May 7, 2008
Liberty City lesson
By Carlos Miller
A loaded Colt .45 was tucked neatly in the waistband at the small of my back. A Canon 10D was strapped around my neck. The African drums were pounding furiously beside me.
And the lady with the microphone was asking me to step up and introduce myself.
It was Saturday night in Liberty City and I was the only non-black person in a room filled with spoken word poets.
As the smell of incense permeated the air and the smoke created a foggy haze, I accepted the microphone and told them I had no poem, but I had a story.
The drums came to a simmering beat as I told them that I was born and raised in Miami. That I lived away for ten years. That I returned only a few months ago and was on a mission to rediscover my city.
I admitted that back in the day, I would never have set foot in this place. That the only time I would even come to Liberty City was to cop weed. And that I had even been skeptical about showing up that night because I was unsure at how I would be received.
Then I thanked them for having received me with open arms, literally, as a poet named Lady Divine gave me a giant hug and told me to make myself at home after I told her I wanted to photograph the poets.
But I never got a chance to thank them for introducing me to the literary goldmine that I discovered in Miami’s underground spoken word scene.
I never got a chance to thank them for inspiring me to start writing and reciting my own politically conscious poems in front of crowds.
And I never got a chance to thank them for breaking down some of the stereotypes that had been instilled in me since childhood about Liberty City.
