I found Andrea Gibson and spoken word about an hour ago. I've already broken into tears three times. Last time I cried at any media was four years ago. I feel like somebody whacked me in the soul with a two by four.
To be able to harness an entire room, and to be able to move someone so deeply.. shes incredible, a true artist. I have so much respect for this women. She wrote so simply and so truly.. writing is meant to bury and seek revival, her temerity is riveting, a true hero to me in more way thens one. This is a fantastic poem. favorite line: "I didnt want to take the chance that I'd grow up to be a war"
I've listened to this poem be performed every morning the past two weeks; I've read it every bus ride home. And still, it gives me chills just thinking about it. An amazing poet, an amazing poem.
I keep telling myself that certain styles of poetry arent for me then I find something that just blows my mind on that genre completely proving me wrong. This along with her other stuff is just epic and as a poet myself, I envy and respect her for having such talent and writing from the heart.
I wish ... that you were there to listen to when I was growing up. I wish I had your words to repeat then, instead of staying silent, thinking small, and praying I would not be seen.
To your first point-it is called blaming the victim. We can recognize it by the focus on the individual rather than on the system...which I imagine was your point. Whenever we focus on the individual rather than the genesis of the problem, we miss an opportunity to seek real solutions.
I wanna do a slam poem about this for school, but I don’t know how to write it, like I don’t understand what I should do for it, I understand RU-vid isn’t rlly school but I need help-
To everyone who is saying,"gay" first of all you really need to listen to her words rather than looking at her features maybe this was the same situation you were in... think about it
A LETTER TO THE PLAYGROUND BULLY, FROM ANDREA, AGE 8 ½ maybe there are cartwheels in your mouth maybe your words will grow up to be a gymnasts maybe you have been kicking people with them by accident I know some people get a whole lot of rocking in the rocking chair and the ones who don’t sometimes get rocks in their voice boxes, and their voice boxes become slingshots. maybe you think my heart looks like a baby squirrel. but you absolutely missed when you told the class I have head lice ‘cause I one hundred percent absolutely do not have head lice and even if I do it is a fact that head lice prefer clean heads over dirty ones so I am clean as a whistle on a tea pot. my mother says it is totally fine if I blow off steam as long as i speak in an octave my kindness can still reach. my kindness knows mermaids never ever miss their legs in the water ‘cause there are better ways to move through the ocean than kicking. so guess what, if I ever have my own team I am picking everyone first even the worst kid and the kid with the stutter like a skipping record ‘cause I know all of us are scratched, even if you can’t hear it when we speak. my mother says most people have heartbeats that are knocking on doors that will never open, and I know my heart is a broken freezer chest ‘cause I can never keep anything frozen. so no, I am not “always crying.” I am just thawing outside of the lines. and even if I am “always crying” it is a fact that salt is the only reason everything floats so good in the dead sea. and just ‘cause no one ever passes notes to me doesn’t mean I am not super duper. in fact, my super duper might be a buoy or a paper boat the next time your nose gets stuck up the river ‘cause it is a fact that our hearts stop every for a mili-second every time we sneeze and some people’s houses have too much dust. . some people’s fathers are like attics I’ve heard attics have monsters in their walls and shaky stares. I think if I lived in a house with attic I’d nightmare a burglar in my safety chest and maybe I’d look for rest in the sticks and stones ‘cause my mother says a person can only swallow so much punch before he’s drunk on his own fist but the only drunk I ever knew was sleeping in the alley behind our church and jesus turned water into his wine so even god has his bad days but on your bad days couldn’t you just say “hey I’m having a bad day,” instead of telling me I’m stupid or poor, or telling me I dress like a boy ‘cause maybe I am a boy AND a girl maybe my name is Andrea Andrew. so what. it is a fact that bumblebees have hair on their eyes and humans, also, should comb though everything they see. like an anchorman is not a sailor. like the clouds might be a pillow fight. like my mother says, “every bird perched on a telephone wire will listen to the conversations running through its feet to decide the direction of its flight.” so I know every word we speak can make hurricanes in people’s weather veins or shine their shiny shine so maybe sometime you could sit beside me on the bus and I could say, “guess what, it is a fact that manatees have vocal chords but do not have ears. and Beethoven made music even when he could no longer hear. and I know every belt that has hit someone’s back is still a belt that was built to hold something up. and it is fact that Egyptians slept on pillows made of stone but it’s not hard for me to dream that maybe one day you’ll write me back like the day I wrote the lightening bug to say, I smashed my mason jar and I threw away the lid. I didn’t want to take a chance that I’d grow up to be a war. I want to be a belly dance or an accordion or a pogo stick or the fingerprints the mason left in the mortar between the bricks to prove that he was here, that he built a roof over someone’s head to keep the storm from their faith, my mother says that’s why we all were born. and I think she’s right. so write back soon. sincerely yours
and i'll just scribble a little here maybe. my guess is she already said everything i was thinking... what happens when brian edward van halen comes to cull? i'll tell you one terrifying thing i've come to understand. this fist is not mine although it is a part of me. when the strike must be made. i do not throw the punch. my hand moves all by itself. god grand me the serenity, the wisdom and the courage...
