Pipeno Launch Contest

The Nuyorican Poet's Cafe is an interesting place. Like many Manhattan locations that happen to be popular amongst the youth, it's a tight place that would resemble squalor if it weren't for the abstract paintings on the walls. I don't know what it is about New Yorkers and their idea of "good art". Apparently, a tiny place of filth covered with some good acrylic paint qualifies.

Because my friend Santiago stood online before Andrew and I arrived, when we got inside, we had just the right amount of time to run to a table and place our behinds firmly in a few front-row seats. We were no more then ten feet away from the stage. As we sat, we watched the place condense. Before the first poet even stepped on stage, there were more people then there was room to kick your feet.

Jared Singer is a huge man. He stands at about 6'5, carries more weight then he is built to carry and has medium-length brown wavy hair, tied in a pony tail, behind his neck. Along with his hair that curls at the ends, this evening he is sporting a thick, dark beard. It looks like you could climb inside and put up a tent. He does not look clean. He is wearing a slightly dirty and un-ironed polo t-shirt, that is not too big, not too small. It perfectly accentuates his round belly. His beige khaki shorts reveal thick calves, and his feet are dressed in white socks and a pair of Timberlands. He is also pretty hairy. While his body may at first sight absolutely frighten you, his face assures you his persona matches that of a scrawny man with glasses tied together with white tape at the rim. It's all a front, really.
He's a softie.

Out of all the spoken word artists, we were sure he was going to be the one to bring comedic relief to the stage. Phil, who is already slightly sideways, starts laughing before the guy gets there and with his pointer finger raised, he says "This guy- This guy is gonna be funny!" After listening to poems about God, spirituality, the universe, past lives, womanhood, African-roots, eroticism, and society, we were more then ready for a few laughs to go with the beers sitting on our table. Empty bottles were already scattered before us, and as I recall, it was nearly a quarter to twelve. But Jared did not comply. He totally obliterated our speculations. Jared was a serious poet. And he had some serious matters to discuss.

Jared stands on stage, a large man with hairy legs and huge boots. His hair is tied back so as not to cause distraction. There is no axe in his hand though he is dressed like he might be ready to chop some wood. There is no smile on his face. Today he is wearing his serious look. He left his other expressions at home, all neatly thrown in the closet. He looks extremely sad and I wonder if he’s physically capable of smiling.

For his first poem, Jared discussed Arizona and the state’s new immigration laws. His poem did not rhyme or have much rhythm, he spoke like he would in any conversation, but, the key was, that he knew how to speak with Conviction. No excessive literary-goo; He was a straight-shooter. He looked like someone who still lived in his parent’s house and he looked like someone who never heard of an ironing board or a razor. But there was just this something that captured the audience. Because while, for what to me, seemed like, “slam poetry” was nothing but a bunch of poets spitting whack, foul, passion, hopeless, uncertain, wild spit about society, emotions, psychology and God, Jared did not just find the stage to be a place to complain or be rid himself of his contemplative thoughts, but, Jared knew how to close. Jared could open and Jared could close. And just like a loan, without being able to close, there was no real, good, solid deal. This would explain why he was voted the number one poet of the night.

As Jared began his short introduction regarding his second poem, he mentioned “Poland,” and suddenly, I got really excited! “Poland never gets any recognition,” I thought to myself. All the guys at the table patted me on the back, knowing my roots, and smiled at me, in a way saying, “Yea dude, rock on!” I was excited. “Could it be a poem about the plane crash,” I thought. Jared then said: “Poland is the most anti-Semitic country in the world.” And as I thought, “What,” I quickly lowered my head, feeling embarrassed. “I don’t get it,” I whisper to myself.

Jared’s poem rambles on and on. I don’t recall the exact words and I only remember fragments because as I’m trying to contain my anger and listen to this fat man speak, Phil holds me close so I don’t stand up to protest. Suddenly I no longer care for Jared’s slam poetry and his voice begins to annoy me. Phil was teasing me about it and he had me locked in his arms. A half-hug, gone completely wrong. I recall words like “disgusting” and similar synonyms leaping through Jared’s mouth. The poem was entirely negative and Jared used a Polish skin-head Nazi example in which he projected a “supposed” entire country’s perception. I was pissed. I mean, we didn’t birth Hitler so what the hell was he talking about? I thought about the plane crash over in Katyn that happened a few weeks ago, and all the people of power who died, including the Polish president. At this point, I just wanted to leave.

When he finished, I looked over at Santiago, who, earlier volunteered as one of the judges, write a huge “10” on the eraser-board. I nodded with my head, “no, no, no, no!” but everyone at the table was convinced he was more then impressive and they raised the board together to finalize their critique.

“Poland is the most anti-Semetic country in the world,” I repeated to myself.
That sounds ridiculous.

The next morning I told my mom about it. She, just as outraged as I was, shouted “Buy the kid a history book, would you!” I told her “Mom, I don’t get it. We didn’t build the damn concentration camps, what is this guy talking about?” Then, calmly, like the gentle wind pushes a leaf, she explained to me: “Sweetie, the thing is, there are a lot of things people say and a lot of things people do when they are in denial. Of course, we didn’t build those camps and anyone who knows any damn good history knows that. But, there are those who will do anything to conceal it. There are people who are truly convinced that we put those camps there, that We slayed the Jews. What they fail to realize was that Hitler invaded our land, built camps on our land, and killed our people too. And as usual, everybody forgets the stories of when the Poles helped hide Jewish families in their homes. And regarding the people who were killed for hiding them, do they get any recognition?” I sigh and I responded “But that’s so ridiculous, Mom. I still can’t believe that guy.” She sighs, and then continues: “You know, on second thought, along with that history book, why don’t you get him a copy of “The Pianist.” Clearly, he’s never seen that either.”

I was born in Poland and immigrated here at the age of five. I never considered Poland my home and sometimes wasn’t sure how to identify myself: As an American or as a Pole. I hated Polish school and I hated learning how to read and write. I felt that I knew enough. I hated Polish Folk-Dancing and the singing; The singing was the absolute worst. My parents watch TV Polonia in the evening while I watch American movies. When the plane crash in Katyn occurred, I was numb. I didn’t really know how to respond. But after really realizing what had happened and who had died, I cried. It was the first time I felt really connected to the people of my country. And I realized there is no shame in the country in which you’ve been born and that one should appreciate their roots.

When Jared got on that stage and slammed me with his dumb poetry, I was burned.

He gobbled up my bubble of breath, leaving me with nothing but a gasp. He was sure to deliver what no one expected. We were all shocked by his style, his skill, but I was shocked to hear what I heard that night. As if a mouse had just run past my feet, as I'm sitting in Donald Trump's golden-plated living room, this felt out of place. I felt out of place. His facts. They were out of place.

Just like Jared, his poems were the heaviest things in the room.

And I could not handle it.

I’m still angry.