Text Production Oral Presentation Spoken Word Performance Text Production Oral

Purpose To provide you with the opportunity to:  Demonstrate and understanding of the interplay between what authors present in texts and the experiences, ideas, values, and beliefs of readers.  Demonstrate and use language skills and techniques to create personal, persuasive texts that address the meaning and intention of the task.

Description of assessment The aim the task is to convey your thoughts on a topic of particular personal interest; this can be a small or large topic. Words and stories have the power to effect people and in a spoken word piece the speaker is emotionally involved with their material and as a result their piece is presented in a very personal and powerful way. Persuasive language aims to manipulate the audience into accepting a particular point of view or prompt them to react in a particular way; the approach to the subject is often subjective. Create and present a Spoken Word Performance on a topic negotiated with me. A key part of this piece will be how you present – the way you use your voice as a tool.

You may support your oral with a multimedia presentation if you wish; this could be PowerPoint, video, www.voicethread.com or some other form.

Assessment conditions An oral presentation up to a maximum of 6 minutes. Please hand up a recording (audio or video), transcript of your presentation and the PowerPoint thumbnails/Voicethread etc link if used.

Some guidelines  Begin with an opening/introduction which grabs the reader, sets the tone, or strongly conveys your point of view.  Make use of voice, tone, pausing, pacing, emphasis, volume and expression to enhance the meaning of your oral.  Present a clear line of discussion and build to a strong conclusion.  Use a range of language/literary devices to enhance your piece and convey your ideas – like simile, metaphor, repetition etc.  Use examples/anecdotes appropriately to support your claims.  Demonstrate your personal engagement with the topic.  Engage (and maybe inspire) the audience.

Assessment Design Criteria

Knowledge and Understanding KU1 Knowledge and understanding of authors’ use of stylistic features and language techniques to communicate ideas and influence the reader’s response. KU2 Knowledge and understanding of ideas, values, and beliefs in texts. KU3 Knowledge and understanding of the textual conventions of different text types. Analysis An1 Analysis of the interplay between what authors present in texts and the experiences, ideas, values, and beliefs of readers. An2 Analysis of the similarities and differences in texts, in comparative exercises. An3 Analysis of the ways in which language techniques are used to influence opinions and decisions in texts. Application Ap1 Use of language skills and techniques to create coherent texts that address the meaning and intention of the task. Ap2 Recognition of connections between texts, and an integrated approach to comparing and contrasting texts. Ap3 Use of evidence from texts to develop and support a response. Ap4 Use of textual, structural, and conventional features of selected text types and forms of presentation to convey meaning. Communication C1 Accuracy, clarity, and fluency of expression. C2 Appropriate form and register for audience and purpose.

Marking Sheet – Oral Spoken Word Performance

Criteria Indicators/abilities Comments KU2 Knowledge and  Shows knowledge and understanding of understanding of ideas, the ideas, values, and beliefs in familiar values, and beliefs in texts. and unfamiliar texts.  These texts may be by others or may be texts that are highly familiar because they are of the student’s own devising or the student could be the text, talking of their own experiences. An1 Analysis of the interplay  Connections made between personal between what authors experiences, ideas, values, and beliefs, and present in texts and the those explored in texts. These could be experiences, ideas, values, abstract looking at this interplay between and beliefs of readers the author's intentional artifice and the reader's attentional construction and interpretation.  Analysis is indirect through the way the speaker tries to engage the audience. This analysis is implicit not explicit, by appropriately addressing the task the student will forge a relationship/dialogue with their audience. Perform to the audience, not at them, attempt to create a connection between speaker and listener to draw the listener into the piece.  Connections could be made between society and the material represented and explored in the text. Ap1 Language skills and  Knowledge of material (organised) Clearly techniques to create structured (use of a thematic focus) coherent texts that address  Displays an understanding of the context the task’s meaning and and nature of a speech/performance piece. intention.  Able to use a range of devices both Ap 4 Textual, structural, and structural and textual to convey their conventional features of concerns/ideas. text types and forms of presentation to convey meaning. C1 Accuracy, clarity, and  Presents with clarity of voice (tone, fluency of expression. volume, pace, emphasis etc.) C2 Appropriate form and  If chosen to use - incorporates resources register for audience and into delivery (PowerPoint, objects, sound, purpose. images, whiteboard etc.) Teacher Feedback

A Brief History of Spoken Word and Slam Poetry

What do New York’s Nuyorican Poetry Café, South Africa’s Feelah Sistah Collective, and the Annual International Poetry Olympics in Stockholm, Sweden have in common with your classroom? Each are literacy communities dedicated to the craft of writing, speaking, and presentation. Spoken word poetry encourages students to write about their own lives in their own voices and to perform these stories before and audience of their peers. One third literacy, one third rhetoric, and one third theatre, spoken word can open up new possibilities in your classroom. Spoken word poetry is a form of radical performance poetry emerging out of the political urgency of the Black Arts Movement (1965-1975). In the wake of the killings of John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., many civil rights activists lost faith that non-violence alone would influence the United States to reform its policy of racism at home and war abroad. To the “left” of the civil rights movement, organizations like Students for a Democratic Society began to organize sit-ins at colleges in New York and San Francisco demanding the creation of black studies departments. Black artists joined the call to arms by declaring war on racism through their art. As part of fighting oppression, black artists also engaged in raising the “consciousness” by spreading messages of black unity, power, and nationalism. Mobile units of performance poets and drummers, spoken word collectives responded by spreading the real news about black revolution and social empowerment on street corners, in community parks, and Black Arts “revolutionary theatres”. The New York-based Last Poets (1968) and LA-based Watts Prophets (1965) are the two Black Arts poetry collectives widely credited with the popularization of the spoken word style. Slam poetry is a business structure that puts spoken word poets in mock competition for cash prizes. Invented in 1989 by white Chicago construction worker and bar owner Marc Smith, poetry slams mock the competition in which “real” poets compete for arts grants, MFA’s, and literary prizes. City-based slam venues are connected to one another through Poetry Slam, Inc., a company that manages a national system through its internet website. At poetry slams, five audience members are chosen at random by the slam master, the master of ceremonies for the poetry slam. The audience members are given a set of numbered scorecards and asked to judge individual or group performances of poetry on a scale of 0.0 to 10.0. The scores are recorded by the slam’s scorekeeper, an audience member or volunteer. Poets must perform their own solo or collaboratively written poetry, without props, and in a maximum time of three minutes and ten seconds. If the poet goes over the time limit, points are deducted from the poet’s overall score. Time penalties are severe and serious slam poets are careful to rehearse to make sure they finish without penalty. The poet or team of poets with the highest score after a round or two of poems emerges the victor. Although some spoken word artists bemoan slam poetry as a commercialization of a politically revolutionary art form, slam poetry is responsible for securing a national and international audience for spoken word poetry. The American Academy of Poets has seen its membership burgeon from 2,000 in 1994 to over 10,000 in 1999, openly crediting the increased interest in poetry to the rise of spoken word and poetry slams. In addition, much slam poetry is politically engaged. For example, when over 120 student poets convened at the 2005 Collegiate National Poetry Slam, the overwhelming majority was unabashedly politically progressive, feminist, culturally engaged, and queer friendly. Every poem performed at a poetry slam is technically a spoken word piece. Spoken word is the name of an art form while poetry slams are a competitive structure in which spoken word artists perform. The term “slam poetry” is the name given to spoken word poetry that conforms to the rules of slam poetry. Slam poems are in-your-face and fast- paced because poets have only three minutes to make their case. When not performed at slams, spoken word poems can be any length and are performed at rallies, cultural centres, and street gatherings.

