Goodbye Canada

"I can't very well say goodbye to you in front of a fruit stand in Kensington Market, now can I?"
"No, I don't want to. But it does sound perfect, doesn't it?"

Well, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's back up to friday night. My mom came up for the weekend, to see me off and make sure I was completely packed for Mexico. I had a little realization about halfway through my stay in Canada: I had wayyyyy too much stuff with me. A large suitcase was simply too large, and three smaller bags just weighted me down so much that whenever I wanted to go somewhere I had to find an empty place to keep my bags. So it was decided that I send home about 2/3 of my belongings. As soon as we packed it all up into a large box and mailed it, I felt a huge weight lifted from me. Literally. Now all I have is a small rolling suitcase and a backpack, and a duffel bag for my carry-on items. Glorious.

It was so wonderful to see my mom again, considering that was my last opportunity to see her until next february. I always love showing people around a city, even when it's not my city, and so I had a great time milling around with her, finally being able to overcome some self-consciousness and actually *enter* some stores that I had only previously admired from outside.

Saturday was the Toronto Poetry Slam, and my last open mic opportunity. I was joined in Toronto by Free Will and his accomplice Stephanie and we all went out to dinner at a vegan fusion restaurant with my mom. Will was convinced he would win the slam. Mid way through dinner, a group of people passed by our table, including one girl I vaguely recognized. I turned away thinking it was just one of those moments one has while traveling (those- hey you remind me of someone- moments) when I heard "um... Jessi?" It turns out that a girl I went to the hill school with was in Toronto for an environmental conference!!! I invited her to the slam later that night, hoping to have time to catch up.

My last Toronto Poetry Slam was incredible. The room was packed with people I'd never seen before, freckled with the familiar face of a poet on the slam team or enthusiast who frequented other toronto poetry events. A few of my non-poet friends even came out, including the girl from Hill. We sat cramped in the first row, cheering or booing judges, and loudly snapping (canadian poets show appreciation for works by snapping) for Free Will, who later, just as he predicted, won the slam.

The poets and I went out afterward, tinged with a bit of sadness on my part, seeing as though it would be my last opportunity for a post-slam gathering. At the end of the night, I got all the poets together for one last post-slam picture.

What dorks.
And that brings us to Sunday's pedestrian market readings. Spreading poetry to the masses as they mill about through fruit stands, vintage clothing stores, anarchist bookstores, with a backdrop of some of the best graffiti in Toronto.

And no, I didn't say goodbye to canadian poetry in front of a fruit stand. It was too soon to end the adventure there. I caved and got on a bus to Guelph with Free Will, where we explored a smaller, more soulful city. After milling about in Guelph, it truly was time to say goodbye. As i sat on the crowded bus, heading back into Toronto one last time, reality sank in a little deeper: I'm finally doing what I said I would be doing. And tomorrow, I'll be in Mexico.

OK so you wanted some poetry

Although I write every day, lately it's been hard for me to really create pieces that I like. But here's one piece that I've written recently that I can say is my favorite as of late. Which is not saying much. Anyway, here it is:

"On the Eve of Your Engagement"

We were tree fort warriors
you and I
We were tree fort warriors
You and I and I
was the only girl allowed in your tribe
we played with sticks and stones
carved like arrowheads and you
used to pull my hair till I cried
And I was the only girl allowed in your tribe
but you didn't seem to notice or to mind
until I was 15 and put on that white cotton dress
and we went apple picking in your father's orchard
and you left the next day

see
I've been in love with you for 7 years now
was 15 then I'm 22 now
must've been 18 then
sticks and stones may
break our bones but names
names
the highschool yearbook named you best smile
and named me nothing
How could they when everything I could ever
hope to be was already encompassed in the curl of your mouth?

And I know I may not mean much to you know
like the faint but familiar smell of childhood
in the many rooms of your fathers house
after being gone for 7 years
On the night of your return
we drove to the top of the sparkling city
and you, breathing smoke into the late august air
showed me the ring you were gong to give her

And you said
If only you were as ordinary as an apple
then the temptation wouldn't be so great
And I want to grab you by your shoulders and shake you
why every time I get near you I have to be forbidden?
When all I've ever wanted was to play eve to your adam
and together we can make humanity
out of chaos

What you don't know is
I've been behind you all these years
watching your mistakes and loving you through all of them.
Whether you believe in me or not
I've been here.
You deserve the whole world and I'd give it to you
I could but I'm here, and I'm real, you can touch me
Just turn around.
I want to say these things to you but I can't
because we were tree fort warriors once
but now the tree we climb is the tree of life
and I don't know about you but
I don't think it's worth the fall.

