Joe rocks his kicks... and describes the dangers of clubbin' and leg braces

Verbal Balance/SpokenWord. Wednesday, June 17, 2009. PART THREE. 

Next up, the Emcee announced, was Joe. “Our Joe?” I swiveled around to ask the director, Scott, seated behind me. Scott shrugged, nodded and a second later, Joe, an employee at the Chicago Center, struggled up from his seat. His leg braces clanked as he jolted to the front of the group assembled.

“Has he ever done this before?” I asked Scott.

“I don’t think so,” Scott said.

“I’m going to do a stand-up routine,” Joe said. “It’s my first time, so, uh, bear with me.”

And he began. His entire routine was based on his disability and it was one of the funniest, bravest things I have ever heard. I took notes, even while I was shaking with laughter and I’m jotting them down here.

First topic? Goin’ to the clubs.

Joe said: “The problem with clubs—they combine two things I hate more than any other. Dancing and moving in crowded spaces….

“So, I’m standing at the bar, talking to a girl and things are going well. I mean, she even looked over my kicks. Some guys have the, uh, Air Jordans and I am rockin my Kmart special. (Joe shows off his super supportive white shoes, the type worn by old ladies.) So things are goin’ well. And then she utters those two horrible words: ‘Wanna dance?’ It’s then that I remember the movie Hitch and the wise words of one character. Women equate dance with sex and I think… oh, shit…

“The problem with dancing is you move your arms, and then you move your legs. Well, I can do one of them, but the combination just… stumps me. It doesn’t work. So, it’s a little like… DJ, hit me up with some music!... (DJ obliges and Joe does a cute, awkward dance with all of us cheering him on.)

Next topic? 4 am bars.

“Three bad things about them—there’s dancing, I got my leg braces and by this point… I’m fucked up…”

Joe continues to tell about the time he arrived at one, hammered, and fell down. After that, the bar tender refused to sell him drinks. Joe was livid—“You don’t understand! I’m not drunk!” he yelled, “I’ve got a disability!” When the bar tender still refused to sell him drinks, drunk Joe yelled: “I’m gonna sue your ass!”

A Soul Speaks

Verbal Balance/SpokenWord. Wednesday, June 17, 2009. PART TWO. 

His name might have been Big Owie or maybe it was Big D. In any case, “Big” was certainly the adjective. When they announced his name to resounding applause, I turned around to see one of the largest human beings I have ever seen amble slowly up to the stage. He was like a human block, and I looked at him with a little bit of awe. He seemed to be made of mountains of flesh.

He seemed shy and awkward and once at the microphone, he spoke softly. His baby face was turned away from me and I strained to hear snatches of what he said.  It sounded like he said he had just been released from the hospital—the applause must have been a welcome back to a good friend. What I did hear him say was: “Well, you know, I at a high risk for diabetes. It on both sides of my family.”

My heart broke for this soft-spoken giant. Did he really think that the only reason he was at risk with diabetes was because it was in his family? It was probably in his family because of their situation, their family style of eating, and probably, because of their poverty. It used to be poor people were skinny, nowadays, it seems the poorer, the fatter.

He couldn’t have been older than me, but he already had so much working against him. To me, he seemed trapped—in poverty, in a certain lifestyle and in a hot, uncomfortable, awkward body suit.

He paused, breathed and then drew the microphone close. And  something escaped, flew free from that prison. His voice, gentle and sweet, rose up and filled the café. His song was of beauty, heartbreak and a peaceful place he’d escape to. A peaceful place, he repeated, a peaceful place. He spoke, then, his words rhythmic and strong. But it was the melody that haunted me. He sung it again and all I wanted in the world was for him to have that peaceful, beautiful place always.

I knew the thin, haunting melody was his soul.  All I could hope was it wouldn’t be crushed.

 

i find myself on an island in a dark sea

Verbal Balance/SpokenWord. Wednesday, June 17, 2009.

The café we sat at was lit with soft light, made cozy by the bright yellow walls. An audience dressed in bright colors milled around, chatting and laughing and eagerly anticipating the SpokenWord poetry we were all getting ready to see. People ordered lattes and chicken salad sandwiches so good that one man turned to his and said, “Baby, you the best.” There was laughter, reunions of old friends, smiling and shuffling of chairs.

Placed in the walls were huge windows, looking out on the neighborhood beyond. That’s where the coziness stopped. The cold windows looked out into an industrial wasteland in the heart of a the South side of Chicago. One streetlight lit a corner. If I glanced outside, I couldn’t help but feel nervous. My eye would catch a car driving slowly by and my heart would pulse a little faster. Every time I saw a shadowy figure appear from around the edge of a building, I wondered if we were safe. But a moment later, they’d enter the door and warm light would illuminate their grins. They’d become human, a friend, part of a safe space.

How this place, The Corner Café, existed I don’t know. The darkness outside might have hidden a more residential area, something to explain the café’s survival or something to explain where to people inside eked out their existence. But there were no questions to be answered in the dark beyond. It was blank, scary. What was evident, however, was the light within.