creative lessons after hours.
What's your superpower?
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If you ever wanted to learn a thing or two about an art form, my best advice would be to attend an event of the art form and stay after the event to absorb the wisdom of other creatives. It’s the easiest way to discover how precious art is to individuals, how strategic it is to compete against others, and how much you learn about yourself in the process of creation.
My weekend began by attending a poetry slam and being a deciding judge for the amazing poets that bared their souls in front of the microphone. I’ve been a judge twice, and I’ve observed that any poet can win a poetry slam at any time, even if they’re not the quintessential portrait of a perfect poet. Many people believe that the mark of a powerful slam poet equals a booming voice and exceptional wordplay, which can be impactful, but poets have certain superpowers.
I ask myself what my creative superpower is: that thing that nobody else can embody like I can, that thing that draws the audience into my work. After hours at the coffee shop, I notice the superpowers emanating from each person in the group. One has an energetic, powerful voice that shakes the foundation of the building. Another weaves concepts together in ways I couldn’t conceive prior to him speaking. The last can write a subtle hook that blossoms into a social justice cry by the end of his work. I would call each poet I’ve encountered thus far “super.”
I have difficulty attributing anything in my life to being “super.” My imposter syndrome is deeply rooted, planted years ago and nurtured until recently. This year, I had a conversation with someone about feeling like a failure. This person then proceeded to recite my list of achievements (published poet, podcaster, news editor of my college newspaper, etc) and asked me why I felt like a failure when my resume was full of accomplishments. I guess I always believed comparing my achievements to others was like comparing the college graduation for a bachelor’s degree versus a PhD: two levels of greatness, yet one will always gain more notoriety.
I have yet to perform in a slam competition because I feel the overwhelming pressure to win. To be perfect. To be “super,” but now that the expectation exists, the words refuse to flow. The concepts aren’t innovative, and my fingers don’t run as swiftly to write. After hours at the coffee shop, a poet told me, “Don’t fall into the trap of just writing in order to perform in slams.”
And that’s what I’m doing. Trying to be “super” without knowing what makes me unique. Trying to be impressive without knowing the ways that I am impressive. Emphasis on am. I’m trying to remind myself that I am.
My friend told me he likens my work to another spoken word artist that attends the open mics, which I accept with a grain of salt. Not because I have anything against them, but I want to stand in a league of my own. I want my own presence, my own style, my own aura. So after hours at the coffee shop, I stay with the masters, lingering and listening to them talk about them losing and winning slams in the state and beyond, and their hopes for the future. In a lull in the conversation, I finally ask, “How do you figure out your superpower?”
My friend responds in his true pop-culture-like way, “If you touch water, and it bends, you’re probably a waterbender. If you’re able to manipulate the earth, you’re probably an earthbender. If you touch the fire, and you don’t get burned, you’re probably a firebender. To me, I feel like you’re an airbender.” In case you needed a reference for what he’s talking about, here you go.
In my mind, an airbender shifts an atmosphere. Subtle yet mighty. They are fluid, free-willed and boundless. I realize that this description already fits the wanderer in me. Now it just needs to translate to my voice, bold in its softness.
After hours at a coffee shop, I learn more about myself from my fellow poets who believe in the superpower within me. Now if only I can believe it’s as super as they believe it can be.
What does Laraya like this week?
📚What I’m reading: I’ve recently learned that I’m addicted to library books, so much so that I don’t finish a book before I move on to another. This makes it more difficult to write reviews. Last week was Training School for Negro Girls by Camille Acker. This week is Why Fathers Cry at Night by Kwame Alexander.
📧 P.S: if you’ve read my piece on my hesitancy to become a mother, you’d enjoy this piece about abandoning the binary of being childfree or being a parent from Ann Friedman. This piece views the choice of parenthood as more of a spectrum than a set in stone decision, which I appreciated.
📰 P.P.S: This fantastic New Yorker piece of why the Internet isn’t fun anymore took the words out of my mouth.
Catch up with Sheer Creativity:
Imposter syndrome for us is so real. I’m sure you don’t need this, but I know for me, sometimes words hit harder when coming from a stranger.
You don’t need to be super,
you are already enough.
Someone is waiting for you,
To open up your mouth,
To get, free.
Free them.