Friday, November 30, 2007

Last Cuerna Slam, Wrapping it all up

On Wednesday I competed in my first real slam.
It's hard to believe, since I've been into slam poetry ever since high school, I've helped organize slams in the past and I'm doing a project on global spoken word. But it's true. The first time I ever competed in a real slam was on Wednesday. And it was here, in Cuernavaca Mexico.
I performed two pieces in english, and one in spanish.
Let's just say, the judges were super nice about the poem in spanish. Maybe it's the thought that counts, eh? :)
So if you just did the math, yes that means I made it to the third round. I came in 3rd, which was a huge shock (I wasn't expecting to get past the 1st round). And I was the only girl to make it into the top 4. (it's official. I don't care what anyone says, slam poetry is totally dominated by men!)
Anyway, it was lots of fun, and it definitely gave me a new perspective on my study.

Probably the most incredible and one of my favorite pieces of the night was a poem performed by a young man... whose name I can't recall at the moment. His stage presense was excellent but it was the "type" of poem that got me.

See, when one starts to attend lots of slams, one can begin to pick out "types" of poetry. There's the "diva/queen" poem. The "emo-my-exgirlfriend-is-an-evil-bitch-but-i-can't-stop-writing-about-it" poem. Theres the "I wanna be a __(enter clever contradictory descriptive word here)___" poem. The "fuck the police" poem. And then of course, there's the "meta-poem". This last type is usually pretty clever, and a great one to get the audience all ralled up by acknowledging that they're in the midst of a tradition that was recreated by Marc Smith in the 80s, but really has been around since.... whenever. Personally, I love these poems. Whereas the previously stated poems can be interesting and clever too, this last one interests me the most... probably because I've studied the development of the slam movement so much. What can I say, I'm a nerd and I like to see that some poets know their history.

So this poet, he did a "meta-poem". In spanish (obviously). And what really got me all excited was the fact that even here in Mexico this "type" can not only exist, but also cause the same response in the audience. People love to know about the ritual of spoken word. And they love it even more when you explain it to them through spoken word. It seems that poetry can cross boundaries that people sometimes can't cross.

It was the end of the cycle here in Cuernavaca, which is common, considering it is december. But at the same time, it could potentially be the end of the project, as Logan is going on tour next year with his group, Verbobala. The space was absolutely packed, and the poetry performances were outstanding, so I hope someone takes the initiative to continue the scene here. It would be a shame for it to fizzle out.

Speaking of disappearing, I'm about to leave Mexico. It's been pretty great here, and I'm not going to start with a goodbye entry just yet because I've still got 2 more days and 1 more performance to see.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Think about this

The catholic invaders were convinced that their god was more powerful than the native god.
To prove their superiority, they challenged the native people to a test.
They must toss an idol of their religion off of the top of a mountain.
If the idol remains intact, the invaders would allow the native religion to prevail.
If the idol breaks, the natives would have to convert to the catholic religion.

And so, the native idol was tossed from the top of a high mountain into the valley below.
To the surprise and dismay of the catholic invaders, the idol remained perfectly intact.

Not knowing how to react, the invaders changed the rules.
If the native idol could with stand the brute force of the invaders, then the religion may remain.
And with that, the catholic invaders pummeled the idol, breaking it into many pieces.

I was told that the pieces remain in Morelos. They are the foundation on which some churches are built.
To serve as a constant reminder of whose god really was the most powerful.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Stars and Volcanos

She asked me if I liked stars.
Te gustan las estrellas
Pointing to my silver nose ring
te hizo daño?
Her 7 year old finger grazed the side of my nose.
She pointed to the volcano in the distance.
Mira esta echando humo
It was. There in the horizon was a thin grey haze over the peak of the volcano.
She lives in Tepotzlan. Her name is Jackie. I arrived at her house preoccupied with my recent decision to change my flight to an earlier date. Was I making the right decision? What if I mess it all up by changing things at the last minute? Why can't I just play it safe?
She put her bag on the table. Unzipping it, she took out a number of dolls.