What is spoken word poetry? Spoken word poetry is poetry that is written on a page but performed for an audience. Because it is performed, this poetry tends to demonstrate a heavy use of rhythm, improvisation, free association, rhymes, rich poetic phrases, word play and slang. It is more aggressive and “in your face” than more traditional forms of poetry.

What should I keep in mind when writing a spoken word piece?  Use of Concrete Language – Use words and phrases that project on the minds of the listeners vivid images, sounds, actions and other sensations. If your piece is rich with imagery, your listeners will see, smell and taste what you’re telling them.  Repetition – Repetition is a simple but powerful poetic device. Sometimes just the repetition of a key phrase or image, with extensions of image and thought for each repetition, can help a writer generate exciting poems.  Rhyme – Rhyming can enrich your poems and performance if used with skill, surprise and moderation.  Attitude – “No attitude, no poem!” Feelings and opinions are the “stuff” poetry is made of – Each poet has a unique perspective and view of the world that no one else has. It is important that a spoken word poem embodies the courage necessary to share one’s self with the rest of the world.  Persona – Spoken word poetry allows you to be anyone you want to be. You can write a poem in the “voice” of someone or something other than yourself or with a personality trait that is different from your own.  Performance – Remember, spoken word poems are written to be performed. After your poem is written, practice performing the poem with the elements of good stage presence in mind…  Posture – Stand up straight, shoulders back, chin up, head held high. If you approach the stage with your head hung low and your shoulders slumped, the audience won’t be interested in listening to you.  Eye Contact – Don’t stare at the floor, or hide behind whatever it is that your reading from whether it’s a book or a piece of paper. From time to time, look into the eyes of the different people in the audience to hold their attention.  Projection – Speak loudly and clearly so that your voice can be heard from a distance.  Enunciation – Don’t mumble. Speak clearly and distinctly so that the audience can understand what you are saying.  Facial Expressions – Smile if you’re reading something happy. Don’t smile if you are reading something serious. Use the appropriate facial expressions for the various emotions expressed in the poem.  Gestures – Use hand motions and body movements to emphasize different elements of your performance. However, don’t rock back and forth or wave your hands about carelessly or the audience will become distracted.  Memorization – Committing a poem to memory is a wonderful exercise. If you have a poem memorized you can focus more on the performance. If you are really in touch with the meaning and the emotional content of your poem, even if you forget a word or a line you can keep going. Learning by heart allows you to incorporate improvisation (freestyle) into your poem which is one of the most important elements of spoken word poetry.

Standards in Spoken Word By Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre and Brother Dash

1. Be True To You! The best poets speak from an authentic experience or perspective. Don’t try to speak on something that you know nothing about or can’t really relate to. It will come across as being unauthentic at best and pretentious and self-serving at worst. Poetry is something you feel. It is organic to your soul and before you can have an impact on others it must be true to you first. The audience is asking the question “How does what you say relate to my life?” How are you empowering me or shining a light on society? How are you celebrating beauty or art? How are you reminding me of our humanity or our inhumanity to others? Your poetry should be something of value or at the very least not something of detriment.

2. Substance over style. For me, spoken-word is more than pretty art—it’s an opportunity to say something to an audience. Too many poets waste that opportunity. I’m not saying that every poem has to be a grand political manifesto, but the best spoken-word is powerful and ultimately transformative because of what it says. Of course, form brings content to life, and good writing will give a poem’s message longer legs, but at the end of the day, pretty words with no meaningful foundation ring hollow.

3. Challenge the audience. The best art doesn’t tell people what they want to hear—it pushes them out of their comfort zones. It doesn’t repeat the slogans and platitudes that the audience already believes in; it helps them to see things in a new way. At the same time, remember point #1. A poem that is cliché for one audience might be revelatory for another.

4. Do not manipulate your audience; do not exploit your subject. A poem can be sad, a poem can be angry and a poem can deal with heavy subjects. But if there isn’t some kind of deeper point to that raw energy, you run the risk of simply toying with people’s emotions in order to get them to cheer for you. So if a poem is going to be about dead babies or domestic violence or genocide or whatever, it damn well better have a message that goes beyond “wow war is sad” or “murder isn’t good.” I like calls to action, poems that toy with the relationship between personal and political.

5. Being original and memorable is more important than being “good.” What new perspective do you have? From what new angle can you attack a given target? How are you going to make your work stand out? Remember, any idiot can write good poetry. Your challenge is not to “write well;” it is to slap your audience in the face with something meaningful, powerful and memorable. Again, good writing can help you do that, but it should never be your only goal.

7. Be specific. A poet is like an archaeologist. You don’t walk for miles with a metal detector, picking up bottle caps; you find a little three-foot by three-foot space and dig as deep as you can. Less-effective poets often want to write a single poem that addresses everything wrong with the world—“war is bad, racism is bad, we should save the environment,” etc.—the result is a watered-down laundry list of social ills that doesn’t really say anything. Turn abstract concepts into concrete images. Don’t write about “war,” write about a specific person in a specific war dealing with a specific problem. Don’t write about “love,” tell a detailed story about a specific moment in your life when you felt loved.

9. Perform to the audience, not at the audience. This is a subtle point, but one that’s been very important for my growth as an artist. A good spoken-word poet doesn’t beat the audience over their heads with words and ideas; instead, he or she attempts to create a real connection between speaker and listener. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how this is done, but good poets use everything—not just words and voice, the posture, body language, eye contact, use of negative space and more. It’s about manipulating the energy that exists in a room to draw the listener into the piece.

10. Poetry—especially spoken-word—is about communication. At the end of the day, you’re not up on stage to celebrate how brilliant you are; you’re up there to open up lanes of communication, to say something that might get someone else to think or feel something, to build community—artistically, intellectually and physically. Make it count.

