Fish out of Water

On April 2, 2009, I attended the MACLA (Movimiento de Arte y Cultura Latino Americana) Youth Poetry Slam. It was held in the gallery for MACLA on 2^nd Street in downtown San Jose. It was the top 12 competitors from the area and the winner would win a small cash prize and move on to the national competition. The ages of the group ranged from 13 to 19 years of age. I was attending as a part of my outreach project for one of my communication classes. I went with my friend Renae, who is Hispanic and had even participated in the poetry slams when she was in junior high and high school. She was working the lights and I was put in charge of the sound. It did not seem too complicated and the guy in charge was very nice and welcoming.

Once the first performer got on stage and started his piece, I knew that this would be something unlike anything I had ever been to before. The room was completely dark, except for the bright spotlight centered on the performer on stage. You could see the artwork on the wall behind them and the faces of the people in the first row and shadows of the rest of the audience in the background. All you could hear was the person onstage and the soft breathing of the audience. Each youth went up there and poured their heart out to complete strangers and friends alike.

I grew up with a near perfect family. I have a wonderful, loving set of parents and a younger sister who, although she can drive me nuts at time, loves me just as much as I love her. We live in a nice home in a nice neighborhood in a great town. I was surrounded by wonderful family friends growing up and never wanted for anything. I am worlds apart from the youths that performed that night. They spoke of growing up in broken homes and of wanting for the bare necessities. They spoke of heartbreak and of pain. The emotion that all of them evoked in me surprised me. I have never been one to get emotional while watching a show. I rarely cry during movies. But this was something different. It was watching a person who was around my age and should not have to face these kinds of challenges just yet.

Walking out of there that night, I felt like I should try to take more time out of my busy life to sit and reflect and get all of my thoughts down on paper. I also knew that nothing I wrote would be anything close to what these people had been through. I hate to admit it but most of the troubles were because I was not in the same ethnic group as them. Most of the youth were either Hispanic or black and had grown up in a world far different from mine.