(It took me a moment to realize it, but they were all blonde dolls.
Blonde with blue eyes and white skin.
This little girl, asking me questions like "how far away is your country?" and "How do you say Luna in english?" and "Do you like stars?" with her beautiful inkwell eyes and her beautiful skin, did now have dolls that looked like her.
She did not own any dolls that looked anything like her.
Or like me, for that matter.
This little girl, whose name is Jackie, short for Jacqueline, with her big smile and her bag full of dolls revealed to me a sickness in our world.
Not just in Mexican culture
Not just in north american culture.
We don't appreciate individual beauty anymore.
Anymore? I don't know if we ever have. Was it always that we strove to be blonde, trying to erase whatever trace of melatonin may be left in our DNA? As a child I put lemon juice in my hair and on my face. To be more blonde. To get rid of my freckles.
A friend of mine here in mexico has skin lightening cream. It's name literally translates to mean "White Perfection".
So I began to feel angry.
Angry at the injustices this little girl subconsciously faces. Angry at the injustices I subconsciously played into as a child. Why doesn't she have any dolls that look like her?)

She reached into her bag again and again, pulling out dolls, trinkets, tubes of lip gloss.
One by one, she went around the table and gave away bracelets and a ring of sparkly purple goo. Little gifts, she called them.
Aqui esta. Un regalito. Para ti.
Big brown eyes. She placed into my hand a little gift.
A tiny plastic kangaroo.

Friday, November 23, 2007

Things to be thankful for

I had already celebrated thanksgiving while I was in Canada. A family in Ottawa had graciously invited me and I was an adopted youth at their table. There was turkey, gravy, even pumpkin pie.

But that was Canadian thanksgiving. And this year, for american thanksgiving, I had a different experience.

Sometimes I feel that the very essence of holidays, of days of occasion, are just completely lost within the idea of themselves. They become bloated, plastic, selfish... full of nothing but hot manufactured air and maybe some high fructose corn syrup. What does it mean to celebrate something like thanksgiving? And I don't mean simply the historical day of the settlers taking advantage of the generosity of the native peoples of North America. But literally, a day of giving thanks? What does that mean anymore? Why should we narrow our gratefullness for our lives to just one day? Shouldn't it be extended to all days, to live with awareness and gratitude in our hearts, that we have access to our loved ones, that there is a roof over our heads, that we can, infact, make so much food that we can feed a huuuge house full of people?

And why not make that housefull of people be a house full of strangers and family members alike?

Our hosts:


That was my Thanksgiving experience in Tepotzlan. An open door party. Chicken in mole sauce. Rice, all the tortillas we could want. Food and drink provided by friends of a friend who we only met a few weeks ago. A view of the mountains that would make you believe in god and realize that every step we take has the possibility to end in disaster, and to be grateful that it doesn't.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The thing about travel instincts

Is you always know when to follow them. It's the feeling that sneaks up on you at 2 in the morning. it starts with a bit of tingling in the feet, maybe itching in the legs. Then it feels like your heart has replaced your blood with soda water and you get bubbly all over throug your veins. It happened the other night. I woke up with a start. That's it. I have to leave.

I woke up the next morning feeling a bit strange. Its always a bit sad to know the end is near. I hate being somewhere and hearing about all the cool things that will be going on after I'm gone. But that's just it- no illusions: the world does not revolve around you or me or any one person in particular. It just keeps going. Things just keep happening. And then, on the other hand, I felt a bit elated. Like a weight of a decision had just been lifted. I knew what needed to be done. Now I just have to do it.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Xochicalco

There's something about ruins that draw us in. An epic civilization reduced to grey stone pyramids with mysterious carvings along the edges, caves filled with one small shaft of light, it makes me think a bit more about our own world. Our world full of modernity. What will become of us? The same fate? A civilization conquered or otherwise simply disappered, vanished from the map, leaving behind traces of our distructive existence: plastic bottles, cement streets, styrofoam cups, and perhaps the base of a tall skyscraper, that future civilizations can pick their way through the rubble, taking pictures and trying to imagine what life was like in a time so different.

Xochicalco means "House of the Flowers". A rich pre-columbian civilzation inhabited the small space atop a steep hill climb. It amazes me that the steps still stand, that trees still live, that rooms and bases of fountains are still visible and discernable. It amazes me that people not only lived there, but thrived there, in a culture as advanced, if not more advanced, than our own. It amazes me. But it shouldn't.