11. Write without editing. Write fast or slow, but don’t prejudge your ideas. Write from your own honest observations, experiences and thoughts. The point is to get something down on paper to edit and polish later. You don’t even have to write your thoughts in order; random lines or verses can be organized for coherence at the editing stage.

12. Rewrite, edit and re-edit your work. Play with the flow and beat of the lines, use lots of concrete images (nouns and adjectives) and active verbs, and choose precise words or phrases to make your meaning clear. Try to make the poem about one specific thing. Set it aside for a day or two and go back to it with fresh eyes.

13. Read your poem out loud. After all, it is “spoken” word! Know how the words feel in your mouth and sound in your ears. Commit them to memory. You’ll be performing at some point, so be critical of the poem’s strong and weak elements. Record your voice and listen to it in order to make changes or improvements. Practice in a mirror. Look at how you move (or don’t move). Think of what you do as a craft and become a craftswoman or craftsman.

14. Read to a trusted friend or partner. Once you are satisfied your poem is the best it can be, share it with someone whose opinion you trust. Ask for honest feedback on improving both the poem and your performance. Be receptive to suggestions, but remember it is your decision whether or not to make any changes.

15. Slow Down! You can improve your performance by a factor of 10 by simply speaking slower. It’s not a race. Poetry audiences need to understand what you are saying. So take your time and pause appropriately. There’s nothing like a strategically placed pause that allows the thought just completed to marinate a bit. Most performance poets spit out their words too quickly and you lose people when you do that or cause them to WORK TOO HARD to keep up with the NASCAR driver of Spoken Word.

16. Perform, Perform, Perform! This is performance poetry. Spoken Word by its nature is part theatrical performance and part monologue. If people wanted someone to just read poetry from a book with no emotion…no “oomph” they could do it themselves. Spoken Word is PERFORMANCE poetry. That doesn’t mean you turn into an actor or rapper or singer or comedian though all of those elements may appear in your work. It means that you have an understanding that you are bringing the words and feelings to life. But keep in mind the earlier points of being “true to you” so that your performance doesn’t come off as a drama class exercise.

17. Memorize Your Stuff. The single greatest technical change I made as a poet was to memorize my stuff. It was so freeing! And being that I incorporate a great deal of movement when I perform it was especially beneficial for me to memorize my poetry. I was no longer encumbered by having to hold a piece of paper or stand in front of a podium. But even for people who are less physical on stage memorizing your poetry does several things that benefit you:  You can see your audience and therefore connect with them.  Connecting with your audience through eye contact allows them to see your emotion better and relate to you.  The paper and the mic stand create an unwanted barrier between you and the audience.  It removes a “crutch”. You don’t have that paper to fall back on and makes you a stronger poet.  There are only a handful of poets that I have seen who use paper and it doesn’t hurt their performance in the least and all of these are older poets with a great deal of life experience oozing from them that makes you forget the paper. Most of you reading this are under 40 so chuck the paper!

Javon Johnson - Cuz He's Black http://thisis2020.com/poetry-cuz-hes-black/

"cuz he's black & poor he's disappeared the name waz lost" -Ntozake Shange

So I'm driving down the street with my 4-year-old nephew. He, knocking back a juice box, me, a Snapple, today y'all we are doing manly shit. I love watching the way his mind works. He asks a million questions. Uncle, why is the sky blue? Uncle, how do cars go? Uncle, why don't dogs talk? Uncle, uncle, uncle, he asks, uncle, uncle, uncle, he asks uncle uncle uncle as if his voice box is a warped record. I try my best to answer every question, I do. I say it's because the way the sun lights up the outer space. It's because engines make the wheels go. It's because their minds aren't quite like ours. I say Yes. No. No. Yes. No. Yes. No. I don't know. Who knows? Maybe. We laugh. He smiles at me, looks out the window, spots a cop car, drops his seat and says, "Oh man, Uncle, 5-0, we gotta hide." I'll be honest. I'm not happy with the way we raise our Black boys. Don't like the fact that he learned to hide from the cops before he knew how to read. Angrier that his survival depends more on his ability to deal with the "authorities" than it does his own literacy. "Get up," I yell at him. "In this car, in this family, we are not afraid of the law." I wonder if he can hear the uncertainty in my voice. Is today the day he learns that uncle is willing to lie to him, that I am more human than hero? We both know the truth is far more complex than do not hide. We both know too many Black boys who disappeared. Names lost. Know too many Trayvon Martins Oscar Grants and Abner Louimas, know too many Sean Bells, and Amadou Diallos Know too well that we are the hard-boiled sons of Emmett Till. Still, we both know it's not about whether or not the shooter is racist, it's about how poor Black boys are treated as problems well before we are treated as people. Black boys in this country cannot afford to play cops and robbers if we're always considered the latter, don't have the luxury of playing war when we're already in one. Where I'm from, seeing cop cars drive down the street feels a lot like low-flying planes in New York City. Where I'm from, routine traffic stops are more like mine fields, any wrong move could very well mean your life. And how do I look my nephew in his apple face and tell him to be strong when we both know black boys are murdered every day, simply for standing up for themselves? I take him by the hand, I say be strong. I say be smart. Be kind, and polite. Know your laws. Be aware of how quickly your hands move to pocket for wallet or ID, be more aware of how quickly the officer's hand moves to holster, for gun. Be Black. Be a boy and have fun, because this world will force you to become a man much quicker than you need to. "Uncle," he asks, "what happens if the cop is really mean?" And, it scares me to know that he, like so many Black boys, is getting ready for a war I can't prepare him for.

Lily Myers - Shrinking Women http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQucWXWXp3k

Across from me at the kitchen table, my mother smiles over red wine that she drinks out of a measuring glass. She says she doesn’t deprive herself, but I’ve learned to find nuance in every movement of her fork. In every crinkle in her brow as she offers me the uneaten pieces on her plate. I’ve realized she only eats dinner when I suggest it. I wonder what she does when I’m not there to do so.

Maybe this is why my house feels bigger each time I return; it’s proportional. As she shrinks the space around her seems increasingly vast. She wanes while my father waxes. His stomach has grown round with wine, late nights, oysters, poetry. A new girlfriend who was overweight as a teenager, but my dad reports that now she’s “crazy about fruit.”

It was the same with his parents; as my grandmother became frail and angular her husband swelled to red round cheeks, round stomach and I wonder if my lineage is one of women shrinking making space for the entrance of men into their lives not knowing how to fill it back up once they leave.