A LETTER TO THE PLAYGROUND BULLY, FROM ANDREA, AGE 8 ½ maybe there are cartwheels in your mouth maybe your words will grow up to be gymnasts maybe you have been kicking people with them by accident I know some people get a whole lot of rocking in the rocking chair and the ones who don't sometimes get rocks in their voice boxes, become slingshots. maybe you think my heart looks like a baby squirrel. but guess what you absolutely missed when you told the class I have head lice Because guess what I a hundred percent absolutely do not have lice and even if I do it is a fact that head lice prefer clean heads over dirty ones so I am clean as a whistle on a tea pot. my mother says it is totally fine if I blow off steam as long as i speak in an octave my kindness can still reach. my kindness knows mermaids never ever miss their legs in the water ‘cause there are better ways to move through the ocean than kicking. so guess what, if I ever have my own team I am picking everyone first even the worst kid and the kid with the stutter like a skipping record ‘cause I know all of us are scratched, even if you cannot hear it when we speak. my mother says some people have heartbeats that are knocking on doors that will never ever open, and I know my heart is a broken freezer chest That’s why I cant keep anything frozen. so no, I am not "always crying." I am just thawing outside the lines. and even if I am "always crying" it is a fact that salt is the only reason everything floats so good in the dead sea. and just because no one ever passes notes to me doesn't mean I am not super duper. in fact, my super duper might be a buoy or a paper boat the next time your nose is stuck up the river ‘cause it is a fact that our hearts stop every for a mili-second every time we sneeze and some people's houses have too much dust. some people's fathers are like attics I've heard attics have monsters in their walls and shaky stares. if I lived in a house with attic I think I'd nightmare a burglar in my safety chest Or maybe I'd look for rest in the sticks and stones ‘cause my mother said a kid can only swallow so much punch before he's drunk on his own fist but the only drunk I ever known was sleeping in the alley behind my church and jesus turned water into his wine so even god has his bad days but on your bad days couldn't you just say "hey I am having a bad day," instead of telling me I'm stupid or poor, That I dress like a boy ‘cause maybe I am a boy AND a girl maybe my name is Andrea Andrew. so what. it is a fact that bumblebees have hair on their eyeballs and people, also, should comb though everything they see. like an anchorman is not a sailor. like the clouds might be a pillow fight. like my mother said, every bird perched on a telephone wire decides the direction of its flight by the conversations running through its feet so I know every thing i speak can make hurricanes in other people's weather veins or shine their shiny shine so maybe sometime if somebody would sit beside me on the bus I could say, "guess what, it is a fact that manatees have vocal chords Even though they don’t have ears. Just like Beethoven played music even when he could no longer hear. and I know every belt that has hit someone's back is still a belt that was built to hold something up. and it is fact that Egyptians slept on pillows made of stone but it's not hard for me to dream that maybe one day you'll write me back like the day I wrote the lightening bug to say, I smashed my mason jar and I threw away the lid. I didn't want to take a chance that I'd grow up to be a war. I want to be a belly dance or an accordion or a pogo stick or the fingerprints the mason leaves in the mortar between the bricks to prove that he was here, that he built a roof over someone's head to keep the storm from their faith, my mother says that's why we all were born. and I think she's right. so write back soon. sincerely yours.
Why is it every one of these "slam poets" seem to be so full of anger? Anger is not beautiful, nor does it inspire positively. And to call this poetry is to call mass produced prints, original art. If this is poetry, its the death of art. And if this is beautiful, this is the death of beauty. Whining is not inspirational, no matter how big a victim you are.
"I know every belt that has hit someone's back was still a belt that was made to hold something up" "My kindness knows mermaids never... miss their legs in the water because there are better ways to move through an ocean than kicking." "I want to be... the fingerprints the mason leaves behind in the mortar between the bricks to prove that he was here... that he built a roof over someone's head to keep the storm from their faith... that is why we all were born..." Yeah she really sounds like she's bubbling over with all sorts of malicious feelings.
I did not say that "this was full of anger." I said, "Why is it every one of these "slam poets" seem to be so full of anger? " I stick by those words. This lady is still angry about elementary school and some perceived social injustices. I find it quite boring and uninspiring. Zero talent there.
Verbal abuse is also about expressing emotions. Is that poetry? :) I joke, but my point is; why does it have to be whiney? Can they express their emotions without coming off as self important and victimized? I once read a study done on seminar speakers. Despite what the seminar speaker said, whether the study they presented was solid or not, if they were like-able by the audience, then the audience rated them as good speakers. I find myself not liking their work. In this case, I also don't respect or find them to be like-able. It's all subjective of course but I think deep down, we find optimism (as long as its not a manic optimism) to be like-able. And sorrowful people to be boring. When they talk about playground bullies I keep thinking, "No wonder they didn't like you on the playground, you were probably whining just like now. Quit the whining!"
