Poetry Slam

 Thursdays are billed as "CULTURE" here on my self-imposed writing schedule, so here we are.

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When I was in Ms. Strachen's language arts class, back in 7th grade, we all had to select a poem, memorize it, and recite it for the entire class.  Ms. Strachen had arranged things with the librarians so that we got to spend two days in the library at tables full of poetry anthologies.  I generally disliked Ms. Strachen's class- the room was in the back of our old brick junior high, with windows overlooking the asphalt parking lot, the dumpsters, and the chain link fencing of the sports fields.  It was always murderously hot up there.  In the summer, the southern exposure meant we baked, and in the winter, the heat rose in the poorly insulated old building, and we sweltered.  

Ms. Strachen spent the first class of every year detailing the ins and outs of her allergies, and utterly forbid any of us girls from wearing perfume to her classes (Designer Imposters were VERY BIG back in junior high, and every girl in my class had her favorite.  Mine was "Ninja" or "Lindsay"), and as we were horrible adolescents, we'd all give ourselves a little extra squirt of body spray* before heading into her class each day.

 But, due to the aforementioned allergies, Ms. Strachen was loathe to open the ancient windows to give the room a good airing out, because outdoor allergens were just as much a concern as a room full of girls stinking of drugstore body spray.

In that murk of heat and Designer Imposters, we endured a LOT of sentence diagramming.  And memorizing the state of being verbs**.  And the prepositions.  Just a lot of general grammar exercises.  Just lots of "language" and very little of the "arts".  So when the prospect of two days IN A ROW in the library came along, sitting at tables with UNASSIGNED SEATING, TOTALLY self-directing our focus all towards an assessment that revolved around PERFORMING*** well let's just say that I was all in.

Within 15 minutes I'd found my poem.  The perfect poem.  While the other kids around me were phoning the assignment in, what with Shel Silverstein and recitations exclusively in monotone, I was busy creating a piece of performance art.  With the perfect poem in one hand and my penchant for the dramatic in the other, I was sure to make an unforgettable impression on both my peer group AND my stolid language arts teacher.

Friday came, and along with it, our class performances.  As expected, everyone ahead of me trudged up to the front of the classroom, heaved a heavy sigh, shuffled a half circle back to face their peers, then mumblerushed their way through "I'm Being Eaten by a Boa Constrictor" 

So when my turn came, I leapt out of my chair.  I merrily skipped down the row, mentally already in character.  I spun around to face my peers.  This was, I knew without a doubt, the high point of my 7th grade language arts and I was going to give it my all.

And I did.  As I dropped into a dramatic curtsy at the end of the performance, I expected a flood of applause.  Maybe a couple of "Wow Cari!"s.  For sure the sound of my crush's footsteps as he walked up to the front of the class to proudly put an awkward arm over my three inches taller shoulder.

But no.  No applause.  No footsteps.  Nothing.  

I was suddenly filled with a horrible thought.  What if everyone hated it so much they were struck dumb? What if my performance didn't launch my meteoric rise to popularity?  Was that even possible? Surely my peers valued a robust dramatic poetry recital as much as I did. 

Slowly, oh so slowly, I lifted my face and straightened out of my curtsy.  What would it be?  People robbed of speech, yes, but why? Adoration or disgust?

It took a moment to understand what I was seeing.  My eyes focused on Ms. Strachen, sitting front row center, the better to judge the performances.  She was very still.  Her arms folded across her chest.  Her chin resting close along her neck. And from her, radiating out of her and filling the space between the heat and the Designer Impostors, there came the smallest snore.  

I snapped my head left and right, to survey my peers.  Were they all asleep?  Had I put the whole class to sleep and could I perhaps parlay that feat into the popularity my performance failed to gain me?

No.  Oh, there was one or two kids who had nodded off, sure.  But by and large, the only response my epic recitation had inspired was deep apathy.  And with the teacher enjoying a little cat nap, there was no one with the authority or will to recognize I was done and to initiate the mandatory applause lesser performances earned.

I slumped back to my chair in silence, baffled and disappointed****.  Right then and there, as the silence stretched on long enough to alert the subconscious brain of my language arts teacher, jerking her into action, I made myself a promise: no matter the underwhelmed response of my classmates, I would never, never forget the marvelous poem OR the fire I brought to its performance.  And if ever asked, I would enthusiastically recite it. 

The poem in question?  I thought you'd never ask.

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* this is how the more morally minded girls among us found the loophole: Ms. Strachen had forbid PERFUME, but Designer Imposters was a BODY SPRAY.  Ergo, no violation!

** Ken had Ms. Strachen too.  He's still able to recite all the state of being verbs, lodged in his brain after all these years.

*** sorry about the yelling.  I appear to be channelling 7th grade Cari in the retelling of this story and let me tell you, 7th grade Cari was LOUD and oh so DRAMATIC

**** but these two emotions are the default of every adolescent ever.  Don't believe me?  Ask 7th grade you.  S/he'll confirm