Tayari's Blog: Tara Betts at 32

Before I moved to DC, I hadn’t attended an open mic in years. For one thing, I am older than Tara and the other is that I haven’t lived in a city where poetry rules. DC is all about the poets. It’s the kind of town where an on-line anthology of DC poetry, Beltway, gets written up in the Washington Post. At the open mic yesterday, people in the audience had institutional memory of open mics of years gone by. I have to say there was something intoxicating about it.

And something familiar, too. Sitting on the floor near my feet was an adorable young lady, about twenty-three years old wearing shortie-shorts and afro puffs and I remembered myself, similarly clad and coiffed, listening to poetry that was very much like the fast-paced, syncopated verses recited last night. There were references to Isis and Osiris, hard critiques of the government, odes to love gone right, and laments of love gone wrong. Pretty standard fare.

There were a few surprises, most notably P.S. 24, a trio describing themselves as “folk hop.” A drummer (this is a DC thang), guitarist (big brother, socks and sandals) and a vocalist. Performing without amplification, they enchanted everyone in the place. (FYI, they will be performing at Busboys on July 15. I will be there.)

After about an hour and a half of offerings, Tara was wondering when she would be called to the stage. It wasn’t that she was hungry for the spotlight, it was just that it was almost eleven o’clock, and frankly, we were getting tired. Sitting on the floor for two hours is entirely different when you are 21. I know my knees were bothering me. We made some noise and finally Tara was called to the stage.

Let me describe Tara: She’s about five foot seven, wears her hair is a sort of careless bob. She wore an orange tanktop with an Untelling botton on it. (Thanks, T) and a pair of jeans. Cute shoes: beaded sandals, low heels. She looked different from the other open mic poets, each of whom were carefully dressed, even when they were careful not to seem that way. And of course there is the other thing about her appearance which folks tend to mention first. She is very light-complected. Light enough to pass among the uninitiated. (But for me, as soon as met Tara I knew she was a colored girl.)

She surprised the crowd by asking how many people in the crowd had gay relatives. Many of us raised our hands and she said that she wanted to know because she had heard some poems that evening that referenced gay folks in a way that made her uncomfortable. I won’t say that she was in the “Mama Tara” mode; it was more like she was a favorite aunt, the type who doesn’t mind telling you about yourself when you need it. Her poetry has changed over the years. It’s quieter now, more imagistic. I don’t think she would ever sacrifice meaning just to have a snappy rhyme or a punch line. She read about her experiences seeing a former student when she went to give a poetry workshop in a detention center. She read about love: not love gone right, or wrong, but love doing all the things it does. The crowd was a bit restless at time and a young man called out that she should recite the poem that got her on Def Poetry Jam. She resisted, reminding him of Dudley Randall’s quote, “A poet is not a juke box.” Then she said, “What the hell,” and performed “Switch.” She was marvelous.

Tara Betts represents the best things about public poetry. She’s an artist—growing, changing and learning. She talked to the crowd about form, gave love to Lorca and McKay--all in the lazy Chicago accent that I love. She didn’t play to the crowd for laughs or applause, but came with her truth in all of it’s vulnerable beauty.