By Lori Goldson
“The first person coming to the stage is Lori.”
September 22 was a day of reckoning. Students held S.P.I.T. for the first time of the new school year, and I was the first victim of the open mic night.
It was day like no other as I had to ask even myself the unthinkable question — was I going to step to the mic at a Stimulating Prose Ideas and Theories open mic for the first time and allow, my peers, friends and foes to find out I have a voice?
Since the beginning of my college career I had seen it done, and always admired those with the audacity to potentially humiliate themselves. My never-ending fear of fumbling my words, forgetting how to speak, or going brain dead and cracking my skull after a huge plop to the floor kept me from performing for four years. Nope, open mic poetry was better left to the professionals.
The throbbing bass of hip-hop music thumping through Trabant’s multipurpose rooms ran rapids in my veins. The pounding of my heart grew stronger and the music got louder as I got closer.
The night would be a milestone for me. If all went well, I would finally gain some renown. If I choked, I’d just fade back into the mist from which I came.
The event hadn’t begun yet, so I took the time to prepare myself and rub elbows with my friends. I knew if they showed confidence in me, the night would go a little smoother and, hopefully, faster.
Beats continued to vibrate up my wobbling legs. My pulse pumped through my body. Nerve-wrecking glares were thrown my way from a sea of students who didn’t know me. My heart continued to pound.
S.P.I.T. member Tyanna Hadley welcomed me. Member Danielle Williams tagged me with a bracelet and thanked me for coming.
“You spittin’ tonight?” Junior Bryant Gilliam asked me. I nodded and found myself a seat in the back of the room.
Tension sat on my shoulders. I repetitively read over my poem, each time seeming more difficult than the last. My hands quivered with anxiety when I held the paper, and the words no longer made sense. I kept asking myself, “Why did I write this?”
My anticipation brought stagnant tears that stubbornly lined my eyelids but refused to overflow.
My disjointed thoughts were interrupted by the dimming lights, indicating the start of the show. I watched the lights while the pounding beat from the music suddenly vanished, and the emcee, James Daniels, approached the mic.
“The first person coming to the stage is Lori,” he said.
The moment of truth was upon me.
My name rang in my ears as I walked up to the makeshift stage that now seemed 50 miles away.
The number of spectators tripled.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Silence never seemed so loud. I desperately tried to find my voice buried deep inside my vocal cords.
Finally, my brain thawed out just enough for me to recite my poem. I flowed through the words without a single hesitation or flaw. The thunderous applause echoed through the multipurpose rooms.
If only that happened.
Instead, I stuttered severely, received a few scattered claps and tripped over the microphone cord while leaving the stage. So much for popularity. So much for being an open mic poet. Some things are just better left to the pros.
