reached the mic. That autumnal room took on a whole new dimension to me as the sound filled the corners, reverberating startlingly with an echo, like hearing my voice on an answering machine. As the room grew more comfortable to me, I gripped the mic close to my face and I unhinged.
In the end, I didn’t win the slam, but I fell in love with the format. Despite the shivers, I ended up really appreciating the approachable, ground-level opportunity to try my hand at poetry performance. I even met a cute girl there. I’m marrying her later this year. So if you ask me, I’d say it was worth it.
I can’t encourage you enough to take your next step in your artistic journey. Find the talent you want to have, and cultivate it. Find your community, and don’t be afraid to share your work. Maybe start with the amazing Woosh Kinaadeiyí Poetry events, including their slam, which you can find on their Facebook page.
Also, thanks to Doug Vandegraft at notoriousbarsofak.com for responding to the “30,000 Maps of Juneau” article with a map of historic Juneau bars. Check out his website for more on the upcoming bar crawl.
• Guy About Town appears the first and third Sunday of every month and includes seasonal musings on what changes and what doesn’t in a small town. Guy can be reached at unzicker.music@gmail.com.
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