the mirror and put on some huge silver hoop earrings. Her locks were parted down the middle and she had two big spiral ponytails on each side. “They’re real creative. Sorta like the groups in that Russell Simmons show called Brave New Voices. They travel all over New York doing spoken word, poetry, rap, hip-hop, and all that. They even perform at hospitals, schools, community centers, everywhere.” She chuckled. “Girl, I’ve even seen them bust out spitting fiyah on the buses and the trains too.”
“Oh yeah?” I had heard a little bit of spoken word when I was in high school, and I’d always wished I had the guts and the talent to get up on a stage and let all the shit that was bottled up inside of me just come pouring out in a poem like that.
“Yeah. Those Street Talk kids are young, and they’re real smart too,” Egypt said. “Sometimes they visit shelters on the weekends and hold little workshops and writing sessions and stuff too. It’s fun. All the teenagers up in here really seem to get into it.”
I was ready to get into it too, and at seven o’clock I followed the shelter crowd into the dayroom. I was surprised to see that it wasn’t just the teenagers who were showing up. Plenty of people of all ages were already crowding into the room and everybody seemed excited. All the couches and chairs were taken, and most of the littler kids were sitting in a circle on the floor. There was no place for me to chill, not even up against a wall, so I sat on top of a metal trashcan and waited for the show to begin.
They had turned all the lights off except for two lamps right behind me near the pool table, and a chubby light-skinned girl with long twists hanging down her back stood in the middle of floor and opened it up.
She told us that Street Talk N.Y.C. was dedicated to positive social change, and how they gave life to the concerns in our communities through their spoken and written word. And then her voice dropped low as she informed us that their performance tonight was being dedicated to the memory of their friend and fellow poet, Princess Howell.
“Princess was one of our brightest angels. Her light shined on everybody who knew her. And even though she was only on this Earth for thirteen years, she left a piece of her spirit with us when she died and we’re here to share that beautiful spirit with each of you tonight.”
Lil mami with the beautiful twists in her hair stood up there giving off some real positive energy about her girl Princess, and my heart felt heavy just hearing about the death of a child that young.
Those youngstas set Princess’ eulogy to poetry, and I couldn’t believe how powerful their words were. I felt kinda sad and empty inside, like I had missed something important in life. I had never had the opportunity to join no kind of poetry clubs or stuff like that when I was in high school. Living with Grandmother it had been all about going straight to school and coming my hot ass straight back home.
And life had been even worse with G. That niggah had squashed any thoughts of creativity and freedom of expression that might have even thought about popping up in my head.
I sat there mesmerized like a little kid as I listened to those youngsters lay their Black consciousness down on the entire room. They brought the joy and they brought the pain too. They talked it exactly the way it went down in the streets, and the words they spit were on point and realer than real.
By the time they were finished my hands burned from clapping so hard and my cheeks were sore from grinning. My ass was hurting from sitting on top of that open garbage can too, so I stood up so I could stretch a little bit.
The performers had taken their bows and were introducing their mentors and organizers when I leaned on the pool table and tried to wiggle some circulation back into my legs. I was yanking up the waistband of my tight jeans when I got a shock that touched me way down in my bones.
A tall,
“Oh yeah?” I had heard a little bit of spoken word when I was in high school, and I’d always wished I had the guts and the talent to get up on a stage and let all the shit that was bottled up inside of me just come pouring out in a poem like that.
“Yeah. Those Street Talk kids are young, and they’re real smart too,” Egypt said. “Sometimes they visit shelters on the weekends and hold little workshops and writing sessions and stuff too. It’s fun. All the teenagers up in here really seem to get into it.”
I was ready to get into it too, and at seven o’clock I followed the shelter crowd into the dayroom. I was surprised to see that it wasn’t just the teenagers who were showing up. Plenty of people of all ages were already crowding into the room and everybody seemed excited. All the couches and chairs were taken, and most of the littler kids were sitting in a circle on the floor. There was no place for me to chill, not even up against a wall, so I sat on top of a metal trashcan and waited for the show to begin.
They had turned all the lights off except for two lamps right behind me near the pool table, and a chubby light-skinned girl with long twists hanging down her back stood in the middle of floor and opened it up.
She told us that Street Talk N.Y.C. was dedicated to positive social change, and how they gave life to the concerns in our communities through their spoken and written word. And then her voice dropped low as she informed us that their performance tonight was being dedicated to the memory of their friend and fellow poet, Princess Howell.
“Princess was one of our brightest angels. Her light shined on everybody who knew her. And even though she was only on this Earth for thirteen years, she left a piece of her spirit with us when she died and we’re here to share that beautiful spirit with each of you tonight.”
Lil mami with the beautiful twists in her hair stood up there giving off some real positive energy about her girl Princess, and my heart felt heavy just hearing about the death of a child that young.
Those youngstas set Princess’ eulogy to poetry, and I couldn’t believe how powerful their words were. I felt kinda sad and empty inside, like I had missed something important in life. I had never had the opportunity to join no kind of poetry clubs or stuff like that when I was in high school. Living with Grandmother it had been all about going straight to school and coming my hot ass straight back home.
And life had been even worse with G. That niggah had squashed any thoughts of creativity and freedom of expression that might have even thought about popping up in my head.
I sat there mesmerized like a little kid as I listened to those youngsters lay their Black consciousness down on the entire room. They brought the joy and they brought the pain too. They talked it exactly the way it went down in the streets, and the words they spit were on point and realer than real.
By the time they were finished my hands burned from clapping so hard and my cheeks were sore from grinning. My ass was hurting from sitting on top of that open garbage can too, so I stood up so I could stretch a little bit.
The performers had taken their bows and were introducing their mentors and organizers when I leaned on the pool table and tried to wiggle some circulation back into my legs. I was yanking up the waistband of my tight jeans when I got a shock that touched me way down in my bones.
A tall,
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