She was the last of us to read. She was dressed in a robe. West African garments. Pan African, I guess — Afro-centric, perhaps, suggests Wikipedia. She really was the whole nine yards. The clothes, the accent, the dialect, she had it all. She introduced herself but I didn’t quite catch her name. I tend to be terrible with names. She said she hadn’t any poetry of her own to share that night, that she was in a creative slump, she said. So instead she read to us a famous poem by Maya Angelou. I have to admit, I was a bit uncomfortable. Not overbearingly uncomfortable. Just a tinge of minor discomfort. But for this I blame only myself — a swift bout of what I call, awkward white man syndrome, or AWMS, which is something I’ll expand on later. I’d just felt reticent with my thoughts; even inside the privacy of my own mind, I was just too self-conscious to even think. I feared that no matter what my mind would manage to think up it was going to be something racist. I didn’t want to feel racist, especially not racist all on my own, and so, quite simply, I shut myself away from thinking all together. Ah, yes, that’s the beauty of AWMS. Anyway, the Maya Angelou poem she’d read to us was Human Family. A very good poem — “We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.” She’d enunciated every word.
I showed up that night intentionally rather late. St Bartholomew’s, the oldest church in the county. Lots of churches in that county. So, as I said, I showed up rather late, about one full hour late. I managed to miss the whole greeting and meeting part of the event. This event, by the way, was a poetry reading. The church hosts poetry readings about two times every month. This was the first of theirs that I’d been to. I didn’t know anyone who’d be there, and I didn’t care too much to meet any of them, to be honest. I was only interested in the poetry, so I made sure that poetry was the only part I’d have to deal with there. I think I’m kind of anti-social sometimes; I do not think, however, that this is related to my battle with AWMS. When I walked inside, I noticed the crowd was predominantly of senior citizens. Myself aside, there was only three others who were of around my age: the girl, who I’d mentioned, and then two guys, one black, one white. I remember myself gravitating toward the direction of the white guy. I think I would have just as likely gravitated toward the black guy, perhaps, but what had happened is what happened. I shook his hand. His name was Todd. He told me this was his first reading and that he felt nervous. I understood the feeling but had found this somewhat surprising — Todd had said that he was a writer, that he’d been writing for years — he also mentioned that he’s done stand-up comedy — I thought, if he could bear to stand on a stage and have people laugh at him, then he should be able to handle this much without butterflies. But Todd was nervous. And he looked it.
When we all sat down, when the poetry began, as I looked up and turned my head, directing my focus to the opening reader, I noticed then I was the target of some sour looks from an older gentleman in the audience. He had sat diagonally across from me, at a distance of about twenty feet in all. He was much older than I was. He looked about fifty and fairly well preserved. He sat there in his chair with his left leg crossed high above the other and both his hands crossing, as well, cuffing the top of his knee. The look he had for me was a look of contempt. I wasn’t sure then why this was, I knew then only what this was; what this was, was his own intentionally obvious display of contempt. The only thing I wasn’t yet sure of was the reason for why I was its recipient.
After the first reader had finished with reading her piece, we all clapped. I hadn’t even actually heard what she read. I just clapped. I had to clap. It would only be rude if I’d not clap. But I didn’t know what I was clapping for. I couldn’t focus on her so well. I’d been too distracted by my predicament with the older gentlemen sitting across from me. He’d then turned his head toward me. He looked at me, again. He looked me up and down. He sized me up. His eyes lingered as they hit down to my feet. Something about my feet; I saw him do this. He then shook his head and turned away. He muttered something to a woman who was next to him. He grinned as he spoke. She laughed at what he said. He grinned. He must had said something about my feet. Or, my shoes, rather. Todd grabbed me by the shoulder. “Man, that wasn’t very good,” he said, and was somewhat relieved it seemed. I nodded. I’d guessed he was talking about the first reader. The reader whose poetry I didn’t even hear. I guess Todd had thought it wasn’t so good.
