Dear busily-studying, and all the more stressed Readers,
As you all (including myself) are adamantly waiting for Thanksgiving break and Winter break, which will subsequently follow assuming that we will be able to save our grade point averages from their fall over the infinitely steep cliff of doom, I’d like to begin this blog post by thanking you for your consistent support for my some-thousand worded posts and ridiculous ideas that inspire me to keep writing (when I can) considering my heightened and therefore, occupied schedule. And so, without further ado, I’d like to begin my blog post with these assumingly poetic words:
This is the tale of a dreamer.
This is a tale of a dream.
Both are inevitably separated.
Only to be united again.
Her words hit my face like a crater; hard enough to shatter me into a million pieces, cruel enough to make me feel as irrelevant and useless as floating dust. I was saddened, discouraged, and of course, heartbroken, as if a plethora of preceding synonyms did not suffice for me to express how my confidence, my future, and my life was ultimately set to end. It was over now. At the age of ten years old, my dream was gone. It dissipated into thin air. Poof.
At the very serious and crucial age of ten years old, as I struggled to wipe away the tears that would reveal my defeat, I had come to the saddening conclusion that I surely was not meant for the greatness that I had aspired to achieve. I was told- no, I was spat in the face, and told with a sneer and mocking tone, that I was never cut out to be, and could never sport a snazzy snapback, and the ultimately unbeatable, immortal, and” un-mess-able ” persona that most people vie to be when looking at those who are prevalent in mainstream pop culture. At this milestone in my life, it had (literally) hit me that I could never be Jay-Z or Eminem. Because at this particular milestone in my life, I was sadly convinced that I could never be, and was clearly never destined to be a rapper. Not because I was a female, not because I was a brown child of a rather smaller and not-so-intimidating physique who was better off holding slides to put under a microscope instead of a microphone. But rather because I was simply told that I didn’t have what it would take.
And so, with my head drooping low, I made my way on my journey through my sad and boring life and was still in search of my medium to greatness. Unless I wasn’t meant for that, either. For years, I searched for solace with the empty space made my in my heart that was in need of wholeness. I found some comfort in journaling, mainly to report fights with siblings, feelings regarding my distaste for my parent’s preference that I could only have ice cream once I finished dinner and not before as I would have wanted. A part of me still wished to write poetry. But I dismissed the thought, and even had to stop my pen, knowing that the words I wrote could never be read aloud and would only stay confined to their two-dimensional form on paper. And that wasn’t what I wanted.
And so, life stayed that way. And soon the dream was almost forgotten, metaphorically speaking, tightly shut in a box and shoved in the back corner of the attic, never heard of again. And practically non-existent. The pain was patched up, and while the wound still hurt, it was now merely a scar that was seen, but numb from being forgotten for so long.
I thought I would never feel the same feelings again. I thought I would go on without knowing what it was like to convey my ideas to the masses, until four years later, when I would find my dream again, but in a better and perhaps more suitable form.
Amidst the pressure to put as many AP and fancy honors classes on my plate during the start of high school, I found myself in an Honors English class that was seemingly uneventful Fall of the year 2009. Clearly motivated only to get the well desired A, more than ready to move onto college where I planned on pursue medicine at the time, I certainly expected nothing short of boring and dry literary texts coming my way. Instead, I found myself more surprised.
As we studied poetry, I found myself assigned to read works by Shakespeare and other elderly men who were far from deceased. That day, however, my teacher had decided to show us a video of Russell Brand’s show, Brave New Voices, a show that allows mainly urban youth to display their talents through the use of something called spoken word. I was instantly mesmerized by the performer’s command of language, her ability to use beat and rhythm (yes, there is such thing as using beat and rhythm in spoken word poetry), while displaying her intelligence which made her all the more convincible and in my mind, pretty fierce. While I still struggle to find the original video to this day, I did however, find other artists that inspired me as I began to discover this new hobby that I had taken to liking.
Spoken word, though it does not require music, is music of its own. It’s the performer who sets the tone; it’s the performer who decides how they want to convey their poem. There’s no technique. There’s no right or wrong. It’s just you, your microphone, and your words. And that is all. After simply watching videos for years, I finally began to write poems of my own. I competed in the Spring of 2013, and though I only placed fifth place in state, knowing that I had performed was an accomplishment. And it wasn’t until then that I started to feel my wounds being healed. And it wasn’t until then that the words of discouragement that were said to me years ago were nothing but wrong. Nothing but hate towards a dream that I had, that was now fulfilled.
Until my next predictably overdue post, feel free to check out a spoken word performance by one of my favorite artists.