Snaps. A chorus of “mmm”s. The occasional “Go in, poet!”
This was the loud and unapologetic environment I stepped into at Get Lit’s Classic Slam, a poetry competition where more than 50 high schools participate annually. It was, as Tiffany Snow, Get Lit’s Lead Teaching Artist and host of the competition, said “a sanctuary.” Judgement didn’t exist in this space, from the red velvet chairs to the bright lights of the stage.
Each poet brought their own perspective and attitude to the microphone. From group poems celebrating the beginning of a revolution to anxieties about academic stress to facing the reality of eating disorders, each message was important, valued, and, most importantly, vulnerable.
It wasn’t the stunning imagery or rapid-fire performance, but the personal issues of the poem that spoke the loudest and resonated with everyone. I, myself, was touched by the courage each person had, as they broke down their inner selves and exposed it to a crowd of strangers. I got to know childhood memories, favorite snacks, weird hobbies, and this honesty allowed a deeper bond to form between the audience and speakers.
We weren’t competitors, or students, or even classmates — we were people, listening to other people. This was the type of connection that could only be forged by the power of poetry, with a personal and emotional undercurrent everyone held onto. It wasn’t just to present facts and be persuasive. It was to feel.
Yet as I heard each poem, I began to sweat, and not because of the heat created from a hundred breathing bodies. As I watched each person course through their poem easily, I could feel the seconds ticking down until it was my turn to get up and face everyone. But I didn’t feel nervous. In fact, my body and mind felt ready for this moment — especially after months of preparation — and I was ready to let my voice be heard.
Back when I chose my Classic poem, “I was in a Hurry” by Dunya Mikhail, I was struck by its powerful message of losing a country through the comparison of lottery tickets or Purgatory — and I was immediately inspired by my own Taiwanese heritage.
In the media, I’ve always felt like there wasn’t much representation of Taiwan from Taiwanese people, with most of it coming from outside sources. I believed that my response poem could spread awareness, dig into more nuance, and explore my own culture for myself.
As a second generation Taiwanese American, I loved my heritage, but always felt like there was some distance in between both of my worlds. And I never really took the time to go beyond that barrier and immerse myself into my culture. But in between researching Taiwanese history, conducting interviews with my family members, as well as reflecting on my own feelings, I began to solidify my identity, line by line.
In writing my slam poem, I had time to reconnect with my culture and ultimately, express it in a powerful declaration. By the end of the process, I uncovered so much about my heritage, and my own personal thoughts and beliefs.
When I took that stage, each moment was powerful. I felt myself at the center of everyone’s attention, drawing them into my mind and explaining my history. It was so much more than a performance — it was a dialogue and exchange of memories between me and the audience. Now I felt myself on the other side of that vulnerability, sharing my relationship with my culture, and receiving everyone’s support. It was not only an empowering moment for myself, but a beautiful moment where I used my voice to spread awareness and meaningfully connect with others.
Leaving the Slam, I remembered what all the hosts have reiterated throughout the event — “The point is not the points. The point is the poetry.” Get Lit was so much more than a competition. It was an opportunity for voices to be shared, ideas to be exchanged, people to feel, and for me, identities to be discovered and reinforced. It’s a space where young writers can look forward to a community of love and understanding. It opens pathways of real, human connection — one that will last far beyond the stage.
