The evening of 5.17.18, a Thursday, I went to my first open mic. My daughter, who has gone before, shared some of her poems. I wasn’t sure what to expect. A bunch of hippies speaking poems, while others snap their fingers for politeness came to mind.
Not much of a crowd, I see four have signed up to be heard. The event host asked who signed up first, looking at my daughter and me. I politely said anyone else can go first, as I wasn’t willing to be the first in this unknown setting.
I was called to go first. Fine. Standing in front of the room, I was reminded to speak into the mic. I explained I pulled an old poem I wrote from 1993. I conveyed my simple 4-5 paragraph and received claps rather than snaps of fingers. I sat down.
My daughter was next. She conveyed no less than three poems from her book. I recorded all of them.
An old singer followed her, pleasantly singing old tunes he made over the years.
So this is what open mic was. People sharing stories and feelings to others. OK. A bit of the sixties, but no snapping fingers.
Then it happened. A small fragile looking girl approached the mic. Others commented she been there before. She looked 12-13 years of age to me. A cute small thing, no more than 4 foot 2 or 3 inches.
Her “poems” spoke of tragedy, molestation, rape and incest. Her experiences that led her to anxiety and panic disorder. I was floored. What the hell is this? I am still shaken from what I heard, from this nervous and fidgety 14 year old.
After the event, I had a good talk with my daughter. She could see me distraught and deep in thought. “It happens dad. A lot.”
Yeah, I get that, but so close to home? This is when I realized open mic is more than finger snapping and provision of a simple rhyme.
People sharing thoughts and experiences, a desire to find a connection with others, using words and feelings on a different level.
At home, I am introduced to Sarah Kay. Through YouTube videos my daughter shows me some of her favorite “Spoken Word” videos by this person. They are beautiful stories provided visually, through her simple but powerful words. No music. No fancy technology. A simple story through the power of words that allows you to see in her world. Very interesting.
Later that night, I came across one on my own.
A boy name Patrick Roche with the title of 21. Sad but haunting.
To me, it was a good experience of seeing how this is also a way to communicate power and emotion, while reminding everyone, we are all in this broken world trying to survive.