I have been taught accommodation. My brother never thinks before he speaks. I have been taught to filter. “How can anyone have a relationship to food?” He asks, laughing, as I eat the black bean soup I chose for its lack of carbs. I want to tell say: we come from difference, Jonas, you have been taught to grow out I have been taught to grow in you learned from our father how to emit, how to produce, to roll each thought off your tongue with confidence, you used to lose your voice every other week from shouting so much I learned to absorb I took lessons from our mother in creating space around myself I learned to read the knots in her forehead while the guys went out for oysters and I never meant to replicate her, but spend enough time sitting across from someone and you pick up their habits that’s why women in my family have been shrinking for decades. We all learned it from each other, the way each generation taught the next how to knit weaving silence in between the threads which I can still feel as I walk through this ever-growing house, skin itching, picking up all the habits my mother has unwittingly dropped like bits of crumpled paper from her pocket on her countless trips from bedroom to kitchen to bedroom again, Nights I hear her creep down to eat plain yogurt in the dark, a fugitive stealing calories to which she does not feel entitled. Deciding how many bites is too many How much space she deserves to occupy.

Watching the struggle I either mimic or hate her, And I don’t want to do either anymore but the burden of this house has followed me across the country I asked five questions in genetics class today and all of them started with the word “sorry”. I don’t know the requirements for the sociology major because I spent the entire meeting deciding whether or not I could have another piece of pizza a circular obsession I never wanted but inheritance is accidental still staring at me with wine-stained lips from across the kitchen table.

Shane Koyczan - To This Day http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOirdcpYKRw

To This Day When I was a kid I used to think that pork chops and karate chops were the same thing I thought they were both pork chops and because my grandmother thought it was cute and because they were my favourite she let me keep doing it not really a big deal one day before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees I fell out of a tree and bruised the right side of my body I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it because I was afraid I’d get in trouble for playing somewhere that I shouldn’t have been a few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the principal’s office from there I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who asked me all kinds of questions about my life at home

I saw no reason to lie as far as I was concerned life was pretty good I told her “whenever I’m sad my grandmother gives me karate chops” this led to a full scale investigation and I was removed from the house for three days until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises news of this silly little story quickly spread through the school and I earned my first nickname pork chop to this day I hate pork chops

I’m not the only kid who grew up this way surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones as if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called and we got called them all so we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us that we’d be lonely forever that we’d never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their tool shed so broken heart strings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away that there’s no way for it to metastasize it does she was eight years old our first day of grade three when she got called ugly we both got moved to the back of the class so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls but the school halls were a battleground where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day we used to stay inside for recess because outside was worse outside we’d have to rehearse running away or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there in grade five they taped a sign to her desk that read beware of dog to this day despite a loving husband she doesn’t think she’s beautiful because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half of her face kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase but couldn’t quite get the job done and they’ll never understand that she’s raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word mom because they see her heart before they see her skin that she’s only ever always been amazing he was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree adopted but not because his parents opted for a different destiny he was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone and two parts tragedy started therapy in 8th grade had a personality made up of tests and pills lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs four fifths suicidal a tidal wave of anti depressants and an adolescence of being called popper one part because of the pills and ninety nine parts because of the cruelty he tried to kill himself in grade ten when a kid who still had his mom and dad had the audacity to tell him “get over it” as if depression is something that can be remedied by any of the contents found in a first aid kit to this day he is a stick on TNT lit from both ends could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends in the moments before it’s about to fall and despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration he remains a conversation piece between people who can’t understand sometimes becoming drug free has less to do with addiction and more to do with sanity we weren’t the only kids who grew up this way to this day kids are still being called names the classics were hey stupid hey spaz seems like each school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year and if a kid breaks in a school and no one around chooses to hear do they make a sound? are they just the background noise of a soundtrack stuck on repeat when people say things like kids can be cruel? every school was a big top circus tent and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers from clowns to carnies all of these were miles ahead of who we were we were freaks lobster claw boys and bearded ladies - oddities juggling depression and loneliness playing solitaire spin the bottle trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal but at night while the others slept we kept walking the tightrope it was practice and yeah - some of us fell but I want to tell them that all of this shit is just debris leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be and if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself get a better mirror look a little closer stare a little longer because there’s something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit you built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself you signed it “they were wrong” because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a clique maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball or everything maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to show and tell but never told because how can you hold your ground if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it you have to believe that they were wrong they have to be wrong why else would we still be here? we grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them we stem from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called we are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway and if in some way we are don’t worry we only got out to walk and get gas we are graduating members from the class of fuck off we made it not the faded echoes of voices crying out names will never hurt me of course they did but our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to do with pain Rachel Rostad - To JK Rowling, from Cho Chang http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFPWwx96Kew

When you put me in your books, millions of Asian girls across America rejoiced! Finally, a potential Halloween costume that wasn't a geisha or Mulan! What’s not to love about me? I’m everyone’s favorite character! I totally get to fight tons of Death Eaters and have a great sense of humor and am full of complex emotions!

Oh wait. That’s the version of Harry Potter where I’m not fucking worthless.

First of all, you put me in Ravenclaw. Of course the only Asian at Hogwarts would be in the nerdy house. Too bad there wasn't a house that specialized in computers and math and karate, huh?

I know, you thought you were being tolerant. Between me, Dean, and the Indian twins, Hogwarts has like...five brown people? It doesn't matter we’re all minor characters. Nah, you’re not racist! Just like how you’re not homophobic, because Dumbledore’s totally gay! Of course it’s never said in the books, but man. Hasn't society come so far? Now gays don’t just have to be closeted in real life—they can even be closeted fictionally!

Ms. Rowling. Let’s talk about my name. Cho. Chang. Cho and Chang are both last names. They are both Korean last names. I am supposed to be Chinese. Me being named “Cho Chang” is like a Frenchman being named “Garcia Sanchez.”

So thank you. Thank you for giving me no heritage. Thank you for giving me a name as generic as a ninja costume. As chopstick hair ornaments. Ms. Rowling, I know you’re just the latest participant in a long tradition of turning Asian women into a tragic fetish. Madame Butterfly. Japanese woman falls in love with a white soldier, is abandoned, kills herself. Miss Saigon. Vietnamese woman falls in love with a white soldier, is abandoned, kills herself. Memoirs Of A Geisha. Lucy Liu in leather. Schoolgirl porn. So let me cry over boys more than I speak. Let me fulfill your diversity quota. Just one more brown girl mourning her white hero.

No wonder Harry Potter’s got yellow fever. We giggle behind small hands and “no speak Engrish.” What else could a man see in me? What else could I be but what you made me? Subordinate. Submissive. Subplot.

Go ahead. Tell me I’m overreacting. Ignore the fact that your books have sold 400 million copies worldwide. I am plastered across movie screens, a bestselling caricature.

