Performing My Poetry

I have written many poems that I like, and many that I do not like. Though, none of them have ever felt more momentous than “On Being Nice To Men”.

I remember the day I wrote it. I had finished working in London, and after a series of interactions with men where I felt like an entertainer, a single line came to me as I drove home:

‘I want to be kind, but I do not want my kindness to be some rapist’s alibi.’

As soon as I walked in the door, I dropped my bags and began to write. Each time I thought I would stop writing, get undressed, have a shower, eat something, I could not leave it unfinished and risk it remaining incomplete. I let the sun set around me as I recited my words in the mirror. It was coming to life, I knew it would be special.

That same day, with my makeup melting off and my summer dress still on, I pulled up a chair in front of a camera. Over and over, I read the poem aloud until it stuck in my brain. Finally, I had recorded something that was not perfect, but it was good - most importantly, it was true.

I could not wait to edit the footage and share with the world what I had to say. It was as if I had finally captured my voice - enveloping it in rage and beauty. When I posted “On Being Nice To Men” on Vocal, I was overwhelmed with the response. They heard me, I thought, I heard them.

Recently, I attended a poet’s tour where they saved space in the programme for an open mic. Having attended two of their shows before, and read at both of them, I knew I wanted to perform again. And, I knew which poem I would read.

I practised, I slowed down my words, I used my water bottle as a microphone. I knew this rehearsal would go out the window the moment I stepped onto that stage. The first time I performed, I was shaking so much I was convinced I was going to collapse. Truthfully, if my poem had been any longer, I am not certain my legs would have held up.

I got up there. I took my phone with me, then I left it on the table behind me - I knew it, I knew my poem. So, I read my poem with a crowd looking at me and I looked back at them. My expressive hands wanted to join in, I let them, and I believed the words I was saying.

The applause was electrifying and I felt like a soldier who had served their people. I took the pain others were feeling and I translated it in a way that made sense to them - that really made sense.

I had always wanted to be a performer. A singer and actress, to be precise. Though, I was told by too many people that I was not good enough or pretty enough - so I let those dreams die. Standing below the spotlight, I had found my way back to the little girl who had dreams bigger than the world she lived in.

My performance was not incredible. It was not professional or award-winning. But, it was me on a stage with a microphone, shaking hands and a racing heart, pushing through my fear to speak on what matters. To give hope to the hopeless.

I cannot wait to do it again.

~

On Being Nice To Men

'You’re not very nice to men'

my mother and sister said

over conversation and dinner.

They say, if I carry on this way,

I will be alone forever.

Maybe it’s just my humour.

And not everybody gets it.

Besides, I tell men at bars to fuck off

and they seem to find it attractive.

My sister will tell them,

'She is a psycho, you know?'

Hoping they will leave me alone

but, instead, they pull out their phones.

I have never wanted to change

the way that I speak.

But I am no longer sure this is

a choice that belongs to me.

The parts I like about myself

get tarnished once a man

takes a liking to them as well.

Why must they steal my personality

when they already own everything else?

So I try to be kinder.

Stick around longer

when I just want to leave.

Assume their intentions

are not what their brothers

have allowed me to believe.

Unlearn all of the lessons

that I was taught by society.

Try to be a good feminist

without getting angry.

I want to be friendly

and I want to be kind.

But I do not want my kindness

to be some rapist’s alibi.

And they’ll ask me why.

Why did I stay?

Why did I speak?

Why did I smile?

Why didn’t I leave?

Why was I there

at that time of day?

Because we can no longer state

that harassment only lives

in the night.

On a Monday morning

I have feared for my life.

Well-lit streets will only shine light

on the crime that continues to live

long after we die.

Our ancestors. Our sisters.

Our girls to come.

Fighting a battle

that is not ours to be won.

Because we are not the problem.

So why must we be the solution?

Fix your men. Fix the system.

Stop trying to fix the women.

You lengthen our hemlines

and cover our chests.

So offended by what keeps you fed.

Addicted to pornography

but call us all whores.

Fighting with yourself

but make it our war.

Say, 'This may be a man’s world

but, darling, it would be nothing

without a woman or a girl.'

Our existence gives you hierarchy.

For without women there

would be no patriarchy.

I tell my mother and sister

that I would rather be alone forever

than be a placeholder

in a man’s world

any longer.