Throw! Up

The first time I went to a slam with the Throw! Poetry Collective here in Montreal, was way back in October. I enjoyed it as much as I do all slams, noting with strange, confused curiosity, that for a giant, artsy city, we had a small spoken word following. There were 50 people or less. I was happy about this for a few reasons.
I've got a head full of dreams, and in my own imagination, I saw myself getting involved in the scene, learning everything I could, helping to bring this powerful form of poetry to the masses, changing lives along the way, including my own. The second reason a small poetry community would be nice is because, should I decide to chase the dream and perform a poem of my own, it would be LESS petrifying to do it with a small audience.

Friends, last night was the night. My spoken word debut.

I had decided I was going to do it or die (or puke or faint) trying. Possibly the second two, followed by the first. I cranked the music in my room a few hours before and tried to put the words into memory as much as I could before I had a chance to forget them. Half because I hoped the music would disguise the sound of my words (I'm bashful, so naturally when practicing to recite to a room full of people, I couldn't have ANYONE HEARING ME) and half because I wanted to do it with distractions, hoping I would nail it later on, no matter what.

Hustling through the cold to the Divan Orange, I wasn't sure whether I was speaking too much, or not enough but.... I was already nervous. I was psyched up. I've been on stages at random intervals for my entire life. I sang "Hey Jude" in my highschool variety show, and I'm a karaoke addict. I've acted, I've hosted stuff. I'm no stranger to the dream and the reality of being on a stage.

But when I walked into the hustle and bustle of the bar, a new kind of panic set in. People. Lots of people.  People as far as the eye could see. No vacant chairs at the tables, no seats at the bar. Standing room in the back, filling up fast. There was me with my starry eyed dreams of poetic power and grace quickly turning into horrible nightmares. Panic set in. I asked the people at the sign in whether or not one of the four open mic spots was open.

There was one left. Against the apprehension tugging at my heart strings, my nerves stumbling around like a drunk in the dark, I signed up, figuring fate had wanted it to be mine. Then I stood around fretting for the next 20 minutes, with my mouth running dry, clutching my red writing notebook, feeling as though it was a bible and I was in desperate need of saving. I locked myself in the bathroom for 5 minutes to take a nervous pee and say my poem out loud one last time. I felt the full effect of 8-Mile pounding on my shoulders. My moment was coming, faster than I was sure I was ready for.

When the MC starting his opening spiel, I started up to the front of the stage to get ready to go. The place was so full by then, the path to the stage was filled with people sitting cross legged on the floor. I had to step around them, a human tire football drill. When I finally was called, second in the open mic line up... I walked up on stage, and out of my body.

Does anyone remember at the summer Olympics when Usain Bolt won the 200m dash and then borrowed one of the photographer's cameras and started taking pictures of his worldview? Those photos are pretty much what the crowded bar looked like to me. Faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and my pulse like a rabbit having a heart attack and faces.

 I told them it was my first time performing ever, and the crowd was really warm and supportive. Guess what? I still thought I was going to throw up.

"Wow," I said, or something equally eloquent, how I do, "there are so many of you, I wish I'd just prepared a haiku."

The lights were bright and I proceed to spit whatever words I thought I had memorized. I honestly couldn't tell you if I messed up my poem or if I got all the words right. If I sped up in the right parts, slowed in the wrong ones, paused when I needed to, stopped dead, or anything. All I remember is the shaking. Trembling, through my torso, into my legs like a bone shattering earthquake. My body trembled. My hands clutching my notebook trembled. My breath between sentences trembled, audibly into the microphone. I bet my soul was trembling too, holding on with its last, failing muscles to keep me upright, breathing, gasping these words I had written for the ears of others.

When I finished, I thanked them and hurried off the stage, fast as I could. I heard the MC say, "Give it up for Riley!" And the cheers made me weak in the knees. I watched the other two open mic-ers go without issue. I don't when the trembling STOPPED, but eventually it did. I slipped back into the crowd, to watch the slammers with my friends, who hugged me and congratulated me.

A girl who was leaving stopped and said she had loved my poem and that I had made her cry. And that.... made me blush. And realize that I really need to work on making eye contact with strangers. I have the social skills of Forrest Gump, except I'm less charming.

I guess one thing is for certain, I have plenty to work on. Poetry. Delivery. Social skillery.