The other younger guy had then walked up to the podium. The black guy. He got to the podium. He adjusted the mic. He glanced at the audience. He gave us a brief, acknowledging smile, and looked back down and examined his things. He had pulled out a black and white composition notebook from his backpack, and was thumbing through its pages. He selected three pages, and dog eared them each. He cleared his throat. He placed his notebook down onto the podium. He looked the room again once over, nodding. He smiled. He introduced himself. He said his name was Chad. Chad gave us a spiel: who he was, why he came, what he does, that sort of thing. I found myself glancing at the older man, to see if he’d still be glaring at me. He wasn’t. He was now watching Chad, and with notable enthusiasm–he’d seemed excited to hear Chad’s poetry. I turned my head back quickly, to see the reader. Chad. Chad was still giving us his spiel.
I didn’t mind Chad’s spiel, no too much, but I was not so impressed with it, either. It was obviously very practiced and well tested. I’d gathered that Chad had done this before and perhaps even many times. Chad had said something that bothered me. I don’t remember the wording he used exactly, but I do know, though, that it had consisted of the following: “I know I’m not smart.” That’s what Chad said. This is what had bothered me. I had reacted, to curl my top lip and to squint an eye. Just briefly did I do this. I could not help it. I felt like Chad was lying. I didn’t like to hear it. He was going Billy Mays on us, I’d thought to myself. And wasn’t buying the pitch. I was really sort of offended, actually — in a certain type of way, that is I was. I didn’t even know Chad and so, I wouldn’t even actually know if he was “smart,” or not, but I had known enough, though, to at least to know that he wasn’t “dumb.” Unless you ever actually are “dumb” and, even if you really are then, there still should not ever be too many reasons for you to ever announce that you’re “not smart.” That, I remember, is what I was thinking what.
I couldn’t but help recognize the fact of Chad’s race. The fact that Chad was black. The fact that all the rest of us present but one of us were white. I’d thought that maybe there was something relevant to this. I was in the South, after all. And I wasn’t really from the south. I wasn’t yet adjusted to the racial climate of where I was. I’d come from New York. I was a northerner still very much. Quite much still an outsider in this sense, and though I’d acknowledged this, that I didn’t yet actually know the real truth in such things, my biasses had activated, all the same. Just as Chad had said this, that he wasn’t smart, the was an old white woman in the audience I saw, who was nodding her head. It was a slow, steady nod. A very telling nod, I’d thought to myself.
Chad’s poetry turned out to be pretty good. And from a technical standpoint, I thought it was really good. He had great rhythm, and had used great imagery. But in terms of his content, though, I thought he was a bit stale. A bit too fabricated. A little bit forced. Really, he’d struck me a bit fake. Usually, in most cases where poetry is stale, I find the reason for this being is almost always a matter of its form; not its content. When a poet sacrifices their content in favor of structure and form, the quality of their poem may often suffer. That’s what I find is most often the case with poetry. It was strange to see it reversed. I thought that, maybe Chad had held back on us. I wasn’t sure, though. But I was kind of disappointed either way. I clapped when he was done. I had clapped steady and constant. I wanted to hear more but accepted the fact I wouldn’t. I think this had conveyed in the way I was clapping. Not that anyone could notice this, though — unless — maybe if they knew, that this is what I was feeling then maybe they could. Overall, the audience was very receptive of Chad. I looked at the older man. He was clapping graciously and nodding with much approval. I turned toward Todd. He was clapping. He seemed he had liked what he heard.