Last summer, I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows. - He had his father’s blue eyes. He’d press his wrist against mine and say he was too pale. That my skin was so much more beautiful. To him, I was Pacific sunset, almond milk, a porcelain cup. When he left me, I told myself I should have seen it coming. I wasn't sure I was sad but I cried anyway. Girls who look like me are supposed to cry over boys who look like him. I’d seen all the movies and read all the books. We were just following the plot.

Sarah Kay – If I should have a daughter http://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_kay_if_i_should_have_a_daughter.html

If I should have a daughter, instead of “Mom,” she’s going to call me, “Point B.” Because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me.

And I’m going to paint the solar systems on the backs of her hands, so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.” And she’s going to learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.

There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

“And baby,” I’ll tell her, “Don’t keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick. I’ve done it a million times. You’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him.” But I know she will anyway, so instead, I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rainboots nearby. Because there’s no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks that chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rainboots are for. Because rain will wash away everything if you let it.

I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat. To look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind. Because that’s the way my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this,” my mama said. When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly, and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain, and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment, and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say, “Thank you.” Because there’s nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shore line, no matter how many times it’s sent away.

You will put the “wind” in “winsome… lose some.” You will put the “star” in “starting over… and over…” And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

“Baby,” I’ll tell her, “Remember, your mama is a worrier, and your papa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more. Remember that good things come in threes, and so do bad things, and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong. But don’t you EVER apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small, but don’t ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.”

Sarah Kay - Private Parts

The first love of my life never saw me naked - there was always a parent coming home in half an hour - always a little brother in the next room. Always too much body and not enough time for me to show it.

Instead, I gave him my shoulder, my elbow, the bend of my knee - I lent him my corners, my edges, the parts of me I could afford to offer - the parts I had long since given up trying to hide. He never asked for more.

He gave me back his eyelashes, the back of his neck, his palms - we held each piece we were given like it was a nectarine that could bruise if we weren’t careful.

We collected them like we were trying to build an orchid.

And the spaces that he never saw, the ones my parents half labeled “private parts” when I was still small enough to fit all of myself and my worries inside a bathtub - I made up for that by handing over all the private parts of me.

There was no secret I didn’t tell him, there was no moment I didn’t share - and we didn’t grow up, we grew in, like ivy wrapping, moulding each other into perfect yings and yangs.

We kissed with mouths open, breathing his exhale into my inhale - we could have survived underwater or outer space.

Breathing only of the breathe we traded, we spelled love, g-i-v-e, I never wanted to hide my body from him - if I could have I would have given it all away with the rest of me - I did not know it was possible.

To save some thing for myself.

Some nights I wake up knowing he is anxious, he is across the world in another woman’s arms - the years have spread us like dandelion seeds - sanding down the edges of our jigsaw parts that used to only fit each other.

He drinks from the pitcher on the night stand, checks the digital clock, it is 5am - he tosses in sheets and tries to settle, I wait for him to sleep.

Before tucking myself into elbows and knees reach for things I have long since given up.

Dylan Garity - Friend Zone http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_xHp5iTtWRc

The first time I ever danced with a girl she leaned in close and asked me: why are your arms so stiff? Dancing with you is like dancing with a mannequin, if they made mannequins super bony and with very sweaty palms. And to be fair, my palms were sweaty and simultaneously ice cold. I was, and continue to be, a miracle of physics. Who knew that adult hands could be supported by wrists that a five-year-old or baby duck could easily snap.

This may be part of why I spent my teenage years absolutely failing with women. In middle school, I would ask girls who I liked how much they weighed to see if I might weigh more. Numbers made me excited! I loved math! I used to think this meant everyone else loved math, too!

In high school, I became intimate -- with the friend zone. With one girl, I spent so many years in the friend zone I didn't even realize I was in it. She was from Sweden. so I guess it was literally Stockholm syndrome. I would come over to her house and help her with calculus and I would comfort her and tell her how she was beautiful or how her boyfriend was a dick or how integrals are related to derivatives. Eventually, I spent so much time in the friend zone that I grew to think of it as some kind of magical home away from home, some lush forest filled with unicorns and elves and puppies none of whom were getting laid.

I was on an adventure! Constantly uncovering new questions about this mystical place: Are you in the friend zone if they're sleeping with other people and NOT telling you about it? Are you in the friend zone if they tell you they could totally see marrying you in fifteen years? Why would you marry me in fifteen years, if in fifteen years I'll still be a virgin because you never slept with me?

A few months after my first girlfriend and I broke up, I heard she lost her virginity to the next guy she dated. At the time, I thought of this as a betrayal, not her choice. As if she owed me something.

A newspaper column once defined the friend zone as follows: She discusses her love life with him and has the "audacity" to ask his advice on it. He performs favors for her. He does everything a boyfriend would do -- but without the benefits." as if the only reason to be a good friend or a decent fucking human is if you get something in exchange.

The problem is, when I started thinking of myself as a savior, I ended up thinking of myself as a savior with a salary. You put in your hours as a nice guy and sex is just a living wage but sex is not a transaction. Sex is not a handshake to seal some deal. That girl did not owe me anything.

Last year, I heard that her home was broken into in a neighborhood known for sexual assaults.

Nothing happened to her.

We all know the statistics. Your rapist is more likely to be someone you know. The boogie man, the stranger in the alley, is real, but not as real as we are. We all know the statistics. but we don't know how to accept how easily we become part of the problem.

You cannot kill a monster until you are willing to see it in the mirror. Until you recognize its shape in your own skin. Sarah Jones - Your Revolution http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRgIGMwZd2o Inspired by Gil Scott-Heron’s “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” your revolution will not happen between these thighs your revolution will not happen between these thighs the real revolution ain’t about booty size the Versaces you buys or the Lexus you drives and though we’ve lost Biggie Smalls your Notorious revolution will never allow you to lace no lyrical douche in my bush your revolution will not be you killing me softly with Fugees your revolution won’t knock me up and produce li’l future MCs because that revolution will not happen between these thighs your revolution will not find me in the backseat of Jeep with LL hard as hell doin’ it & doin’ it & doin’ it well your revolution will not be you smackin’ it up, flippin’ it, or rubbin’ it down nor will it take you downtown or humpin’ around because that revolution will not happen between these thighs your revolution will not have me singing ain’t no nigger like the one I got your revolution will not be you sending me for no VD shot your revolution will not involve me feeling your nature rise or helping you fantasize because that revolution will not happen between these thighs and no, my Jamaican brother, your revolution will not make me feel boombastic and really fantastic have you groping in the dark for that rubber wrapped in plastic your revolution will not be me tossing my weave making believe I’m some caviar-eating, ghetto mafia clown or me givin’ up my behind just so I can get signed have someone else write my rhymes? I’m Sarah Jones, not Foxy Brown your revolution makes me wonder, where could we go if we could drop the empty pursuit of props and the ego revolt back to our Roots, use a little Common sense on a Quest to make love De La Soul, no pretense … but your revolution will not be you flexing your sex and status to express what you “feel” your revolution will not happen between these thighs will not happen between these thighs will not be you shaking and me faking between these thighs because the revolution, when it finally comes, is gon’ be real

