up her list until
her clear, crisp voice calls out, “Xiomara.”
And I’m frozen stiff.
“I think she’s shy, y’all.
Someone told me she’s an open mic newbie.
Keep clapping, keep clapping, keep clapping
until she gets to the stage.”
And so now not only am I frozen stiff,
I’m also blushing and breaking into a sweat.
But somehow, I’m on my feet
and then the lights bright on my face
make me double blink hard and the cafe
that seemed so small before feels like it has
a Madison Square Garden–sized audience now.
I have never experienced a silence like this.
A hundred people waiting.
Waiting for me to speak.
And I don’t think I can do it.
My hands are shaking too much,
and I can’t remember the first line of the poem.
Just a big-ass blank yawning in my memory.
My heart dribbles hard in my chest
and I look at the nearest exit,
at the stairs leading to the stage—
The Mic Is Open
—and the first line clicks.
I say it, my voice trembling.
I clear my throat.
I take a breath.
I begin the poem all over again.
I forget the comparisons.
I forget the nerves.
I let the words fill the room.
I let the words carry me away.
People watch. They listen,
and when I’m done
saying a poem I’ve practiced
in my mirror, they clap.
And it sounds so loud
that I want to cover my ears,
cover my face. Two poets
perform after me but I don’t hear
a word with my heart in my ears.
Caridad squeezes my hand,
and Twin, looking happy for a moment,
whispers, “You killed that shit.”
But it’s not until we’re leaving
when the host grabs me by the arm
and says, “You did that.
You should come to this youth slam
I’m hosting in February.
I think it’d be really powerful.”
That’s when I know,
I can’t wait to do this again.
Invitation
The slam the host tells me about
is the same one that Ms. Galiano
has mentioned at poetry club.
And I’m not the type to believe
“everything is a sign” or whatever,
but when so many parts of my life
all point in one direction . . .
it’s hard not to follow the arrows.
Even when I’m home,
my hands are still shaking.
And I try not to appear
as overwhelmed as I feel.
For the first time in a long time,
Twin doesn’t look sad or distracted.
He just keeps turning to me in our room,
his face glowing. “Xiomara. That. Was. Amazing.”
Although I’ve never been drunk or high
I think it must feel like this:
off balance, giggly, unreal.
I know exactly what Twin means.
Because so many of the poems tonight
felt a little like our own stories.
Like we saw and were seen.
And how crazy would it be
if I did that for someone else?
Sunday, December 16
All the Way Hype
The whole weekend I relive the open mic.
Saturday and Sunday I have to bite back my excitement.
I write between cleaning.
I write instead of doing homework.
I write before and after church on Sunday.
I can’t wait for poetry club.
Going there was like being tested in fire;
it helped me to be brave,
so I can’t wait to tell them about the Nuyo.
Late into the night I write and
the pages of my notebook swell
from all the words I’ve pressed onto them.
It almost feels like
the more I bruise the page
the quicker something inside me heals.
Tuesday has become my equivalent
to Mami’s Sunday. A prayer circle.
Monday, December 17
At Lunch on Monday
I go to the art room
and Isabelle is there with headphones
and a journal and a bag of spicy Doritos.
I sit across the long table from her
and open my notebook.
Suddenly she looks up and slides
the huge headphones off.
“Tell me what you think.”
She starts reading,
her hands fluttering in the air.
I put my apple down to focus,
because this feels like an important moment.
When she’s done, she doesn’t look at me.
And Isabelle isn’t the type not to look at someone.
I don’t tell her it’s good, even though it is.
I don’t tell her it’s beautiful, although it’s that, too.
“That gave me chills,” I say.
“I felt it here,” I say.
“You should finish it,” I say.
And when she smiles at me
I smile back.
Tuesday, December 18
At Poetry Club
I let everyone know I went to an open mic.
They seem amazed.
Ask me for details.
Tell me they want to go along
the next time I perform.
And I feel such a rush
at the way Isabelle grabs my hand and squeals.
The way Ms. Galiano smiles
like I did something to make her proud.
“How did you do?” Chris asks.
I shrug. “I didn’t suck.”
And everyone smiles,
because they know that means I killed it.
Every Day after English Class
Ms. Galiano asks me to read her something new.
With five minutes between classes,
I know I need to pick the best and shortest pieces in advance.
But every day I pick a new poem and I have learned:
to slow down, to breathe, to pace