In the time that’d pass from there onward through about three more speakers, I’d look at the older man, from time to time. He wasn’t looking at me with the same frequency. His stares were shorter lasting. The durations between them had gotten longer. But when he’d stare, the looks he’d give me were always the same. I decided that, whatever his issue with me was, it had must been entirely a matter of my appearance that night. I’d looked pretty ragged that night. I hadn’t shaved in weeks. My beard was birds nest. The hair on my head was long and messy. I couldn’t remember when I last had it cut. And my outfit that night was arguably absurd — an utter hodgepodge in arrangement — I wore Jesus sandals, with blue jeans ripped at the hem, and a nice button-down dress shirt. I looked arguably pretty stupid. And it wasn’t intentional; I merely had just dressed that way. I’d put on whatever first pieces of clothing I found that day and assembled my outfit. In comparison, the older man was dressed quite well, groomed clean cut and tidy, and was likely fairly conscious of his choices in fashion. He wore brown leather boating shoes, cream white chinos, and a black short-sleeve button down. He was coordinated. He had a brown leather belt. His wrist was dressed with a fancy brown watch. I wore a plastic timex, with a burned out battery. If we were to be compared to each other, we’d be to clash.
I could find no other reason for why he’d have such contempt for me without even knowing me. It had to be my stupid outfit and my lazy appearance. Normally, I wouldn’t be so bothered by receiving these kinds of perceptions from someone on the basis of my appearance. My lack of concern for this type of matter, had always been, through my own perceptions a testament to my confidence. I felt it was proof of my security in myself. That I was always so comfortable in my own skin. But in the case of this older gentleman, however, I found that I really was bothered to be judged negatively for my appearance. Granted, I’d dressed to my very worst that night. I do have at least some sense of fashion. I’m not fashionably illiterate. But, to know that I was likely thought of as such and, perhaps thought of as even something particularly much worse in the perceptions of this particular older man, for whatever reason it was it really did bother me. My thoughts began to hyper focus on this single issue. This sole fixation of my thinking’s desires in those long moments.
All I’d cared about, was that this older man had better not take me for some gritless hipster youth. I figured that, with him being a writer (I’d presumed he was a writer. And as it turned out, he was a writer. He was an author), that maybe he’d have still kept his grip on this world. What I mean by that is he would be aware of things indicative of the general culture of my generation. Like hipsters. If I was correct on him, that he had’nt yet let go of the world, then he would probably know about hipsters. I didn’t want him to think of me as just some hipster. Because, in the way that I saw it, if he had actually known enough to know about hipsters, he’d probably not know enough to judge me with any accuracy; he’d know only just enough to scratch all my surfaces and nothing further. That’s what I was thinking. That’s what I was fearing. That he would write off as some Charles Bukowski wannabe. Like I were some gritless hipster who knew nothing beyond Bukowski. That I wanted to be Bukowski. Because I looked ragged. Because I looked like I didn’t care. Because I was young. Because he would think I was a hipster. Because hipsters like Bukowski. Because I was just some infatuated youth on a literary kick. My mind was thinking all sorts of crazy things. It wouldn’t stop.
He stood up from his chair. He looked at me again. Contempt. Again. I saw nothing but his contempt. He walked up to the podium. He opened his mouth, it oozed of his snobbery. He really seemed to me like he’d felt he was just so much above everyone else in that room — literally, he really was, though, as he was the only one of us who was standing. He spoke, he said he was an author. He said this with much emphasis on that very last word. Author. He clarified this so vehemently, that he was not a poet but that he was an author. He claimed to appreciate good poetry, though — good poetry, as he said — and that he was pleased with hearing all poets who were there tonight. I didn’t believe him. The event was a poetry reading, after all, so what in the fuck was he even doing here, I thought to myself. He started to talk about this novel of his that he was still working on. He told us that he was going to read a sample from its latest chapter. He said he was thinking of scrapping it. At this point he had actually caught my interest. This man (I never caught his name) was an author, and so I felt that, if nothing else, then at the very least I could learn from his insight.