Taylor Mali - Totally like whatever, you know? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mksQ-8IG1WQ

In case you hadn’t noticed, it has somehow become uncool to sound like you know what you’re talking about? Or believe strongly in what you’re saying? Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)’s have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences? Even when those sentences aren’t, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences—so-­‐called because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true, okay, as opposed to other things are, like, totally, you know, not— have been infected by a totally hip and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know? Like, don’t think I’m uncool just because I’ve noticed this; this is just like the word on the street, you know? It’s like what I’ve heard? I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay? I’m just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction? Where are the limbs out on which we once walked? Have they been, like, chopped down with the rest of the rain forest? Or do we have, like, nothing to say? Has society become so, like, totally . . . I mean absolutely . . . You know? That we’ve just gotten to the point where it’s just, like . . . whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation . . . ness is just a clever sort of . . . thing to disguise the fact that we’ve become the most aggressively inarticulate generation to come along since . . . you know, a long, long time ago! I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you, I challenge you: To speak with conviction.

To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks the determination with which you believe it. Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker, it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY. You have to speak with it, too. Taylor Mali - What Teachers Make http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&frm=1&source=video&cd=5&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CEoQtwIwBA &url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D3xkk71rhQpo&ei=jJkjU7bCEIqqkgW_toBg&usg=AFQjCNGa rMfqKvub5rpsA1IkLJf_B90d4A&bvm=bv.62922401,d.dGI

He says the problem with teachers is What’s a kid going to learn from someone who decided his best option in life was to become a teacher? He reminds the other dinner guests that it’s true what they say about teachers: Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach. I decide to bite my tongue instead of his and resist the temptation to remind the dinner guests that it’s also true what they say about lawyers. Because we’re eating, after all, and this is polite conversation.

I mean, you’re a teacher, Taylor. Be honest. What do you make?

And I wish he hadn’t done that— asked me to be honest— because, you see, I have this policy about honesty and ass-­‐kicking: if you ask for it, then I have to let you have it. You want to know what I make? I make kids work harder than they ever thought they could. I can make a C+ feel like a Congressional Medal of Honor and an A-­‐ feel like a slap in the face. How dare you waste my time with anything less than your very best. I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall in absolute silence. No, you may not work in groups. No, you may not ask a question. Why won’t I let you go to the bathroom? Because you’re bored. And you don’t really have to go to the bathroom, do you? I make parents tremble in fear when I call home: Hi. This is Mr. Mali. I hope I haven’t called at a bad time, I just wanted to talk to you about something your son said today. To the biggest bully in the grade, he said, “Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don’t you? It’s no big deal.” And that was noblest act of courage I have ever seen. I make parents see their children for who they are and what they can be. You want to know what I make? I make kids wonder, I make them question. I make them criticize. I make them apologize and mean it. I make them write. I make them read, read, read. I make them spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful over and over and over again until they will never misspell either one of those words again. I make them show all their work in math and hide it on their final drafts in English. I make them understand that if you’ve got this, then you follow this, and if someone ever tries to judge you by what you make, you give them this.

Here, let me break it down for you, so you know what I say is true: Teachers make a goddamn difference! Now what about you?

Georgia Me - Full Figure Potential (A fat girl's blues) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOrI5B0rGZI

Out of money lookin’ for a snack Then I see Little Debbie’s face on a pack Smilin’, enticin’ me, intivin’ me for a taste With haste I rush to the destruction of my waist As the sugar sets in so does the disgust I feel Wishing I had the power of will or someone would kill This gluttonous monster which rules my eyes Which is bigger than me stomach so we fill my belly with pies and cakes Bi-Products, additives and other shit It’s hard for me to quit, sweets are a quick hit My diet includes fried everything, all kinds of pork People askin if I’ve been visited by the stork Seem like a sin to be fat without a medical condition So it leaves a girl fishin’ for an excuse To stop the abuse, I endure everyday, in every way Through ridicule and personal shame Unwanted attention and fame from the group of young men That holler “BIG DRAWLS!” as I pass by I start to cry. The wind dries my eye. But nothing can heal the scar left on my self-esteem Prayin’ that this ordeal is a dream, better yet a nightmare For it’s too hard for me to bear, this constant scare As my reality, a complete disregard for humanity Not seen as humane, more like insane or having no self-control “She can’t even pass up a jelly roll” Not seen as beautiful, look at the gut, cellulite thighs, outta shape butt Not seen as strong, she can’t last long she’ll be down before the end of the song My personal demons are hard by themselves, comparisons to pigs, elephants and whales. You might look at me and see lazy and weak, Giving no second thought, that before you an angel may speak You can’t see my beauty besides the pretty face. You don’t see the warmth of my heart which provides a safe place Or a home where not only love roams For myself and others where the light has not been shown See I realize I’m more than just a body I have a spirit and mind Which through divine knowledge told me to love who I am And decline those devils who try to steal my joy, I’m conquerin my folds like Helen of Troy And with this same spirit I’ll make the world hear it Love who you are, be the best you can be You spirit will soar, the whole world will see your strength Your beauty and your heart The ignorance of other won’t pierce like a dart Let those who worship aesthetics live a pathetic life No substance, no feelings, self-inflicted strife If they can’t see the beauty of my soul I know I’m beautiful in the eyes that God’s holds Now, see at times I know I’ll get knocked down Or even doubt my ability But I’ll look in the mirror and say I’m wonderful with humility Now we’re supposed to respect everyone With different choices beliefs and hues but who gives a damn about a fat girl’s blues

George Watsky – V for Virgin http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EhPikRQRX5o

