(51) Poetry In Motion

Compared to the darkness of the hallways the classroom is amazingly bright, even with the closed blinds of the window, as I enter timidly. I sit down in the nearest seat, peering around me at the seats already filled with other agonized students. My heart hammers within my crisp white blouse as I run Paul Eluard’s “Liberté” through my troubled mind one last time. Finally, I am here. All of the sleepless nights of anxiety, the free periods of perfecting each word with Madame Rochard, the hours of listening to its tape recording in the shower, in the car, while brushing my teeth. I have actually entered this towering school in East Haven, Connecticut for the annual state foreign poetry contest.

“You know it!” I tell myself angrily, “You can do this!” Lecturing myself of course does nothing for alleviating my rising fears. All that I can possibly do now is pray that my tongue doesn’t twist up involuntarily, and my mind doesn’t suddenly become as blank as my older sister’s face when I first told her I was going to represent French 1 for this contest. All I want to do at the moment is get this over with and never think about shadows of windmills or fat and tender dogs again.

Completely out of the blue, I remember a piece of advice I had been given that day from one of the teachers, “just walk in and talk to everyone!” I raise my anxious eyes to glance around at the other nervous faces staring at their hands, reluctant to look any of their opponents in the eye. All of the tension is just making the situation that much more unbearable, and as I take a quiet inner breath I decide boldly to follow Madame’s advice.

“Oh my goodness, are you guys nervous?” I smile across the small room to let everyone know that I am talking to no one in particular. Soon the solid ice of apprehension shatters and gives way to warm smiles and outgoing personalities. My stomach stops churning, my heart returns to a normal speed, and amazingly enough my nerves have calmed down immensely.

“I think I am going to die.” A tanned brunette shudders two seats behind me. “My teacher told me I was in this contest yesterday afternoon.” A timid, pale girl informs me from where she is perched on the edge of a seat across from me. Gradually we have changed from suspicious contestants to supporting friends.

“So are you guys all straight A students?” I ask sardonically. A rumble of laughter envelops me comfortingly as a select few reply positively, trying to keep a straight face.

Our excited chatter is hushed at the entrance of a heavyset dark haired woman, a blue ribbon labeled “judge” unmistakably attached to her name tag reading Mrs. Conels. “So this is her.” I tell myself, forgetting the other students in the room. No one else really matters anymore, all I need to impress is this character and the gold will be as good as mine.

“Are you French?” A girl with a beaming smile inquires from across my row.

Mrs. Conels laughs deeply, her shoulders shaking from where she stands now towering over us. “I’m from New Haven, hun, you can’t be more French than that now can you?” Her tone was low but warm, and I immediately felt at ease with her. “We’re just waiting for a few more people to find their way into our room, and then we will begin.”

A new wave of nervousness encompasses me at the realization that in a few minutes I am actually going to do it, and everything counts in the final presentation. I sit still and rigid, pleading with myself to remember the “poo” in pouvoir and to emphasize sufficiently the d’un mot.

As Mrs. Conels informs us that we’re about to start, I ask “Can we clap for each other?” It feels terrific being the motivated speaker for the bunch, even though at the same time I know that in the next few hours winning has never meant more in my entire life. I plead with her earnestly, anticipating that the comfort of applause will soften the torturous preparation for the next contestant. She shakes her head with a smile though, and my heart sinks. “Why don’t we all clap for each other now then?” I suggest. Soon a roaring applause surrounds me and everyone is genuinely content for a brief moment - with the exceptions of the girl swathed in black directly in front of me, and the Cro-Magnon of a guy directly behind me who hasn’t let his focus leave his desk for the past fifteen minutes.

“Angela Martin.” Mrs. Conels says slowly after telling us that we can no longer wait for the lost participants. She begins and I follow her every word, even though I can’t understand any of them. Then she finishes with another glowing smile and sits down quickly, relief evident on her face. I tell her that she did an amazing job.

Then the list continues, boys and girls sauntering to the front, breezing through their poems and then rushing right back to the comfort of their seats. There is only one girl that I become increasingly worried about and that is the one in front of me. At the reading of her name, she stands up with unbreakable self-confidence, the cuffs of her wide dark pants brushing the floor before standing in front of us. Her hair is dyed a deep red, cascading in a thick braid down her back. Then she begins as all of us are simply taken in. Her pronunciation is gorgeous, weaving itself through her words like it is her most cherished gift, emotion playing through out every line, her tone becoming angry and loud and then dying down to a soft whisper. My eyes raise as her hands lift themselves in passion and then wring themselves with her anguish. It is as if her whole life has been placed in this one poem and she has exposed her inner soul to us shamelessly. She ends on a quiet note, all of a sudden halting the magic, her dark eyes smirking mercilessly at us before she sits down.

“Daria Knight!” I am shaken into reality, hardly able to prepare for my own chance, but knowing without a doubt that she has destroyed all doubts. That gold medal is as good as hers. Now though, it is my turn.

I take a deep breath, rise out of my seat and stand in front of these complete strangers. Glancing at Mrs. Conels, I close my eyes and begin to tell them a story in smooth and eloquent French phrases. I tell them of writing the name of freedom on the horizon, on the sand and the snow, on the hands that extend themselves to me, and above the silence. I feel each word within my own heart, becoming the writer himself, captured in the heavy chains of slavery and beseeching my listeners for long sought after liberty. My hands have a mind of their own, clutching my heart and letting them reach towards my audience. I end, whispering Liberté under my breath, and then glance around me with satisfaction. At my seat I marvel at what I have just experienced. Though these poems were spoken in a different language, they were still able to convey feelings and emotions that I was able to understand. These students around me were able to take words they had not written and suddenly make them their own. I had just witnessed a power, but smiling to myself I couldn’t help but ponder upon whether that force lay in the writer or the reader.