Magic City Mania

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.

It was the summer of 2005 and I had recently returned to Miami after a 10-year hiatus. Feeling jaded from almost a decade of writing for corporate newspapers, I had enrolled in a creative writing class at FIU taught by James W. Hall.

Hall, who has always been one of my favorite writers, dedicated half the semester to teaching fiction and half to poetry. Although I had not been interested in the poetry portion of the course, I enrolled in the class anyway because it’s not too often you get to take a class taught by one of your favorite writers.

As it turned out, I had a natural knack for poetry. And it quickly became an outlet for my political rage.

My first poem was titled A Texas Clod and dedicated to George W. Bush. My second poem was titled The Media Circus and dedicated to the corporate media. My fellow students, many who were half my age, would frequently compliment me on my poems.

One day, an African-American student with dreadlocks who was known for his intense and rapid-fire political poems invited me to the Liberty City poetry sessions.

He told me they were held every Saturday night in a health food store in Liberty City. He described the drums, the vibe and the skill of the poets. He said my poems would be well-received.

I was still unsure about my poetry, especially about reading it in front of new audiences, so I told him I would be interested in photographing the poets instead.

That night, as I prepared my camera gear, I slipped a loaded Colt .45 pistol inside my camera bag because this was, after all, Liberty City, one of the most notorious neighborhoods in the United States.

I never brought my gun again after that, even though I attended three more sessions that summer. It wasn’t that Liberty City had gotten any safer. It was just that there was a certain community respect during these poetry sessions where I knew there was no need for a gun.

No drugs or alcohol were ever allowed inside. People of all ages - and races - were always welcome. Praise for the black woman was a common theme from many of the male poets.

Nobody was rhyming about bling-bling, bitches, ho’s and pimps. These rhymes were about struggle, pain, survival and hope on mean streets during lean times. These were the real voices of the hood. Ghetto voices that had long been ignored.

I started reciting my poems during my second session and my fellow student was right; they were well-received. There’s something inspiring when your audience responds vocally and passionately during key points in your poem.

When I showed up a fifth time that summer, I arrived to an empty room. The health food store had been forced to close down due to rising rents. The poetry sessions had been canceled. Another victim of Miami’s “boom economy”.

Lady Divine was carrying a few remaining pieces of furniture to her vehicle. I gave her a large print of the photo above in which she is reciting poetry in front of the poster of the African man.

I also gave her a large print of the photo at the top of this post; a homeless man that went by Gypsy who would write poems on food wrappers found in garbage cans. She assured me she would give it to him.

The summer of 2005 ended with Hurricane Katrina devastating New Orleans and I couldn’t help but dedicate a poem to the Big Easy. My delivery of the poem, the voice of the poem, was heavily inspired by the Liberty City poets. You can check it out here.

Since that summer, I’ve performed poetry in various venues throughout Miami, including The Literary Cafe, operated by Will “Da Real One” Bell, a Liberty City native who has been featured various times on HBO’s Def Poetry.

One of the most powerful - if not the most powerful - poems I have ever heard is called “So I Run”, which was written by Bell and never fails to raise goose pumps each time I hear it. Check out the video.

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