This is for those among us who got enough play through 12th grade to carry in an upside down teaspoon For every kid who could have counted their high school hookups on two hands tied behind their back For every kid the collective romantic prowess of Steve Urkel, Al Gore, Richard Simmons, Bill Gates and Screech from Saved by the Bell This is the anthem for those among us who got none in our formative years And this poem is for every high school Virgin who wouldn't have had it any other way You don't know the possibilities of a weekend until you'v cracked a six pack of Juice Squeeze with your boys, bumped B.I.G's Big Poppa and watched an entire Star Trek: The next generation marathon For me, Virgin was working And I can see why Trekkies greet each other by throwing up the letter V Live long and prosper It's time to reclaim the high school virgin as sexy I am talking damn that's some sexy peach fuzz sexy Picked last for kickball sexy He's so sexy his homework, the laundry and the dishes do themselves around him sexy I am talking cowlick, house arrest, sweatervest sexy bedrest, Led Zep air guitar sexy Pen Pal, study group, buddy system, teddy bear hand-me-downs sweatpants Corduroy sexy And yes, I am also talking check out the curves on that parabola sexy But mostly this is regular kid sexy Brown paper bag, unpopular for the right reasons, what a nice guy sexy Spends Fridays doing nothing with his friends sexy Screw your football team sexy I am talking Big Fat V on my lettermans jacket Cause I am varsity sexy So hold your head high in the struggle have pride in the struggle I can't rock your world, but damn I can cuddle Girl I wanna lay you down by the fire with a bowl of popcorn and watch Fresh Prince reruns This is for every kid who couldn't get it, didn't want to get it, or had it and gave it back So throw your Vs in the ayer if you're a true player And wave em side to side like you just don't cayer And for everyone here who was ever a virgin And for everyone here who's ever loved themself for who they are Keep your arm towards the sky And understand that at least one dorky white boy from the 415 knows it's the sexiest arm he's seen in his entire sexy life Suli - “I WILL NOT LET AN EXAM RESULT DECIDE MY FATE” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-eVF_G_p-Y

Right now, there is a kid finishing parents evening in a heated discussion with his mother, Saying why does he have subject subjects he will never ever use in his life… And she will look at him blank eyed, stifle a sigh, think for a second, And then lie. She will say something along the lines of, “You to get a good job you need a good degree and these subjects help you get a degree. We never had this opportunity when I was younger” And he will reply, “but you were young a long time ago weren't you mum?”

And she won't respond, although what he implies makes perfect sense; that society’s needs would have changed since she was 16. But she will ignore this, grip his hand more sternly, and drag him to the car.

But what she does know is that She didn't ignore him to shut up… She didn't lie because they are just returning him from parents evening and an argument in the hallway would look bad on her resume… She won't lie because she had just spent the last hour convincing a stern face teacher that she ensure that her child studies more at home…

No. She will lie simply because she was never taught better herself. Although, all her adult life, she has never used or applied Pythagoras’ Theorem or pathetic fallacy, And still doesn't know the value of x. She will rely on society to tell her child, who has one of the sharpest minds in the school, he is “unfocused, hyperactive, easily distracted, and wayward.”

Students!!! How many equations, subjects, dates did you cram into your head weeks before an exam never to use again?!

How many times have you remembered something 5 minutes after the teacher has said, “stop writing”… only to receive your results a month later to discover you were only 1 mark short of the top grade? So, remembering it 5 minutes earlier would have instantly made you more qualified for a particular job? On an application form it would.

We all have different ability, thought processes, experiences, and genes. So, why is a class full of individuals tested by the same means?

That means that Cherrelle thinks she's dumb Because she couldn't do a couple sums. And if this issue is not addressed properly, It because a self fulfilling prophecy.

Then every school has the nerve to have policy on “equality” Huh… the irony. Exams are society’s methods of telling what you’re worth. Society can't tell you what you are. Because this is the same society that tells you abortion is wrong, but then looks down on you for being a teenage parent, Sells products to promote natural hair, looks, and smooth complexion But the model on the box, is half PhotoShopped, has fake lashes and hair extensions. Governments that preach peace… But endorse wars.

If you believe so much in the importance of higher learning and further education, Why then increase the tuition fees every year? I believed Miss Jefferson when she took me into the office said my exams would be imperative to my success. Then I took Jefferson out of the equation, learnt to think for myself, and I realized We were always taught to follow when misled. Huh… the irony.

Test us with tests, But the finals are never final Because they never prepare us for the biggest test (which is survival). What I suggest is fairly outlandish… I don't except everyone to understand this --Except the kids that know what it feels like to be Worth no more than that D or that A That you receive on results day… The ones whose best stories Where never good enough for your English teacher. Because apparently you: “missed key literal techniques, did not follow the class plan, and the language was too formal” for him to understand. But then; he'd reference Hamlet, Macbeth And you would fight the urge to express your contempt, by partially clenching your fist with only your medius finger left protruding in the middle on your hand, And asking if she was aware that Shakespeare was known as the innovator of slang. Or the kid at the back of the class who thinks “why am I studying something that doesn't fuel my drive?” But when confronted with a math problem his eyes come alive!! So this one is for my generation The one’s that found what they were looking for on Google Followed their dreams on Twitter Pictured their future on Instagram And accepted destiny on Facebook.

This one’s for my "failures" and "dropouts," for my unemployed graduates, My shop assistants, cleaners, and cashiers with bigger dreams, My self-employed and entrepreneurs, My world changers and dream chasers.

Because the purpose of "Why I hate school, but love education" was not to initiate A world wide debate but rather to let them know that weather 72 or 88 44 or 68 We will not let an exam results decide our fate. Peace.

Neil Hilborn - OCD http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-s http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vi09ALwxIig

The first time I saw her… Everything in my head went quiet.

All the ticks, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.

When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.

Even in bed, I’m thinking: Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes. Did I lock the doors? Yes. Did I wash my hands? Yes.

But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips.. Or the eyelash on her cheek— the eyelash on her cheek— the eyelash on her cheek.

I knew I had to talk to her.

I asked her out six times in thirty seconds. She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.

On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or talking to her.. But she loved it.

She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times at different times of the day. She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.

When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely lock the door eighteen times.

I’d always watch her mouth when she talked— when she talked— when she talked— when she talked; when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.

At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off. She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.

But then.. She said I was taking up too much of her time. That I couldn’t kiss her goodbye so much because I was making her late for work..

When she said she loved me, her mouth was a straight line.. When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking.. And last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.

She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but.. How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touch her?

Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t. I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.

Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin. I see myself crushed my an endless succession of cars.. And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.

I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel.. How she turns shower knobs like she opening a safe.

How she blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out candles— blows out—….

Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.

I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once—he doesn’t care if it’s perfect! I want her back so bad.. I leave the door unlocked. I leave the lights on.

Katie Makkai - Pretty http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6wJl37N9C0

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother.

“How could this happen? You'll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That's why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!

“Don't worry. We'll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy.

But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved. Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”

All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”

And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.

This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.

About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.

