This past Tuesday, the Creative Writing I and II classes had an assignment that no Creative Writing class has ever done before: slam poetry. Led by senior Laurel Lancaster, the Creative Writing classes learned about the conventions of slam poetry, its performance, and its importance. She made a presentation accompanied with organized topics and bullet points. Lancaster even showed us YouTube videos of different examples of slam poetry, to show what slam looked like in action. What came next was a surprise: the teacher Emma Richardson assigned each of us to write a slam poem and perform it for next week’s class. I was terrified.

Slam poetry, according to Lancaster, is supposed to be “personal, raw and vulnerable.” From the YouTube examples, I gathered that slam poets are supposed to be confident, somewhat angry and frustrated, and, most of all, very emotional. I’d written plenty of calm(-ish), descriptive poetry in creative writing before, but I didn’t know how I was supposed to write and perform something with that much confidence and sincere emotion. Lancaster gave a few ideas such as “Respond to a person, concept, character or idea,” “Describe a time you overcame weakness and how it changed you” and “Describe things that make you angry and why it makes you angry.”

Turns out, I didn’t have to be so terrified, and thankfully, I didn’t have to go first. (Shoutout to Allison Brown for agreeing to go first in the second period class!) But each person wrote something important to him or her, and that’s all that mattered. I actually was able to write my poem on something that made me angry: bullies. (If you don’t know me, just know that it’s very hard to make me angry.) I watched students share their poems as responses to personal experiences, to specific people who affected the writer. Others shared their frustration towards racism, all types of bullying, conforming to society, unrealistic societal expectations, gender roles and more. Senior Maliah Wilkinson even wrote an exasperated response to slow wi-fi, which was very entertaining, real and relatable. Several members of the Creative Writing classes shared their poems for inclusion in The Vision; they are featured below.

Of all the creative writing classes periods I’ve had at MSMS, from junior year until now, I’ve never experienced a class where the students shared their thoughts with such raw emotion and vulnerability. A writer sharing his or her creative work requires lots of trust, and during that hour and a half of listening to people perform their slam poems and through performing my own poem, I knew I grew closer to my fellow slam poets. MSMS Creative Writing classes are a unique place where each student learns to trust the other. As is the tradition of slam poetry, the audience responded with snaps and claps.

Overall, this experience also taught me the importance of slam poetry. Many of the poems performed this past Tuesday should be shared with the world, as they addressed many issues, real and personal, that we experience today. Slam is effective because it is easily understood, thought-provoking, and can be emotionally moving. Slam can also be shared easily (especially through online videos), allowing ideas to spread and allowing ordinary poets to ignite the sparks of change.
I hope the MSMS Creative Writing classes continue this tradition of having a week of slam poetry. Lancaster also hopes to start a YouTube channel featuring MSMS slam poets. If anyone is interested in learning more about slam poetry, check out the link to Lancaster’s lesson she presented to the Creative Writing classes. I hope more of the MSMS student body can get involved in this unique form of art and expression.

John 20:29 by Laurel Lancaster

Then Jesus told him, “Because you have seen me, you have believed;blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” — John 20:29 (NIV)

The first time I am mistaken for a boy, I have not showered in nine days. Soaked in sweat, I’m curls bound in a tight braid, bearing a backpack that weighs more than I do. So I ignore it.

The second time I am mistaken for a boy, I trip and scuff my sneakers on the tile floor. I grab my fallen glasses, and race to class, ignoring the laughs behind me. I dismiss it as a fluke.

The third time I am mistaken for a boy, I leave the party early, mascara smeared and confidence shattered. On the way home, I share the story with a friend, expecting to laugh about the blindness of teenage boys.

Instead, she tells me: “You know, you’d be prettier if you didn’t dress like that.”

You’d be prettier if-

And I have to stop her right there.

For starters, I am frustrated by society’s fixation on femininity. You tell me to be strong, to be brave, to not be like “the other girls” then condemn me for looking different. Demand that I look dazzling at all times, hair and makeup done, nothing more than a little doll for you to play with.

Secondly, there is no if. There is no question, no doubt in my mind that I am pretty. I don’t need a mirror, a camera, or a poorly written pop song to do it for me.

But why must I be pretty? Of all the adjectives in the English language, must I be degraded to six shallow letters?

Why can’t I be powerful? Or talented? Why can’t I be compassionate or intelligent or beautiful? Because “pretty” only exists to be desirable for someone else, and “beautiful” loves themselves unconditionally.

Because I will wear whatever I want.

Because I am fighting to love my body. To accept every curve, to love every lock of frizzy hair, and give thanks for every crooked smile. I let my voice lift me higher than a pair of heels ever could.

I am beautiful. And that will not change.

My beauty is inside and out, it is eternal and unconditional.

They say: “You don’t know you’re beautiful.”

But I actually do.

Despite this constant weight I carry, this anxiety that binds my wings and tells me not to fly, I know deep down that I am beautiful.

I hear that monster deep inside and call it a liar. This creature that feeds off me is going to learn to starve. I refuse to give any more of my strength away.

Too long have I sat on the sidelines. Too long have I been imprisoned by this thing that eats away at me.

But no more.

No longer will I allow this thing to grow. It doesn’t matter how many times it knocks me down, I will get back up.

Not today, not tomorrow, but someday I will walk into a room and everyone will know. No one will dare question this queen, the one who glows from the inside out and sets the world aflame with every step she takes.

Because I do know I’m beautiful.

And one day, I will believe it.

Dressing Up by Gregory Parker

Sometimes I can’t walk around

without catching someone staring.

I never know for sure why they stare,

and I know I shouldn’t care, but… [sigh, shake head]

Maybe I’m just paranoid.

This attention so many give me

can’t keep me down, though,

because I spent years being put down.

I spent years and years in thundering storms of

“weird” and “faggot” and

“blasphemous” and disgusted looks

and “that’s gay.”

So I endured the decade long storm

of homophobia pouring down on me

in a littered ocean of old blue jeans,

and dark clouds of graphic tees

and muddy Nikes

so I would not fit the stereotype.

But then at my new home

the Blue Waves washed away

the litter and the mud,

and I dressed as me.

I dressed with a white button-up

a purple v-neck sweater over it,

and a yellow bowtie

with my best brown slacks

and my hair combed back.

And all I can think about is your smirk when you look at me.

It’s not a friendly one,

and I shouldn’t let it bug me,

but all I can do is look at myself

six times in my phone’s front camera

and stare at my reflection

when I get to a bathroom

for ten minutes

until I find something wrong.

Then I don’t think about it until

someone asks me why I changed.

Because what do you care

of what I wear?

Of this sweater to whether

this god-awful weather

because with these colors together

I feel just fine.

You have no power of what I am,

no control of me hour to hour

because I will allow myself

to cower as you tower over me.

I will wear what I want

with any color,

with no other’s say;

I will not change

because it is gay.

Because gay is not a synonym for crappy.