means
the words really mattered in the first place.
I need one really strong poem and although I hate
the idea of being judged and scored . . .
I love the idea of people listening.
(And, of course, winning.)
But, the thing is, all my poems are personal.
Some of the other slammers,
I know they write about politics and school.
But my poems? They’re about me.
About Twin and Papi, about Aman.
About Mami.
How can I say things like that in front of strangers?
In house stays in house, right?
“Wrong,” Ms. Galiano tells me.
She tells me words give people permission
to be their fullest self. And aren’t these the poems
I’ve most needed to hear?
Ms. Galiano Explains the Five Rules of Slam:
1. All poems must be under three minutes
2. All work must be the poet’s original work
3. You are not allowed to use props or costumes
4. You are not allowed to perform with someone onstage
5. You are not allowed to use a musical instrument
Xiomara’s Secret Rules of Slam:
1. Do not faint onstage
2. Do not forget your poem onstage
3. Do not stumble over words or visibly mess up onstage
4. Do not give a disclaimer or introduction to your poem
5. Do not walk offstage without finishing the poem
The Poetry Club’s Real Rules of Slam:
1. Perform with heart
2. Remember why you wrote the poem
3. Go in with all your emotions
4. Tell the audience all of the things
5. Don’t suck
Friday, February 1
Poetic Justice
One week before the slam
Twin, Mami, and Papi sit on the couch.
I take a deep breath and try not to fidget.
I open my mouth
and silence.
I can’t do this. I can’t perform
in front of them.
The living room feels too small;
they’re too close to me.
The words shrivel up and hide under my tongue.
Twin gives me an encouraging nod,
but I can tell that even he’s nervous
about how my parents might react.
I close my eyes
and feel the first words of the poem
unwrinkle themselves,
expand in my mouth,
and I let them loose
and the other words just follow.
The room feels too small,
the eyes all on me,
and I take a step back
but continue staring at the wall,
at the family portrait
hanging over Papi’s head.
When I’m done Twin is smiling.
When I’m done Papi claps.
When I’m done Mami cocks her head
and says:
“Use your hand gestures a little less
and next time, en voz alta.
Speak up, Xiomara.”
Friday, February 8
The Afternoon of the Slam
Aman and I go to the smoke park.
I don’t tell him I’m nervous
but he still holds my hand in his,
slips an earbud into my ear,
and plays Nicki Minaj.
When the album is done,
I get up to leave
but he tugs my hand
and pulls me onto his lap.
“I’m going to crush you!”
He smiles at me.
“Never, X. I have a present for you.”
And I see his phone
has gone from
the iTunes app to the Notes app.
I’m stunned when he begins
reading a poem to me.
It’s short and not very good
but I still blink away tears.
Because after all the poems
I’ve written for him and others
this is the first poem ever written for me.
“I’ll never be as good of a poet as you, Poet X,
and I believe you’re strong enough
to defend yourself and me at the same time,
but I’ll always have your back,
and I’ll always protect your heart.”
And I’ve never heard something
more deserving of a perfect ten.
Friday, February 8
At the New York Citywide Slam
With Ms. Galiano’s assistance:
I let the poem rise from my heart,
With Twin helping me practice:
I hand it over like a present I’ve had gift wrapped,
With a brand-new notebook:
I perform like I deserve to be there;
With Aman’s (and J. Cole’s) inspiration:
I don’t see the standing ovation,
With YouTube and English class:
I don’t see Caridad and Isabelle cheering, or
With Caridad holding my hand:
Aman and Twin dapping each other up,
With Mami and Papi in the front row:
I don’t see Father Sean in his collar smiling,
With Father Sean in the audience:
I don’t see Papi telling people “Esa es mi hija.”
With Isabelle and the club cheering:
I look at Mami and I give her a nod:
I stand on a stage and say a poem.
There is power in the word.
Celebrate with Me
After the slam,
Mami and Papi
invite my friends over
and Ms. Galiano and Father Sean, too.
Mami makes rice and beans
and orders pizza,
a strange mix
but I don’t complain.
Mami and Papi
won’t call Aman
my boyfriend
but they let him sit on the couch.
At one point,
Isabelle starts playing
bachata on her phone
and pulls Caridad to dance with her.
Next to me,
I see Twin tap his feet
and pretend not to look at Stephan.
Aman starts Spotify DJing.
Ms. Galiano and Father Sean
begin a heated convo about Floyd Mayweather,
and then there’s a tap
on my shoulder
and I turn to see Papi,
holding his hand out to me,
reaching for my arm,
asking me to dance.
“I should have taught you
a long time ago.
Dancing is a good way
to tell someone you love them.”
I catch Mami’s eyes in the doorway
of the living room; she smiles at me and says:
“Pa’lante, Xiomara.
Que para atrás ni para coger impulso.”
And she’s absolutely right,
there will be no more backward steps.
And so I smile at them both
and step forward.
Assignment 5—First and Final Draft
Xiomara Batista
Monday, March 4
Ms. Galiano
Explain Your Favorite Quote
“The unfolding of your words gives light;
it gives understanding to the simple.”—Psalm 119:130
I was raised in a home of prayers and silence and although Jesus preaches love, I didn’t always feel loved. The weird thing about the Bible is that almost everything in it is a metaphor. So it seems to me that when the Bible describes church as a place where two or more people discuss God, they don’t mean just the cathedral-like churches. I don’t know what, who, or where God is. But if everything is a metaphor, I think he or she is a comparison to us. I think we are all like or as God.
I think when we get together and talk about ourselves, about being human, about what hurts us, we’re also talking about God. So that’s also church, right? (I know this might seem blasphemous, but my priest tells me it’s OKAY to ask questions . . . even if they seem bizarre.) And so, I love this quote because even though it’s not about poetry, it IS about poetry. It’s about any of the words that bring us together and how we can form a home in them. I don’t know if I’ll ever be as religious as my mother, as devout as my brother and best friend. I only know that learning to believe in the power of my own words has been the most freeing experience of my life. It has brought me the most light. And isn’t that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.