“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.” Guante – Ten Responses to the phrase “Man Up” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFoBaTkPgco

1. Fuck you.

2. If you want to question my masculinity, like a schoolyard circle of curses, like a swordfight with lightsaber erections, save your breath. Because contrary to what you may believe, not every problem can be solved by “growing a pair.” You can’t arm-wrestle your way out of chemical depression. The CEO of the company that just laid you off does not care how much you bench. And I promise, there is no lite beer in the universe full-bodied enough to make you love yourself.

3. Man up? Oh that’s that new superhero, right? Mild-mannered supplement salesman Mark Manstrong says the magic words “MAN UP,” and then transforms into THE FIVE O’CLOCK SHADOW, the massively-muscled, deep-voiced, leather- duster-wearing super-man who defends the world from, I don’t know, feelings.

4. Of course. Why fight to remove our chains, when we can simply compare their lengths? Why step outside the box, when the box has these bad-ass flame decals on it? We men are cigarettes: dangerous, and poisonous, and stupid.

5. You ever notice how nobody ever says “woman up?” They just imply it. Because women and the women's movement figured out a long time ago that being directly ordered around by commercials, magazines and music is dehumanizing. When will men figure that out?

6. The phrase “Man Up” suggests that competence and perseverance are uniquely masculine traits. That women—not to mention any man who doesn’t eat steak, drive a pickup truck, have lots of sex with women—are nothing more than background characters, comic relief, props. More than anything, though, it suggests that to be yourself—whether you, wear skinny jeans, listen to Lady Gaga, rock a little eyeliner, drink some other brand of light beer, or write poetry—will cost you.

7. How many boys have to kill themselves before this country acknowledges the problem? How many women have to be assaulted? How many trans people have to be murdered? We teach boys how to wear the skin of a man, but we also teach them how to raise that skin like a flag and draw blood for it.

8. Boy babies get blue socks. Girl babies get pink socks. What about purple? What about orange, yellow, chartreuse, cerulean, black, tie-dyed, buffalo plaid, rainbow…

9. I want to be free, to express myself. Man up. I want to have meaningful, emotional relationships with my brothers. Man up. I want to be weak sometimes. Man up. I want to be strong in a way that isn’t about physical power or dominance. Man up. I want to talk to my son about something other than sports. Man up. I want to be who I am. Man up.

10. No.

Pages Matam - Pinatas http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgQRkHcEyq8

To the man on the bus I overheard tell a woman in conversation - presumably a friend: “you are too ugly to be raped...”

...Dear man on the bus, Tell the one in five women of this country, that they are beautiful, their four counterparts, spared torment ugly.

Tell the one in three women of this world, That you will not make piñatas of their bodies. Watch morsels of them, spill greedily to the famished smiles of your ignorance Shaped like bloodthirsty children. How your words Hit repeatedly, until they broke open Like shattered papier-mache cradle How their blood flowed like candy until Hollow insides Jaws mangled into misfortune from when they tried to scream For Legs torn crucifix Loud cry of eyes muted Tell them how beautiful their silence is.

...Dear man on the bus From smothering cat-calls, to quickened pace of trek home Rape with a dress on. Rape without a dress on. Raped as children, who couldn’t even dress themselves. Tell them how ugly their consent was.

Tell the depression, the post traumatic stress The unreported. Tell Mahmudiyah, A footnote in the history of crimson Iraqi sands How beautiful the military’s silence is Cloaked in how we don't ask, and they didnt tell, in the name of country.

Tell Elizabeth Fritzl How pretty the flame of her skin was, that turned her Father a torturous moth of incest ‘til she gave birth to 7 choices she never had ...Dear man on the bus Tell my 11th grade student, Lauren That she wanted it, her beauty had them coming. Tell my 7th grade student, Mickayla That she wanted it, her beauty had him coming. Tell my 3rd grade student, Andre That he wanted it, his beauty had him coming.

Tell the 8 year old me, The God in me I loved fiercely was so gorgeous, that cousin twice my age, wanted to molest the Holy out of me, Peeled raw until I was as ugly as she was.

Rape is a coward hiding its face in the make-up of silence. A murderous fruit, that grows best in the shadows of taboo. A Vietnam prostitute with red white and blue skin, A murmur of bodies left vacant by the souls that spend years, pills, poems, and death trying to learn to reclaim them.

...Dear nameless assailant How this bus carries the burden of your stick and blindfold Patriarchy that has only taught you to treat women like ceiling strung jugs Violence claws up from your throat, Like a monstrous accomplice to the 97 percent that will never see jail

...Dear man on the bus As these words fall out of your mouth, I pray no one finds your children beautiful enough to break open, making a decorative silent spectacle out of them.

Alex Dang - Times I’ve Been Mistaken For A Girl http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U2i-i8k6AbQ

1. Ever since I was tall enough to reach the phone perched and mounted against my wall, I was old enough to answer it. And every time I did, I was always greeted by somebody on the other end calling me “ma’am.” And for the longest time, I thought they were saying man because I was cool and hip, man. 2. When entering high school, I found a correlation between girls finding I was cute and long swishy hair so I grew my hair out like how optimists never cut their dreams down or how dreamers never trimmed their hopes short but this lions mane became and remained a gender mystery to some store owners asking my girlfriend and I “So. How are you ladies doing tonight?” 3. I was always a crier. And with a brother manlier and tougher than I, it wouldn’t be strange to hear “shut up or buck up.” Uncomfortably familiar with loneliness. Hearing “Stop being a girl” was a terrible mantra that I just got used to like “I will never amount to anything” or “I will die alone.” 4. The very far from the truth, my mom believes gay to be synonymous with the feminine so it wouldn’t be odd for her to question my sexuality due to the clothing I wore or how much time I spent on appearances. “Why don’t you go do boy things?” “How are you going to take care of your wife?” 5. When my father found out that sometimes I like looking at boys, he told my mother that he lost a son and I can’t help but think about my sister who’s 6. My mother always complained about having two sons and no daughters. 7. My sister was born in May of 1991 but 8. Died three days after her birth due to complications. 9. My mother didn’t want to have any more children after that but 10. My father said he had a feeling and I don’t know what that feeling was but I think it was 11. That he wanted to have another daughter. 12. I didn’t come out the way they expected. 13. I think I was a failure before I was even conceived. 3. I was always a crier. 14. I was always so mad at myself for being so sensitive. 15. Why wasn’t it okay to play house with the girls? 16. I was never good at cops and robbers. 0. I was a disappointment before I even began. 12. I didn’t come out the way they expected. 12. I didn’t come out the way they expected. 12. I didn’t come out the way they expected and now I’m at some very bull of a number wondering if it still makes a difference. My hair is shorter. My voice is deeper. And I still might not do things a boy does. Instead, I do things a person does.