There's a humbling feeling one gets while milling about ruins. Especially on a day as dry, hot and abandoned as today. Like being transported into a room where a fight has just been, you can still feel the tension in the air. Or in a field where a battle took place long ago, and you can still see bullet holes in the trees. What happened here? I sat on the top of a series of steps and looked out to the valley below, seeing a lake in the distance, and trees and mountains. What happened here? The silence in the wind is the only response I get.

Friday, November 16, 2007

The Two Week Click!

It's one of those frustrating things, once you can communicate in a language, to have to leave and then return and only realize that you can only utter the same sentances as a 5 year old. That's the frustration I've been feeling the past few weeks here in Mexico. A longing to communicate once again like a human being in spanish, a language which, in my opinion, is so much more expressive and beautiful than englishs. It truly is a poet's language, and it's no wonder that such epic works by writers like Federico Garcia Lorca, Pablo Neruda, Jorge Luis Borges and Gabriel Garcia Marquez cannot be translated without losing a bit of the magic.

And then it happened. The two week click. The point at which one's mind and heart begin, finally, communicating in the same language. No, no, it's not perfect. But it's better than it was. I opened my mouth and spanish came out. I started making jokes, ordering drinks, using sarcasm, irony, metaphor, slang. Yessss finally.

It just so happened to click when I was out with a few friends of mine. I went home that night and the thoughts in my head were racing. In that familiar mixed jumble of spanglish. Honestly, I think that would be my language of choice.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Poets here, Poets there.

Things have slowed down a lot since the craziness in Canada. It's a somewhat bittersweet break, and it's given me a much needed opportunity to reflect on the places I've been and the people I've met. Canada was such a wonderful experiennce, and was surprisingly different than I thought it would be. So often, in the states especially, we tend to lump Canadians in with Americans. True, the culture isn't that different, but there are a few discrepencies that can catch a girl off guard. Things so small that they can't really be explained or articulated. Just a general feeling. Michael Moore made a bit of a joke about it in one of his films, and although I'm not a huge Michael Moore fan, I think he pretty much nailed it. There's just a general feeling of trust amongst the Canadian people that we don't have in the states. Sure it exists in some towns in the states, and I"m sure that there are places in Canada where people are a bit more wary of each other, but generally speaking, there's just so much less tension. It's a relief, but also a bit unnerving. And of course, there's the obvious reality of the nomadic lifestyle which has hit me quite hard these past few weeks in mexico: It is indeed quite hard to say good bye to such wonderful people after only meeting them.

I can't believe it's mid-November already! As I've been pursuing this project, mainly by interviewing poets from all over, poetry lovers, random people at poetry events and the like, I've slowly started to realize that I may have an obligation to use this knowledge for a greater good. It's not like I'm learning how to save the world from evil oil drillers or something, but I am still gathering information that could be extremely useful in helping poets achieve what seems to be a universal goal: create some kind of dialogue between people of different perspectives. If you think about it, that's the point of spoken word anyway- to reach people through words who normally wouldn't have the time or the heart to listen.

Everywhere I go, I've been stunned by the differences, sure, but even more so impressed by the similarities. Canada and the US are obviously quite different than Mexico, culturally, linguistically and socioeconomically. To be honest, because I had been forwarned that the poetry scene here is just a baby, I wasn't expecting much. But when I went to D.F. a week ago for the slam, I was completely blown away. In addition to listening to his poetry, I had a great interview with E-Wor, a 15 year old MC:

His style is playful and heavily hip-hop influenced, but with a message of social justice and political reform. In fact, the poetry that night was dominated by a general call to action directed at the youth of this country, a challenge to really listen and question what is going on in the media and in the political realms of the country.

Basically, what really shocked me was the similarity between the politically inclined style of the poets here and that of the poets in Canada. Sure the language is different, and the criticism of women getting plastic surgery to look like Paris Hilton carries a bit more weight here than it does in Canada, but overall the similarites were both striking and invigorating. At one point, I wanted to write down a translation of a poem from one poet in mexico and compare it to the words of a poet in Canada. I was, and still am convinced that if the poems were translated into the same language they would appear so strikingly similar that an uninformed third party may believe they were written by the same poet.

