An Origin Story of Sorts

Thoughts on Finding Voice and Community

The first Saturday of the month snuck by me because January is forever long and then suddenly it’s February? On a Saturday? Who approved this? It certainly wasn’t me.

Here’s a semi-Frankensteined excerpt from an essay I’ve been working on:

An Origin Story

I decided I wanted to be a writer when I was young, poet came later. According to newspaper headlines, poetry had already died at least 3 times by the time I was born. Growing up I had only ever seen poetry on the page.

Then, I discovered performance poetry at the arts bar.

I was massively depressed after undergrad and in a bad living situation. I had just started working at what would be my last church south of the city. I was lost, lonely, and looking for something to make me feel like life was worth living again.

A college buddy of mine had mentioned the arts bar to me months earlier and instead of going home one night, I decided to finally go see it for myself.

The arts bar was not perfect, but it was wonderful in many ways. The first floor was divided into two spaces. The large bar took up half of the front room, the black walls and bar top were often covered with chalk-written poems and quotes and doodles from regulars. The stage was in the back, surrounded by a crowd of the world’s tiniest black folding chairs and a couple of high-top tables. Every night was devoted to comedy, poetry, or music depending on the day of the week.

My first night at the bar was a poetry slam night. The small dive bar was wall-to-wall people and the crowd was electric. The poets were fierce. It was the most fun I’d had in months.

I started performing my own poetry the next week.

I didn’t know that I had stepped into a new beginning that would define my life for the next several years and reshape my entire future. I did know that even if I wasn’t sure where life was going to take me, for the first time in a long time, I was excited to find out.

I had discovered what it felt like to have my authentic voice celebrated and received with joy.

Sometimes I think there is an alternate universe where I listened to my fears and didn’t get on stage that night. How much of ourselves do we lose or hide because we think it won’t be received well?

There’s risk in sharing your whole self, but there’s no magic in hiding your truth.

So much of my work and writing has been an ode to defining yourself and not letting other people’s misunderstandings hold you back. Memories like that night at the arts bars are a touchstone for me. I often need reminders of that self-acceptance, particularly in the United States these days where we have an administration actively trying to erase the identities of me and many of my loved ones with the flick of an executive pen.

While this is a small story about finding my individual voice, it’s important to me to acknowledge that it happened in community. I would not be half the poet and performer I am today without the support of generous friends and colleagues, many of whom I met at that arts bar.

Finding a community that loves the authentic you has a value that can’t be overstated, as an artist and as a human.

When have you felt most yourself? Who supports you at your most honest and vulnerable? Hold them close. We’re stronger, and better, together.