I think a poet is anybody who wouldn't call himself a poet- Bob Dylan

After all this talk about what a poet shoud do and what a poet shouldn’t do, all these discussions about how to make money off of art, or how we shouldn’t try to make money off of art, I begin to wonder if I am really what I say I am. It’s a hard title to live up to, and often words are the least reliable purveyors of truth. Why then, would anyone ever want to be a poet in the first place? And furthermore, could I even call myself a poet? Am I worthy of such a title?
During my conversation with John Akpata, an Ottawa poet, if you were to crack open a poet’s head you wouldn’t get photographs or paintings or colors or sounds. You’d get words. A phenomenon I myself have observed since I began writing poetry almost 16 years ago, I’ve always described it as being haunted. Much like getting a song stuck in your head, I’m haunted by words and until I get them out on paper, they’ll follow me around like lost puppies, squeaking and yipping for attention. Like a line from one of my poems: “I cried out in a whisper too bold to behold a man so different than I yet so clear to me that burnt beneath his eyes are the same words which haunt mine every time I try to close them.”
So you’d think by being in the midst of all this poetry, of having words exploding around me constantly, I’d be able to write and develop. But really what’s been happening is I’ve begun to doubt myself. Am I really one of them? I think what bothers me the most is this challenge that was thrust upon me- the definition of what a poet should be. New words have been haunting me: social responsibility, mirrors, truth. Poetry isn’t just about flowers and love and that stupid jerk you’re obsessed with anymore. I mean, it can be, but it has the potential to be something so much greater. It can literally save lives, change perspectives, ask questions and demand reflection from the public. I’m in awe of poetry that does such things, and I acknowledge the challenge of creating somehting that fulfills such high standards, yet I wonder if I am capable of such things. Am I just an actor, trying to be a poet? Is my act so good that I’ve been lying to myself all these years without even knowing it?
There’s the potential for growth here, that I didn’t acknowledge before embarking on this journey- the potential to grow as an artist as well as a person. To really delve deep into what it means exactly for me to consider myself a poet, and what personal responsibility I am undertaking by claiming such a title.

The Truest Poem

So one aspect of life as a spoken word poet that really appeals to me (and to most poets, I think) is the opportuniity to conduct workshops at junior high and high schools. It's a great way to expand the spoken word audience, and, as one poet put it, you never know if the "next big thing" is sitting in the back of the classroom. So far, I've had the opportunity to attend and participate in 3 workshops at local schools, and each one has left me inspired and impressed by the capabilities of the youth culture. This younger generation gives me hope for the future, because it seems that they are not as turned off as perhaps my generation was. They've got access to the internet, to youtube, to blogs, and maybe they're actually learning something instead of just messing around on facebook. I could be wrong, it could just be youthful idealism that is coming out of their pens, and will soon be squashed by the harsh reality of conservative college professors etc... But for now, some of those kids completely blew me away.

One of the workshops I attended was during my time in Ottawa. Danielle Gregoire and Free Will were kind enough to invite me along on their classroom excursion. We sat and watched the kids read poems that they wrote for eachother. One after one, they stood infront of the class, hardly even shaking, singing the praises (although some silly praises) of their peers. As Danielle told me later, there's so much negativity in the world, particularly the poetry world, that it's important to give the kids hope and push them to spread messages of positivity. It was awesome.

After all the students were finished, Free Will and I got up and performed a few pieces and talked about how we have been able to succeed doing what we love. After my first poem, this little boy in the front row with wide brown eyes stands up and says "Miss, that was the truest poem I've ever heard".

The truest poem. What a powerful little statement from a little boy. I doubt he knows the weight of his words. Sure, it was such a compliment- any poet would love to hear that from a critic. But it wasn't the compliment aspect that got me. It was the word "truest" The truest poem. In a conversation later that week with John Akpata, we discussed the duty of a poet. Above all, he says, it is the duty of a poet to be true. There are plenty of fake poets out there- actors posing as poets, poets writing for slams instead of themselves- but the truest poets are the most valuable, and are often most revered and hated. Why? How could someone be respected and at the same time hated for their words? It's because a true poet holds a mirror to their audience, and forces them to look. No one likes to hear the raw truth- we're used to blogs and media that is bent with the weight as opinion posing as fact. But can successful art lie? I don't think so.