A scene, so new and (some what) poetically isolated, that portrays such dead on similarities can only mean one thing: that the desire to spread a message of change and justice through spoken word can be developed completely organically without the influence of spoken word artists from places like New York or Chicago. True, the slam organizers here are (originally) from the states, but when asked, they most vehemently replied that the scene existed here long before they came along. It just needed some organization.

I did a little research on my own here, asking some of the local academics about the tradition of spoken word in Latin America. Although I have not had any first hand exposure (and I think it's due to the region of Mexico I'm in right now), many people have referred me to the Décima tradition. Decimistas are people who compete in improvisational style of a tight octosyllabic form with 10 lines (hence the name, décima) in an ABBACDDC rhyme pattern. It was repeatidly emphasized to me, and so I will pass along the emphasis here: décimas are an *improvised* performance art that often tell the story of a town, city or culture.

I don't know if I'll be able to meet a decimista here, but I'll definitely ask around. My point is, of course, that it truly does seem that there is some inherent human need to use the power of our voices to portray the true condition of a people and their relationship with their society and state. Maybe that's why even modern spoken word artists tend to feel such a responsibility to not only connect with people, but to tell them the "truth" or at least expose them to another perspective. The more I study it, the more I see that spoken word seems to be a type of oral blogging, except to call it blogging is sort of counterproductive because blogging is relatively new, whereas spoken word has been around for as long as language has existed. People use their ability to perform, captivate and influence through poetry as almost a new type of media. Perhaps its recent (re)surgence in popularity could be due to the fact that people are starting to realize that even our public media has an agenda, that newspapers and t.v. stations are first and foremost a business.

When I embarked on this project, I wanted to examine the differences between spoken word scenes in different countries. I was emphasizing difference because I believed that the poetry would be affected by levels of priviledge. What I failed to realize, at least up until this point, was that priviledged or not, people want to make a difference in their world. But as my study continues, I am only sure that my theory will change and change again. It's hard to say what is beyond the horizon. I only know that it will be full of words.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Questioning some boundaries

"It's easier to learn to swim than to get a visa"
The words of the taxi driver echoed in my head. At first I thought it was an isolated case. Why would it be easier to enter illegally than to get a visa? The neo-conservative voice popped into my head: he must've done something. This is a just world, isn't it?
Isn't it?

Later, a university professor told me the exact same thing. She said she tried applying twice (costing her 100 USD each time) and was then rejected by the consulate both times. Who is preventing imigration, even for just a short visit into the states? Where does all this "security" come from? Who, exactly, are we being protected against?

I've been thinking a lot about boundaries and borders recently. I suppose it started in Canada, after (finally) attending Ward Churchill's lecture about indigenous genocide. He talked about the many ways to kill a culture... not just those involving violence, but also by isolating them, cutting them off, creating an environment of distrust and fear around them, demonstrating that "their" way is the "wrong" way, forcing them to dissociate from their own culture, but at the same time never fully accepting them into "mainstream" culture.

A poet in Canada told me that when the invadors from Europe first came and separated Canadian territory from US territory, many first nations people were confused by the notion of dividing land in such an illogical way. Geographically speaking, Ottawa is the same as Upstate New York. It's the same land, just with a different government, a different name, different laws. But the land is the same, and if you think about it, the people are the same. People are people, no matter what language they speak or where they pay their taxes.

A poet here told me a story from a few years back. People who lived in Nogales, Sonora and Nogales, Arizona had something to demonstrate. They set up speakers on either side of the Mexican/American border, and had two microphones, one on either side. Poets, writers and artsts from both sides of the border then shared their words with each other. They played music. They read poetry. They shared visions. Thus showing that language itself is an imaginary barrier, that when it comes down to it, words aren't important, the sentiment which they carry is important. And this sentiment is inherently human. Though words are the vessels in which sentiment is transported, they are not the sentiment itself. It was literally a cultural exchange from either side of the imaginary line, a line which represents so much fear, and anxiety and hatred. Children, not knowing the symbolic weight of their actions, ran back and forth giggling over the imaginary line. They played a game of volleyball over the line.

A few months later, a steel barrier was built, henceforth separating the people of North America.

