To The Hipster Fuck Who Brought His Laptop To Patricia Smith’s Reading At Rollins College

To The Hipster Fuck Who Brought His Laptop To Patricia Smith’s Reading At Rollins College
Copyright © 2009 By Curtis Meyer

She reads a poem in 34 cantos, each from the voice
of a resident in a particular nursing home abandoned
by the staff during Hurricane Katrina.

During the Q&A session, he looks up from the third row
to ask how she finds the voices for her persona poems.

She explains that it’s a synthetic process –
she had an aunt in a nursing home.

In a tone of voice that says all but “What gives you the right?,”
he adds, “You say you give these people back their voices –
I want to know how.” She grits her teeth at the word “attempted”:

“I didn’t say I gave these people their voices back. I said I attempted to.”
She motions to the audience: “Whether I succeeded is up to these people.”

A lecture hall’s-worth of applause. He sighs,
shakes his head, throws his hands up in a “Whatever” position
before turning his nose back to the keyboard.

Look kid, I get it:

Skinny upper-class whiteboy with thick-brimmed glasses,
ironic t-shirt depicting the periodic table of elements, enrolled
in a liberal arts college; My guess is your dad paid your tuition
and that you’d rather be off somewhere talking about your favorite
indie films or how everyone’s favorite band sucks and you
have better taste in music than everyone else.

You see getting to view one of the greatest poets of our time
as an easy credit instead of a privilege. Hear that applause?
That’s an entire auditorium who thinks you’re full of shit.

I know you because I am you. And for the record, your favorite band
sucks and I have better taste in music than you do.

I worked in a nursing home; Got so close to Death we’d slap five
in line on our way to swipe our cards to punch the clock.

I don’t think a person’s experiences and accomplishments
make them better than anyone else, but if I were a black woman

who grew up on the mean streets of Chicago, lived
to see my son incarcerated and my father shot in the head,

and went on to become a National Book Award finalist;
an inductee into the International Hall of Fame for Writers of African Descent;
a recipient of the Hurston-Wright Legacy Award, the Carl Sandburg Literary Award,
the National Poetry Series Award, the Patterson Poetry Award, the Pushcart Prize;
and the winningest individual in the history of the National Poetry Slam,

I might think some sniveling punk checking
his Facebook account to be beneath me.

Listen champ, you think you’ve taken the moral high ground.
Chances are, you never had to scrape algae off the walls of your dorm room.

One day, when you’re done being a twenty-something who knows everything,
you‘ll realize how much of a fucking cliché you are. Until then

I wish you a quiet death.

Preferably in a nursing home.

Ask yourself junior: How many people have you resurrected in your lifetime?