Which is why I think it's great to see poets like Free Will go to schools and speak. His poetry is raw truth. A bit abrasive at times, but always with this deeper intention, pushing for a solution for the worlds problems, empowering the individual. It's exactly what people being raised in these times of fear need. A few days ago, I got an ecstatic message from Free Will. It seems Canada has many employment programs for poets to travel around to different schools giving workshops, and Will had recieved one such opportunity. I wonder if the States has a similar program. It's so important to reach the youth nowadays. They're smarter than we think. I wish he would go on a school tour in the states... i wonder if that's even possible? Perhaps the revolution will be in the classroom afterall.

oh the CFSW!!

So I know I've been really bad at keeping up with this blog lately. I promise I'll do better in the future. The Canadian Festival of Spoken Word occured between October 10-October 14 in Halifax, Nova Scotia. When the plane landed, the landscape was exactly what I thought it would be: grey grey grey. Not to say that I think Halifax is ugly- no way. It kind of reminded me of Martha's Vineyard, stretched out to be a city, and drained of its color.

The CFSW itself raised many issues, and it was incredibly interesting to be an active listener. Basically, teams of slam poets, representing the best poets in their city, from all across canada gather at one city once a year to compete and exchange ideas. I feel that I need to emphasize that the competative aspect to this festival, although important, was not nearly as important as it would seem. In true poetic irony, the points at a poetry competition are not the point. The point is poetry. (I'll be saying that a lot this year). So although they were there to compete against eachother, the general feeling was a big family reunion, rather than a competition.

Some of the big questions that were raised included the responsibility of a poet, how to market spoken word to a more diverse crowd, the connection between spoken word and other art forms such as music and studio art.... Since I was not an active participant, I will be answering someof thse questions on my own in this blog in future posts.

After my first night in Halifax, I was promptly adopted by the Ottawa team, as "team american" (kinda like team mascot.... nevermind.) A wonderful inspirational group of poets, I found out that their team was entirely made of new poets (meaning no one on the team had ever attended the CFSW before). Partially guided and advised by Danielle Gregoire and John Akpata, it was clear that the Ottawa scene had much to offer and that as a documentarian it was my duty to follow them back to Ottawa and see them on their own turf. Which is exactly what I did.

The issue of sanctification and elitism

“so, do you all wear black berets and drink coffee and snap your fingers?”
She pours me more tea
“you know, I always pictured poets that way. You don’t look like a poet.”
All I could do is shake my head and laugh. There’s a general misconception that spoken word artists are “beat” poets. Although some of us do admire the likes of Ginsberg and Kerouac, we aren’t exactly the same. Some may say that beat poetry laid the groundwork for what is known as spoken word today, but for some reason, I think regardless of it’s previous coffee house existence, spoken word would’ve risen in the current form. So what does a poet look like? That’s the beauty, you’d never know. Could be that eccentric elementary school teacher, or the soft spoken college professor. Could be that mangy kid who graduated in your high school class and decided to backpack around europe instead of going to college or it could be that cheerleader who got into yale. Could be your accountant or the electrician or your neighbor’s grandmother who bakes you cookies. It could be anyone.

Or so it should be. It plagues every art and it clearly hasn’t spared spoken word- elitism. It’s like we’ve stumbled onto this incredible form that anyone can do, understand and participate, which is precisely what is so wonderful about it, and then we want to make it our own. Just for people like us. And although spoken word artists come in all shapes and sizes, it seems to me that each circle of spoken word has their own “type” and attempts at diversification of that type is shaky at best. It’s difficult to put my finger on. I can only tell you that I know it from experience, of being the “new girl” that it is pretty difficult to break into a circle. It can be on mulitiple levels: race, gender, age, sexual orientation. Different circles tend to attract different types of poets. And as psychology teaches us, it is not an intentional clustering, but rather one of instinct and socialization: stick to your in-group. It’s something I’ve noticed even here in Canada,specifically in Toronto and retrospectively in New York City as well.

So how do we battle this problem of elitism in an art which prides itself on being anti-elitist? Active diversification. Certainly, you cannot possibly grab a person off the street who is of different age/race/gender/sexual orientation, stick them on stage with a microphone and say “ok go”. But you can do things to make the scene more welcoming and accesible to different types of people. A very large issue that has prohibited even me from attending certain events is the presence of cover fees. Most slams tend to have a 5-8 dollar cover, but I have encountered a few that are upwards of 10 dollars. By charging such a high amount at the door, it discourages people in two ways: 1) newbies who wouldn’t dream of spending 10 dollars on a “poetry show” and 2) people who struggle to earn money who simply can’t spend it on entertainment. Spoken word has the ability to include everyone, including street people (I remind you of the beats, who oftentimes befriended street people or were street people themselves). Everyone has a valid story and should be given the opportunity to speak for themselves, regardless of their income.

