Out In The Mountains : Columns

I had the most endearing feminist experience lately. I’ve been hanging out at the Rhombus Gallery for the past few months, which has been wonderfully energizing. Thanks to Jeff Miller and Cathy Resmer, local writers, musicians, and artists have had a terrific opportunity to perform in public in a safe and nurturing environment.

Rhombus has a funky (in the positive hippie sense), grassroots-y feel to it right there in the middle of downtown Burlington. I’ve gone to open poetry readings, concerts by folk singers, comedy improv, and a relatively new form of performance art — “poetry slams.” Slam poets usually memorize their poems and then are “judged” by five random members of the audience who volunteer to give the poets scores by holding up numbered cards. The first twelve poets who sign up are only allowed three minutes to wow the audience, and then the 6 winners of the first round get to recite another poem for the “playoffs.” The top three scorers win cash prizes. They are the rowdiest poetry readings I’ve ever been to, and the place is so jammed you need to get there early.

I hate competition especially when it comes to art; needless to say, I haven’t had the guts to perform. I remember the old days when Commonwoman, a radical feminist monthly, used to encourage writers, photographers, artists, and cartoonists to submit whatever. We felt it was our feminist duty to be as open as possible to budding creative endeavors of all kind as long as they weren’t blatantly sexist, racist or homophobic. The participants in the poetry slams are sometimes amazing, sometimes not so great; but they all have courage to make themselves vulnerable in front of 100 highly responsive listeners.

I’ve been going to the slams with a poetry-writing friend of mine who is rather shy. Since this was a “chick slam” (only women readers) she finally decided to enter the contest, no matter how nervous she felt. I totally cheered her on, although I knew I wasn’t ready to stick my neck out yet. So there we were, crammed into the narrow, wooden seats as the place began to fill up. She was getting paler by the minute. I was in awe of her courage. She was fourth on the list of twelve. The first two poets were pretty flashy. They memorized their poems, were quite animated, and pleased the judges. I began to shrink. How was my friend going to compete with that young, all-over-the-place energy? My heart starting pounding. I was having sympathy pains. Her turn. She climbed over our legs and stood on the stage completely deadpan. With her poem in hand, she delivered the first couple of lines in a cracked and wavering voice. Then she looked up from the page, the tone of her voice became clearer, and she finished delivering her stark words as if she were a librarian who had a wild night-life. There was something completely incongruous about her performance. Not only that, but she and I were the only middle-aged gals in sight. The audience cheered loudly. She got a high score. I was so grateful I had a chance to share her struggle of working through her fears right before my very eyes knowing that the process was more important than the goal. That’s live feminism in action. Not only that, she competed in the second round and came away with first prize! Neither of us dreamed when we walked in there that she would wake up the whole room like that.

What were these young women responding to? Did they resonate with her high-dive into the fray? Did they long to hear a middle-aged woman’s voice that wasn’t hung up on male approval or obsessed with sex? My friend had something to say because she had had a hard life and simply reported the truth, no frills but definitely with an edge of irony. This is me, she said. Take it or leave it. We women still have such a long way to go towards complete self-acceptance. What a privilege to have a place to go in town to try out our creative wings.