He said it was a short sample, that it would take maybe just ten minutes for him to read it through. He looked at me strangely as he said this. I can’t describe precisely the way in which he did this; I can’t ascribe his look to any specific sort of message, but he looked at me in specific when he said what he said. He was trying to tell me something. I hadn’t a clue what he was getting at. I shook my head. He started reading. Ten minutes passed by and still he was reading. There was no hint in his prose that an end point was coming. He just kept reading and reading. I really wasn’t too impressed. Not even at all, honestly. It was just very boring. The content. It was nothing at all worth a novel’s time, I thought to myself. Good thing that he thinks he should scrap it, I thought to myself. That’s the key difference between weak poetry and weak prose, in my opinion: poets will write weak poetry when they slave to form, and authors will write weak prose when they slave to content. My opinion.
This guy was like a Jonathan Franzen wannabe, I thought to myself. He looked like he should be writing in some office — for like the New Yorker or Harpers or something — so what was he doing reading shitty prose from this uninspiring novel in the basement of St Bartholomeus, I thought to myself. Franzen can write about nothing and make something worth reading, I thought to myself. This guy is just some Franzen wannabe, I again told myself. I then mentally took this back. I checked myself. It wasn’t because I felt it was necessarily incorrect, it was because I simply felt it was entirely mean of me and uncalled for. Even if it was only said in the safety of my mind, I realized I gained nothing from tearing him down. Twenty minutes had passed and the author was still reading.
Todd leaned forward and turned his head toward me. He was trying to catch my eyes. He looked like he was in pain. I nodded. I smiled. Then Todd spoke, “Man, you gotta be kidding me,” he moaned. I was stunned. As was everyone, including the author. Todd didn’t say it too loud — it was somewhere between, under his breath and the top of his lungs — but everyone heard. I thought it was pretty rude of Todd to say. I refused to acknowledge the comment. Todd leaned back in his chair without a hint of remorse. The author paused and looked at him. Todd rolled back his head and looked at the ceiling. The author grunted and continued reading. I looked at Chad. Chad was still watching the author. Chad seemed attentive. He looked like he was interested.
As the author continued, I noticed there were changes growing in his story. It was becoming somewhat comedic, twisting to this effect. The prose had began off as so solemn but was now noticeably offbeat and whimsical. The protagonist in the author’s story, was in a monastery in Italy, inspecting a large bell with an old priest, for whom the protagonist had nothing but the utmost respect, but now was fighting the priest holding him in a headlock. Quite the confusing development. I looked around the room — apparently, I was not alone in this sentiment. The author began reading faster and faster. The priest, in the story, reverses the headlock and pins the protagonist to the ground. The priest then stands, knocks his fist against the bell and says: “Shave and a haircut, young man.” The author knocked his fist against the air as he said this. He didn’t read this, he just said this. More noteworthy, though, is that he looked at me in the eyes as he said this. It was a lot like a punchline. Some people laughed. Most didn’t, though, because it was really not so funny. I clapped. Everyone clapped. He watched me clap, grinning his way back to his seat. He must had felt he had got me in some way. But I didn’t get it. I mean, I heard the words, I made the connection, but still, it was completely random and really not so funny. I actually rolled my eyes. I was completely underwhelmed.
When all the poetry was said and done and the event was over, I met outside with Todd and Chad. We were excited to talk about the event and mull over the details. I’d said, that of the all the readers who there that night, the three of were the best poets by far. The best, that is, in our own respective ways, is how I phrased it, because respectively, the three of us truly were very much different. It was absolutely true, though, what I said — we really were the best ones there, at the reading. This was perhaps the most astute thing I’d said all that night. Todd and Chad both readily agreed with me. They knew it was true. It felt good. Spirits were high. We were all pleased with ourselves. We had a very chill, but enthusiastic conversation. Completely relaxed. But all the same, the three of were also in competitive demeanor. A good amount of subtle self-bragging was exchanged between the three of us.
