Speak Out!

Last week I went to Speak Out! at Glide.

Speak Out! happens every Wednesday. It's an open mic forum that gives the people of the neighborhood a chance to step up and speak their mind. People use it as an opportunity to check in, make community announcements, read poetry, or simply tell their story. Given Glide's location in the Tenderloin, a lot of the folks who come to Speak Out! are from the streets or the shelters. Many are addicts or recovering addicts, victims or former perpetrators of abuse. Some are on their way up. Some are still going down. Most are just looking for a handhold, something secure to grip, to help them through their day. That's why I was there.

I used to go to Prayer Circle on Wednesday nights, but over the years the group dwindled and eventually disappeared. For awhile I reveled in the extra free time, but after a few months I began to feel a bit spiritually deficient. You'd think that 5 or 6 hours of church per week would be enough, what with choir rehearsals and services, but it wasn't. I found that I was missing that personal connection that I'd forged with the members of my Prayer Circle. I missed hearing people's stories; I didn't know how much they'd sustained me.

So when I started feeling adrift a few weeks ago, I decided to check out Speak Out! I thought a little spiritual grounding might be in order.

The room was full; they actually had to add several more rows of seating. I spotted an empty chair and made a grab for it. I was smack in the middle, between two men whose mingled scents were a bit of an assault on my olfactory system. I thought about moving but I desperately did not want to be rude. (Although come 45 minutes into the hour I was feeling a little nauseous and second-guessing my decision.)

I have to pause for a minute...Just writing that makes me feel snobby and privileged, but that's how it was. The room was ripe.

I soon realized that the man on my left was hearing voices in his head. "Stand up! No! Sit down!" he muttered, alternately nodding and shaking his head. He made as though to stand, then wrapped his arms around his body and pushed himself back in his seat. "Okay, okay," he said to himself reassuringly. "It's okay. It's okay."

I remembered that comedy sketch (although I forget the comedian) about the guy walking down the street talking to himself, whom everybody thinks is crazy, but it turns out he's really talking to God. I decided the man on my left was okay with me.

The man on my right was eating a donut. There were a few boxes of donuts to tide people over until dinner was served at the end of the hour. Every day Glide serves breakfast, lunch and dinner to anyone who's hungry, and Speak Out coincides with the dinner hour, so they serve those folks specially at the end of the session. The man on my right was hungry. He ate two donuts while he waited for dinner to be served.

I was reminded of what a blessing it is not to be hungry.

And as though to underline that thought, a man walked up to the microphone and began talking about food.

"I wanna say thank you for Glide, for the breakfast program," he said. "It's so important. We can't wait for Saint Anthony's to open at 11:30. I'm gonna commit a crime if I have to wait until 11:30 to eat. That's too late. People don't know how this food program is cutting down on crime. I have a friend who said to me, 'I missed dinner. Guess I'm gonna go do what I have to do.' People gonna do what they have to do to get fed."

A woman came up to the microphone and said she was graduating from her rehab program. The room erupted with applause.

"I'm going to miss San Francisco," she said. "I'm going to miss Glide church. I just want to thank everybody for accepting me and feeding me...It's good to have folks to talk to. It's good to not be scared no more. I did a lot of stuff I didn't want to do. I did prostitution. I been beat up, you know. I seen a lot of bad parts of this city. But this city's been good to me too; I learned a lot here. I made friends. Now I'm going to go and I'm sad to go, but I thank you all for being here for me."

The next person rolled up to the mic in a wheelchair.

"I just want to invite everyone to a community meeting at the police headquarters next week. The San Francisco Chief of Police is leaving, and this is our chance to speak up about the kind of person that we want to replace her. This is a chance for the community to be heard, so please come and speak out."

We applauded after each person spoke, no matter what they said. One woman gave a little sermon on the topic of forgiveness. A man read a poem about the strength of a black man. Another man announced that his daughter was the first person in their family to go to college. Several times people walked up to the mic, introduced themselves and simply said, "I want to say thank you." Then they sat back down.

The faces in that room were mostly different faces than the ones I know from upstairs. Although Sunday services are open to everybody, I realized that not everyone who comes to Glide comes for the Celebrations. It was a different community downstairs.

And what impressed me was that Janice, Glide's founding president, knew everybody's name.

"Where's Magnolia?" she asked, looking around. "We haven't heard from her in awhile. Oh, Curtis! Come up here, Curtis! Come say a few words."

Jan, in her impeccable outfit and high heels, was at home down in the basement with the folks from the food line. And they loved her. I've long admired Jan, but I felt my respect for her surge in that moment: How many women do you know who can straddle two worlds in a pencil skirt?

A young man walked up to the microphone. He was part of a group from the nearby American Conservatory Theater. They've been writing theatrical pieces based on their experiences at Glide and plan to put on a performance for Glide folks next month.

"I wrote a poem about the food line," he said seriously. "It's a metaphor." His gaze traveled around the room before he opened his mouth to speak.

I am in line to eat.

He paused, purposefully.

I am last in line to eat so I can step out of line and I won't lose my spot.
I can step over here.

He paused again and I stifled a giggle. I wasn't sure yet if the poem was meant to be funny.

Hey you, look at me, can you stand here?
I'm free.
You are only two people in front of me, and you are stuck.
Stuck in that line.

A final pause. Then:

I'm sitting on this car.

That did it - I howled. I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes. In just a few short lines this guy had managed to tell an entire story. I saw that scene unfold as though I'd been walking past it. Brilliant, I thought. Just brilliant.

Oh, the little jewels you can stumble across in the course of your day.

The hour was wrapping up, and we moved on to the raffle. Every week they raffle off a few bags of groceries, and this time one went to the man whose daughter had made it into college. Then Darius stood up to announce dinner.

Darius is a tall black man with a deep, rolling voice. He took up the microphone and smiled. He said:

"Speak Out! is good, isn't it?"

And I was touched by how true that was. Speak Out! is good. Aside from the food, the community and an hour inside away from the cold, Speak Out! is a forum. How often do you think people on the street get a chance to step up to a microphone and speak their piece? I know how important a forum has been for me. This blog allows me to speak my mind even when I've got nothing in particular to say. I have the opportunity to speak out every day. I've entitled this blog Finding My Voice because writing here is helping me to find my voice, as a writer and a singer, but most importantly as a person. And it's a privilege, this virtual soapbox. It's good.

Darius said, "Now, ya'll know how this works. It's handicapped first, women second, men last. And please throw your trash away cause I got to stay until this is all cleaned up. All right, your menu for the evening:

"Your meat is kielbasa.
"Your drink is juice.
"Your vegetables is vegetables." (That set me laughing all over again.)
"Your starch is potatoes."

Jan beckoned him and he bent his tall body in half so she could whisper in his ear. Upon straightening up he said,

"Oh yeah: kielbasa is a kind of fancy sausage.

"Now ya'll, let's eat."

I didn't stay for dinner. I climbed the steps upstairs, toward choir rehearsal. And as I left, I felt good. I felt lighter.

They call the basement Freedom Hall. There is something freeing about a room where you can speak your truth so baldly without fear of judgement. It is a clean feeling, even if you haven't had the opportunity to wash. It's a full feeling, because you're getting fed in more ways than one.

I am better for having been there. And I'll be going back.

(The poet in this post is Philip Martinson. The piece is reprinted with his permission.)