Girls Gone Wild
Backstage at the Queer Writers' Showcase there was a lot of mutual validation and food--a bucket of animal crackers, a tray of Oreos, two bags of white-cheddar popcorn, two tubs of chocolate-covered espresso beans, two plates of pita bread and hummus, two plates of tortilla chips, a bowl of salsa, a plate of raw carrots and celery, and a bag of guacamole-flavored Lay's chips. Nobody was eating. One woman in a red cowboy hat, smoking a Marlboro, said to a younger woman preparing to go on stage, "Is this your first time? Do you need a hug?"
Tara Hardy told the crowd that she founded the Queer Writers Institute three years ago because she was "getting lonely doing performance poetry feeling like I was the only queer person on the planet." The Institute's classes--on fiction, performance poetry, and regular poetry--are held in Hardy's living room in Leschi. ("If you want to take a class with Tara," one student said, "you have to deal with her dog.") The Queer Writers' Showcase, two Mondays ago at Re-bar, was a benefit to raise money for a new space because classes are "exceeding capacity."
Moments after I arrived, Hardy told me, "You should know this is a work in progress." Some of the poetry was "in progress" as well (the first presenter, said Hardy, had "just finished writing her poem today"), and none of the "queers," except one, were men. In short, the Queer Writers' Showcase was lesbian slam poetry: the two things that turn me off most. As expected, the reading had lots of sensual triteness ("I want to punctuate my sentences with orgasms") punched up with crowd-rousing feminism ("We are the poor soldiers who choose not to salute to bullshit!"), empty allusions ("She is the biker goddess, our lady of the kickstand"), and sexual promises I am thoroughly thankful were never delivered upon ("If I pee on myself, that's just part of the act").
The poetry stirred the audience into a whooping, hollering state--said hollering included directives like "Show us your tits!"--and, upon concluding, almost every poet jumped off the stage and bucked around like a cowgirl riding a wild bull. In the frenzy, one girl removed a sign from a box of pies ("This is a raffle item. Do not eat it!") and taped it to her ass.
But it's so easy to be an asshole about slam poetry. Katinka, in sequins and a platinum wig ("I'm supposed to look sexy to sell raffle tickets"), told me Hardy's classes "have completely changed my life. I know that's corny. But if there's anyone who teaches with love, it's Tara Hardy. She teaches with grace and patience... Am I talking too fast? Pick the stuff out that sounds cool."