Walls are meant to keep things out. They're also meant to keep things in. What are we trying to keep out, exactly? Immigrants? Immigrants who would be legal if only the immigration policy was actually fair? People trying to build a better life for themselves? A little ironic, don't you think, for a country that prides itself on being a country of immigrants, a melting pot culture, a country which claims to stand by the words of Lady Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddle masses yearning to breath free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" Perhaps instead of spending so much money debating on whether or not a wall should be expanded, those with power might consider looking into the yard nextdoor and figuring out the reasoning behind the massive exodus. Why are we trying to silence a dialogue between two neighbors? Why are we trying to aggravate a culture of hatred and distrust, instead of encouraging dialogue and understanding? Why is it that on the back of so many cars in the states I have seen signs saying "Speak English! This is America!" Where did all this hostility come from? Where did all this fear cloaked in nationalism come from?

I wonder what the wall is keeping in. It's keeping us from actually engaging in dialogue with our neighbors, and its enforcing an "us vs. them" mentality. People are not their governments. People are not their language or country. People are people. I'm starting to wonder if these borders are really necessary at all? It's completely impractical, I know, and completely idealist to think about. But, after so many years of tempering my point of view with logic and pragmatism, I'm tempted just for a moment to let all that go and think only about what could be. No, I don't know how we would govern a world with no boundaries, and no, I don't know how an economy in a world like that could sustain itself. I don't know what languages would be spoken nor do I know what religions would be practiced, or how people could put aside their differences and see each other as valid beings with the right to live a good life, despite petty physical differences or histories of oppression and violence. I don't know how that could ever happen.

But when I'm out here, outside the boundaries of the US, listening to poets from all over the world, from all different economic classes and histories and religions spreading the same message of peace and understanding, things stop looking so bleak. I hear them talk about unification of all peoples, about putting aside differences and guns and using their voices to cross boundaries because sound and sentiment can't be held back by iron fences or Minutemen or stupid pieces of paper that says "yes you're good enough." I sit back and listen, watching a long overdue dialogue form itself inside my head. And slowly but surely, there in the audience as a passive observer of a spoken word poetry scene, I feel myself getting a little surge of energy down my spine. It's an energy that grows every new place I visit. I could be wrong, but I think it's some hope.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Ometochtli- Dualidad de Mexico

It's a strange time to be here in mexico. It's a well known fact that there is an emphasis on duality in Mexico, and right now that duality is amplified. Just finished are the celebrations of Dia de Los Muertos, which are a prime example of this internal contradiction. Children ran around the streets dressed as ghosts, munching on sugary skulls (because "death should be sweet")We attended Ofrendas (when people have a family member who has died, they open their doors to the public, build a shrine to the deceased and provide food and beverages to those who stop by to pay their respects), an installation explaining the history of Dia de los Muertos in Mexico, a Catrina Exhibit (Catrina, aka La Flaca, is a skeleton who represents death. She is often dressed up in fancy dresses to show the impermanence of physical beauty. Sadly, I forgot my camera). Below is an ofrenda to those who have died injustly by the hands of the government:

After two days of solemn yet some how light-hearted celebration, we went to a party where we "celebrated life". I highly doubt this is an official part of Dia de Los Muertos, but when the holidays fall on a weekend like they did this year, I imagine a fiesta to close off the celebrations is pretty much universal amongst the youth here. In our particular case, it was the birthday party of a friend of one of the poets. It was a great opportunity for me to immerse myself in the artistic and bohemian culture in the city and to get a feel for what the arts scene is like here. One thing I've noticed is that Cuernavaca seems to be hugely involved in the visual and video arts, which is great for me as I am attempting to make this documentary. At the party there were all kinds of dancers, musicians, poets and artists. There were even fire dancers:

Although I was initially a bit hesitant about being here in Mexico, I'm slowly beginning to realize that this is the part of my fellowship where I will learn more about other people and other cultures and how I exist in those cultures. Poetry is here, of course, and its going to be interesting to see how a slam scene is "born". But I think the emphasis here is less on the poetry per se, and more on how issues of social justice and political views are therefore expressed through the poetry. Luckily for me, that's what I think I want to focus on anyway.
Tomorrow we go to Tepotzlan, a nearby town to view some ruins and learn about the native culture which existed before the spanish invasion, and understand how certain aspects of that culture still survive within the context of modern "western" culture.