1. Ever since I saw Andrea Gibson perform at the Park Theatre in Holland, Michigan. (She is still high on my list of poet crushes).
2. Ever since I wrote the one poem that truly felt like was already written inside of me, I just needed to put pen to page.
Last semester I took a creative writing course by Heather Sellers at the strong urging of my closest friends and mentors. I needed a few extra credits to continue as a full-time student and continue to receive my financial aid. Plus I had always been curious, so I took it. It became a practice that is as organic to me as remembering to drink adequate amounts of water. I fell in love with writing, and realized I had a lot to say. It was about halfway through the semester that I wrote a poem titled Rocking Chair Churches and Pond-Water Bibles. That was the peak of my semester, and that was when I knew that I had a talent, a voice, and I would have to keep writing. Weeks after writing it, I started memorizing this poem, envisioning myself as a young Andrea Gibson. An up-and-coming slam artist. I made a promise to myself to enter an open mic or slam within the year.
My first weekend here, after the utter insanity of the housing search was over (another story, another day) I had overheard a few other students say that they were going to a slam in the Northern Liberties, and one of the other students was entering. That was all the support I needed. I sided up with the girl who was planning to perform and asked if I could come over and practice before the slam. Not only that, but it was my birthday. A perfect day to fulfill this promise to myself.
My friends and I arrived at the paint-chipped red door on 4th street 15 minutes late for the “entering period” and I ran up the stairs into the tiny loft space where the host was collecting cover charges. I shoved my way past the others in line, “I want to enter.” He smiled and gave me a thinner-than-the-others slip of paper. “Wonderful! For you, cover is half price, $5.” I happily handed over my $5, signed my name to the slip of paper and did my token trick to help my odds of getting picked. I folded it up like everyone else, but then I folded one of the corners so it would poke up. People can’t resist the curiosity.
They started drawing names before the guest artist started her performance, a poet from Brooklyn, Shira Erlichman who’s poems and music still give me goosebumps. They kept picking slips that were not thin like mine, and I started to worry that after all that, I wouldn’t even get to go. Then, on the 9th draw, I saw a tiny slip with a folded corner, mine. “Emily Kirschbaum will be our 9th slammer!!!” I mumbled my mantra my mother taught me, the universe will bring it to you.
More next week on my experience performing at my first poetry slam!
