Open Mic

he couldn’t read my handwriting. sometimes being the awkward white girl is painfully demoralizing. the wait was awful.

I only had one beer beforehand. I wasn’t shaking. performing onstage is beautiful. I watched the poets before me rage with passion, their voices carrying their truth like flowers down a stream.

I was number nine to go. he shouted my incorrect name into the microphone. I stood up, relieved, ready to be who I wanted to be.

I can‘t remember reading large parts of my poem. We were only allowed to read one.

their were five judges. we were scored on a scale of one to ten. ten meant you shook hearts. my average score? 7.5.

that‘s not too bad, a solid C grade. I had passed. I dropped the microphone on my way offstage. perhaps my dress had been see-through. I’ll never know. I just know it felt right, a wave of relief that my voice carried across the ocean of ears ready to hear a white girl sing.