Another large problem is through marketing. Spoken word has the potential to attract all types, from all crowds and scenes- theater people, musicians, artists, directors, journalists, students, professors tend to be attracted to spoken word, but that shouldn't disclude frat boys, jocks, nerds, preppy girls, punks, goths etc... So how do we get their attention? Maybe we should do what we say we do: maybe we should just talk to them. Instead of writing them off or putting words in their mouth (ie: no way a frat boy would enjoy a poetry show... besides the beers are too expensive...) invite them to come along. From my experience, you can't find a specific "type" who likes spoken word. it speaks to most everyone. And what's more: it inspires others to speak for themselves. Of all the poets I've met, the majority of them got their start in spoken word by watching a spoken word show and being completely blown away. Sure, they might've been writers or poets before, but after seeing that performance they were transformed into spoken word poets. It's like a good contageous disease. Get up on stage and spit your truth and maybe someone in the audience will catch on. You never know who you could inspire. Another really great solution to the marketing problem (or the "same 20" issue, as some like to call it) I've noticed was the way spoken word artists take their poetry to the classroom. That way it can be exposed to a younger audience that would've never been able to get into a bar or even stay out late enough at a cafe to watch a poetry show. I've seen the results of this technique, and it's been incredible. At one high school in Halifax, I saw a girl get up on stage whose presence rivaled that of the best poets I've seen.

See, the point of spoken word is that it tells a story. Our story. That story changes depending on the culture, personality, writing style, perspective and priviledge of the poet. But it's still a story and it's still (hopefully) true. There are poets out there that put their words into a formula to produce a poem which will get them enough points to win a slam... and many times they do win. But I've seen their dominance toppled by an unexpected display of utter and painful truth. I recall a slam I attended at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in New York City. There was a tie between two poets- both with a fast talking intense metaphorical style (think Saul Williams-esque) which in my experience is usually favored at slams. The first poet gets up, does an incredible piece (ok, it sounded incredible... i only caught half the words). Then the second poet gets up on stage and performs this beautiful piece about his family and his little brother who passed away. It's slow and soulful, and you could feel the whole room get heavy. That's when you know it's not for show... it's the incredible ability to make people feel something in only 3 minutes. Afterwards I talked to the second poet and asked him why he chose that particular piece. He said that he knew he was capable of fast talking and putting on "entertainment" for the audience. But although it was riskier, he decided to do something true. And it's good that he did, because he won.

So there is distinct danger in spoken word becoming a reincarnation of our elitist beatnik forefathers with their all-male smoky cafes, black turtle necks and bongos. Most definitely. But there are also ways to ensure that it continues to grow and develop the way it has in its newest reincarnation for the past 20 years.

Nuit Blanche

Sometimes pictures do say more than words. And that's big, coming from someone who uses a lot of words. Therefore, here's my story of saturday night, accompanied by pictures because I now have my camera!!! Enjoy!

An all night arts festival took over the streets of downtown toronto on saturday night. Armed with a camera, a few subway tokens and a redbull, a group of poets and I took the streets, hoping to absorb some, you know, culture, and stuff.

I joined the group a bit late, and was promptly informed that I missed the "best guerrilla spoken word circle ever!" Guerrilla spoken word, in case you haven't figured it out, occurs when a group of poets are gathered together and are bored in a large public space. Some might say it's the best way to reach people. I'd have to agree, although it depends on the poet. They may become mistaken for some crazy end of world prophet instead of improv performer. Such a mistake would be quite amusing, but at the same time, it would defeat the point of guerrrilla poetry in the first place.

Think street corners, public parks, Starbucks, etc... I'm quite sad I missed it, but I'm sure there will be many more throughout my travels, because let's face it, poets are performers, and they love the attention. :)
So a large group of us walked through the colorful streets of downtown toronto from about 11pm till 3am, looking at interactive art exhibits, independent films and even a UFO landing.

Finally we promptly gathered on some steps to figure out our next move. It was unanimous: chinese food was needed. In short, it was a pretty colorful, artful and adventurous night.