I Belong In The Spaces Between. Check All That May Apply.

Monday, 30th May

Lately, I've taken a keen interest in the elegant art of spoken word poetry. Spoken word refers to an oral poetic performance art that is based mainly on the poem as well as the performer's aesthetic qualities. It is a "catchall" term that includes any kind of poetry recited aloud, including poetry readings, poetry slams, jazz poetry, and hip hop music, and can include comedy routines and prose monologues.

Although, I may not be vastly suited in writing spoken word poetry but I'm held captive by it and I marvel at its delicate symphony.

I heard this particular one in a series I watched a long time ago and even now, I'm still held captive by it. It's haunting.

The poem I'm about to share is Slam Poetry written by the sixteen year old character. She talks about being an imposter and always being in a box.

It goes...

"Growing up, I thought that...

Growing up, I thought that people were born with their heads cocked because that's how they've always looked at me.

Boxes. Check one, check other.

People don't know. They don't furrow between the layers like I do.

They don't switch and twitch and actively make the decision of which...

Which part of me belong today?

Which aspect of my personality will offend the least and blend the most, and work and succeed and bury the lede like a switchboard of traits that decide my fate, and I'm always an impostor?

Always lost, always asking for directions, and people point my way like a scarecrow.

Like tornadoes blowing me whichever way the wind blows.

Well, Dorothy doesn't want to play today. She's prepping for the SAT.

Just the scantron.

The box is empty, and glaring and daring me to choose one.

Well, I'm at expert at boxes.

My whole life can fit inside it, and I've got it down to a science.

I can pack my entire identity in an hour 'cause where there's roots, there's power, but I'm all topsoil.

My blood runs like water and oil refusing to stick.

My dad's old books, read in secret nooks.

That camera that locks all my memories in a flash, saved for when my recollection doesn't last.

That lighter that sparked that fire.

All fit in a box ready to be carried from door to door.

But that's not the kind of box people ask for.

So many lines in the sand, so many can'ts and cans.

I see both worlds clearly, and I skip and jump and dance and fall between, never seen.

I belong in the spaces between.

Check all that may apply. "

*Takes a deep breath

Wow! Cause I think I just fell in love with this poem again. Reading that again was like I was feeling all the feels, yeah.

Like I felt that daring yet vulnerable nature that forms her identity. I felt that constant struggle to be seen as she is and not anything else, like an impostor. I felt that raging anger that comes with the realisation that the constant struggle is indeed infinite. I felt that tempting resignation that haunts her hoping she surrenders to the inevitable reality that she isn't worthy of being seen and the box forever her identity. I felt that unadulterated rawness of pure truth in acceptance that she belongs in the inbetween, knowing wherever she is there she is indeed, and believing it was okay.

I could definitely relate with certain aspects of the poem. Sometimes, we just need to take a long hard look at ourselves and just do some much needed introspection. It's difficult being labelled as one thing that you know you aren't just so people can say that they know you.

At this juncture, I'm just gonna call it a wrap. I like that I was able to share that with you today. So take good care of yourselves and keep safe. Later, gators!!!