David and I went to a poetry slam Saturday night in Lemeirt Park. It reminded me of my high school days when I used to attend poetry slams in the rural town where I grew up--only Lemeirt Park is a cultural hub of South Central and Railroad Square in Waterville, Maine is the tiny 50 person theater where independent films are shown--an arduous attempt to bring diversity to a very monocultural Central Maine.
The poetry read in waterville circled around local politics, love, and good old fashioned teenage angst.
I had never been to Lemeirt Park before--except for a few times driving through. When David and I walked into the tiny studio called The World Stage I had that initial feeling of awkwardness I get when walking into a place where I am the only white person. This feeling of being out of place only reaffirms in my head how long it has been since I've been out of "this world." I used to live in South Central, I loved it. I loved the people. But now, three years removed from that time, all feelings arise w/in me that I don't belong. It is nothing that the people do, it is my own internal battle. I'm face to face with who I am and what I represent to this group. I am very self conscious. I want to run home and dread my hair so that I kind of look like I belong.
It is good to force myself into these sometimes uncomfortable situations. IT makes me face my own demons. My own stereotypes, my own issues. My compassion grows. I wonder to myself if this is how African Americans feel upon entering groups that are predominately white. I finally realize that maybe David is telling the truth when he says he feels out of place in Newport Beach and other such places.
The poetry read circled around slavery, oppression, civil rights, discrimination, and Aretha Franklin. The last woman who read prefaced her reading by saying, "This is something my friend wrote." She went on to read the passage of scripture when Jesus talks on forgiving others--70 times 7. This was followed by the story of the rich man who shows mercy on his servant who owes him a great deal of money. The servant in turn does not forgive a servant under him and is killed because of it.
I've been processing the stark difference between the things read that night. I realize that there is still so much pain on the side of African Americans. Then we hear a story about forgiveness. I wonder why no movement has been made in America to actively seek to reconcile with African Americans and ask them forgive us for the atrocities committed by our ancestors. I wonder what it would be like to have a truth and reconciliation commission a la South Africa here in America. What would that look like? How would it be brought about? Am I to begin walking up to any black person I see and ask that they forgive me? I wonder. Any ideas out there in the great blogosphere?
The poetry read in waterville circled around local politics, love, and good old fashioned teenage angst.
I had never been to Lemeirt Park before--except for a few times driving through. When David and I walked into the tiny studio called The World Stage I had that initial feeling of awkwardness I get when walking into a place where I am the only white person. This feeling of being out of place only reaffirms in my head how long it has been since I've been out of "this world." I used to live in South Central, I loved it. I loved the people. But now, three years removed from that time, all feelings arise w/in me that I don't belong. It is nothing that the people do, it is my own internal battle. I'm face to face with who I am and what I represent to this group. I am very self conscious. I want to run home and dread my hair so that I kind of look like I belong.
It is good to force myself into these sometimes uncomfortable situations. IT makes me face my own demons. My own stereotypes, my own issues. My compassion grows. I wonder to myself if this is how African Americans feel upon entering groups that are predominately white. I finally realize that maybe David is telling the truth when he says he feels out of place in Newport Beach and other such places.
The poetry read circled around slavery, oppression, civil rights, discrimination, and Aretha Franklin. The last woman who read prefaced her reading by saying, "This is something my friend wrote." She went on to read the passage of scripture when Jesus talks on forgiving others--70 times 7. This was followed by the story of the rich man who shows mercy on his servant who owes him a great deal of money. The servant in turn does not forgive a servant under him and is killed because of it.
I've been processing the stark difference between the things read that night. I realize that there is still so much pain on the side of African Americans. Then we hear a story about forgiveness. I wonder why no movement has been made in America to actively seek to reconcile with African Americans and ask them forgive us for the atrocities committed by our ancestors. I wonder what it would be like to have a truth and reconciliation commission a la South Africa here in America. What would that look like? How would it be brought about? Am I to begin walking up to any black person I see and ask that they forgive me? I wonder. Any ideas out there in the great blogosphere?
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