Cover art from Untitled… Negro Mythos Series, Hebru Brantley
On the night of Thursday, September 17, Wordsmiths brought poets Nate Marshall and Camonghne Felix to campus to host a writing workshop and to perform. I attended the performance. This is what I have to say about it:
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I did not expect so many people to be there. I don’t know why.
The Breakbeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop. When I saw the event on the campus calendar, I was surprised. Confused. Excited. The first because it’s not an event I’d expect here, the second because I hadn’t even heard about it once, and the last because I knew I couldn’t miss it.
I walk into the room. A Black woman and man dance to music. Just past them, the crowd. Students of all shades and sizes. Surprised. I did not expect so many people to be there. I find my friends.
Nate Marshall and Camonghne Felix. The dancers, not my friends. Poets too. They are introduced. Let them know if we hear something we like. Things are about to get real. Surprised. That I was told to be honest about my feelings. That things weren’t real already. I hear their stories.
From the South side of Chicago. Wild Hundreds. His dream. The book he holds in his hands. While in it he gets lost, we find her. Confused. That I learned of him from the event description alone. That in it I learned nothing about her. I don’t know why.
New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop. The truth, as told by the poets who break beats.. Impressed by the title, Vassar. I snap for the words that I like. I see the cover of another book. Confused. That I assumed Vassar named the night. That I never considered the words could be theirs. I look around.
I did not expect so many people to be there. Heads are nodding. Tears are rolling. Souls are touching. Step back. Find people who give you space to create, she says. Excited. That those people exist. That space doesn’t always have to mean you’re alone. I hear the truth.
He raps it. She slams it. Find something you love and become obsessed with it. Infuse music with it. Drop the beat. Break it. Pick it up. Snap for it. The American Poetry may be new, but the dream is not. The obsession is not. The truth is not. Excited. That I attended this incredible event. To find my own obsession. I do know why.