The Power of Spoken Word: Bridging Living Museums of Truth and Healing

by Nikki Janzen (the poet formerly known as Darlin Nikki)

Spoken word venues in Milwaukee have cultivated living museums of history, breathing truth of emotional events while connecting spirits and allowing spaces for healing. When I stumbled on the scene in the early 2000s, a young teacher eager to share my story of neglect and alienation, I had no idea the open mics would revolutionize my teaching, shape lifelong friendships, and create bridges in a redlined city that would allow the generations after us access to the same underground healing power. Thankfully, here we are 20 years later, using the journey toward shaping schools, relationships, and creating spaces for social justice while watching our mentees become the mentors. That is the POWER of Spoken Word!

The first time I kissed a microphone, I fell in love; not just with the hugs and praise I received after opening up about my confused life experience, but for the stories other poets told—for the first time in my life, they made me feel less alone. The poets on the stage took turns exposing their souls in well-crafted testimonies we call spoken word. The lessons on history, such as Brownsville, the Move Movement, racism—past and present—opened my eyes to view America in a new lens that I thought I understood attending MPS and living on the north side. But there is an impact that spoken word can have that no news story or textbook could ever seem to touch. The stories of hard times, resilience, random men with foot fetishes, melancholy metaphors of a mother’s loss of her son, speaking out loud the fears we held onto in the dark, stuttering out the hurt of those that still owe us apologies, and how the crowd would moan and move like a Pentecostal church reminding you that the cross was not yours to carry alone. They even helped me pick the splinters from my back.

The slam venue at the time was Mecca, ran by our current Milwaukee Poet Laureate, Dasha Kelly-Hamilton, and called the “Still Waters Collective” open mic. Despite me usually being the only white poet, the other poets trusted their sacred stories to backbend into my ear and breakdance across my heart; this sharing that took place allowed me to see glimpses that most white people would never be privy to see. I am amazed at the honesty and the trust that was put in me, to enter into the different worlds that would illuminate over the white washed history my teachers had fed me regardless of whether I attended the mostly white grade school or the mostly Black high school. National poets came in, and we had local features, and each poet left a point of view I would not have considered otherwise. I was invited to various speaking engagements around the city. Kwabena Antoine Nixon—founder of Flood the Hood with Dreams and then-host of “Poetry Unplugged”—invited me to perform at the NAACP convention in Milwaukee, where I saw for the first time a cardboard cutout of a White man standing next to Black men, a picture of the men who died for voting rights of Black Americans in Freedom Summer, and I began to see that my white privilege could be used for social justice, somehow, someway, some day.

I invited poets into my classroom—even the students who otherwise might want to take a few too many bathroom breaks, or overly ask me to run errands, were captivated in a way that transformed into a bouquet of blooming curiosity. They laughed, cried, cheered, and it was clear they were intrigued and grateful. The students even talked me into participating and I vulnerably shared my poem “Two Worlds,” about the divide I felt between my white family and Black family as I journeyed from public high school to private college and into the work force. After I shared, I felt tension melt, felt a unity and understanding as they encouraged me and wanted to know more about me and spoken word. At my students’ request, we began to do poetry workshops and open mics in the class—and, later, for the whole school. Spoken word poetry became a tool in the classroom to express our emotions, and it built community, empathy, and understanding that helped us better navigate conflict. I encouraged the students and they encouraged each other, just like the hosts at open mic encouraged me, and a connection became clear. They opened up about loved ones dying, racist tribulations, coming out to their parents, insecurities, and they embraced one another. This began the practice in my classroom, year after year after year. We, the kids and I, built a whole unit and afterschool program with the cheerful support of principals, parents, the CLC, and other staff members, who were open to spoken word but not comfortable leading it. I am proud to say a few of those first-batch student poets, whom I humbly shared that space with, are still poeting to this very day, making a career out of this magical process: Deolinda Abstrac aka Destinny Fletcher, Isaiah Furquan, and Elijah Furquan, to name a few.

I recall losing my first slam, upset, not realizing it wasn’t the win but the chance to listen and to be heard that I would come to find the most valuable part. I also recall winning my first slam, with my poem “White Bread,” after having tied in a round with the legendary Dan Vaughn. Some audience members booed and hissed, and I didn’t understand why they were so upset by my story of being a white woman immersed in black culture, in love with a black man. I got a couple of nasty texts and an email full of anger from a woman I barely knew but saw every single week. It hurt. I was confused, but I read the email and we wrote back and forth, eventually coming to a new understanding. I realized this poet wore blues in a way no white women ever could. I learned of how her gramma “hated” her because she was dark, of the shame and anger she carried all those years. We became friends. Traveled to Chicago once together and, years later, while doing a play of Nina Simone she asked me to speak a poem, and just last month I pushed some product for her daughter who is already a grown up with her own business.

While in Ohio, I shared my poem “Broken Crayons”—about breaking an abusive cycle and learning to love myself more than I loved being with someone abusive, just to still feel alone. After that set, a woman cried into my arms and said I had given her the strength to leave a horrible situation, and she promised me she would plan an escape.

A group of poets invited me to join the group, Power of Word, and we were contracted to travel to different UW colleges to share stories about power, privilege, race, and healing. We were even asked to open for Black history programs and told, This is the first time the white people ever stayed. There was a strength in the collective voices, in the diversity, by bridging our words and colors—and though I am not proud that it often takes white-people white to reach white people, I will strive to do so whenever asked.

Soon after, I quit teaching to self-contract and pursue the use of this restorative process in other schools, to help other classes create community by helping them host open mics for youth and adults. I was honored to partner with Woodland Pattern, Artists Working in Education, Arts @ Large, Express Yourself Milwaukee, Running Rebels, local churches, and even private higher events, to share the magic of the open mic.

After a few years, I realized the need for change in the school system was vast and, now, I have the opportunity to use this restorative practice in a different form: I am a restorative practices coach for Milwaukee Public Schools. I am allowed to set up spaces to discuss and bridge difficult topics to other educators—who are doing their best but sometimes need support to figure out how to reach their students in a healthy way. Though I rarely attend open mics anymore, and I have occasional shows, my daily work still allows me to carefully select words that build bridges of understanding, listening, encouragement, and support through an antiracist lens; all those skills that I learned from the open mic world give me the chance to help bring out the best in others. I write this with the hopes that those reading will continue to take the time to listen to their fellow human beings, to see the value in each story, and to be confident enough to share their own—in an attempt to bridge understanding—as we try to heal ourselves and allow others around us to heal, too.

Yes, that is the power of spoken word!