As the conversation continued, the topics would gradually shift gears, switching the focus from ourselves to things that were larger: society, culture, current events, things of the sort. At one point, we found ourselves discussing race. I think this was prompted from a comment I’d made on the author from the poetry reading. We acknowledged the age disparity between ourselves and the others. I suggested that maybe, just maybe, the reason we thought we were so good was because we identified with each other on the basis of our ages, that we identified through what we shared in common. Chad and Todd both nodded at this half heartedly. They agreed it was possible but felt it wasn’t the case. I felt it wasn’t the case, too. I was pleased, though, to see they both had knew what I meant by what I said. We spoke of biases, prejudices, things like that, and that I feel is what had prompted the conversation to switch to race.
Chad was entirely comfortable speaking on it, especially considering that he was black and both Todd and I were white. Chad felt no discomfort in that regard. He was truly excited to speak on it. As were both Todd and myself. It was a situation in which three men had knew there’d be nothing to come that would be too awkward, that we could handle it like reasonable people, and that we trusted each other. Chad shared with us some more of his poetry. It was edgier stuff he shared. And when I say this, it’s an understatement. I was really pleased to hear it. As was Todd. Chad seemed glad to share it, as well; he was, at this point, now rapping his poetry. And he was really good at this. His content was very heavy on racial topics. And he wasn’t reading from his notebook, like he did earlier inside. He was rapping his poetry now verbatim, on spot; he knew all his words by heart. I commented on this, I said, “Man, it really must mean a lot to you, you know everything by heart.” Chad nodded. Todd then spoke, he said, flat out, “Man, you’re smart.” Awkward. Todd was a very blunt person, as I learned that night. And it was awkward when he said this. For a moment, that is. Only for a moment. I thought then to ask Chad a question, but Chad spoke before I could do so, he said, “No, I’m not.” And it wasn’t awkward. I looked at the ground, then looked back up.
We talked about BET. That’s the very next thing I remember us talking about. Someone had mentioned Miley Cyrus — Chad made some comment that he was surprised – as in, not in a bad way or a good way, but that, simply said, he was just surprised, to see her perform the awards show on BET. He remarked that this was a reflection of sorts on change, in what for long had been strictly black media with black focus. He mentioned, also, Tyler Perry – the fact that Tyler Perry uses white characters in his work — almost in the same way in which “token” black characters are used; though Chad didn’t actually say “token,” and he may or may not have implied “token,” it was the word I jumped to in my mind. The point Chad was speaking on, was something which I hadn’t really ever thought about before. I was very intrigued by the things he was saying and wanted to ask him more on it, but Todd started roaring up again. The conversation was getting Todd anxious, as he said it was “just so frustrating,” that “things could be like this.” I tried to jump the conversation back to where Chad had left off, and said, “Yeah, it’s so sticky, though,” to which Chad nodded. Chad agreed with me. I’d kind of felt like Chad had been holding back in this conversation. Despite how bold the conversation may have seemed in relative terms, I really felt like he was holding back. I could sense that he was somewhat cautious with some of his words. I know at least that I was holding back. Todd was unrelenting; he was still fired up. The Miley Cyrus comment had struck a chord with him, apparently.
If I was holding back, then Todd was thrusting forward. Todd claimed that his father was a record producer with Motown — or, no, he said that his father was a singer, in a soul band that had almost signed with Motown. That’s what Todd had said. And I think Chad believed him, actually. Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. I mean, I didn’t think Todd was plainly lying but, well, I guess I had just questioned it. I asked him about it right away, I said, “Really,” and with a great deal emphasis did I ask him this. Todd looked at me insulted. And Chad, actually, had looked at me annoyed. It was the second time where I’d questioned the authenticity of someone’s statement with that kind of vigor. I must’ve come off as somewhat untrusting. I think — at least, I’m pretty sure — that both the times in which I did this, the recipient of my questioning was Todd — so, maybe I was selling the guy short. I hope I wasn’t. Oh well, it’s not like either of them hated me for it, but they both had took notice. As I’ve said, I think I’m sometimes kind of anti-social. Maybe what I mean by this is that I rub people the wrong way at times. I don’t dwell on it but, yeah, I think I’m honest with myself. I think.
Garden Path 