Stepping to the mic, Chibbi Orduña spoke about bearing a burden like a shield in a small town where being out and proud made him an outsider.
Orduña captivated the crowd with stanzas about the state of the world and Texas.
“I white-knuckled that shield, buried my nails into my palms, a self-imposed stigmata until … I realized that a barrier looks like a bullseye for bullies,” Orduña said.
“And I was tired of being target practice.”
Patrons at the Blah Blah Blah Poetry Spot snapped their fingers and stomped their feet to show love.
Orduña’s commentary is part of a tradition of local spoken word on the rise again after COVID-19 policies halted live shows three years ago. Artists speak about policing, racism, women’s rights, and the LGBTQ community intertwined with lines about lost love, self-worth and cultural pride.
Every Wednesday, around 8:45 p.m., old-school poets and rising wordsmiths take the carpeted stage to rhapsodize about whatever is on their minds.
Fragrant incense greets guests as they step from the heat of the night into the cool of Jandro’s Garden Patio on St. Mary’s Street.
On a recent open mic night, dozens sat elbow-to-elbow at tables, sofas and chairs in the dimly lit space as they embraced a sample of San Antonio’s spoken word culture.
Orduña spoke of his pride in being queer and shame that bullet-proof backpacks for children existed. Then he lit into the centerpiece of his 30-minute plus set, “An Ode to Texas (if odes were written the way Mexican moms give compliments).”
Like a maestro conducting a symphony, Orduña wove his arms in the air as he recited the ballad about the good and the bad of living in the Lone Star State.
Texas, I know you’re more than the stereotype you present to the world.
Awash in neon-colored lights, host Christopher L. “Rooster” Martinez, 39, introduced more than 20 poets on stage as upbeat hip-hop thumped from JBL speakers.
“If you’re ready for poetry, say word!” Martinez shouted.
“Word!” the crowd replied.
Martinez, an educator and writer, started the show with an old poem about making the first move in the last moments of a relationship. His latest book, “Mexican Dinosaur,” will be released in the fall through Write About Now Publishing. In 2014, he was the Grand Slam Champion of San Antonio.
“In my soul, I know,” he said. “And I can see these leaves, and they’re turning from brown to green. I can see love coming, but she’s coming to leave.”
The call and response continued throughout the night, like amens from a Baptist preacher and a congregation on Sunday morning.
Cupcake spoke of sex like a book to be reread. J.S. Estrada from El Paso talked about “Rio Grande Runaways.” Amanda read from a journal she called her “Bible.”
Texas, I hate how big you are. Texas, I love how big you are. Texas, be bigger, be better. Be like your barbecue, your carne asadas, your crawfish boils, your chili cook-offs, the champion of all things hot and holy.
Before the show began, Martinez, Jason “Shaggy” Gossard, 53, and Paul Wilkinson Jr., 49, talked outside about the evolution of local spoken word culture.
Gossard has been part of the scene since it began as poetry slams in 1999. PuroSlam formed with packed rock and punk clubs, where alcohol, not coffee, was served.
He still runs a slam that thrives on competition and rowdy responses from an audience that doesn’t respect the mic. Longtime artists said San Antonio was known as the “heckle dome.”
“It was like a punk-rock ethos,” Gossard said. “As a punk fan of youth, nobody ever told an audience member to not yell at the band. The band had to get you to shut up, not the other way around. That was the attitude that we brought to the poetry slam in San Antonio.”
The movement flourished at other venues. In 2000, crowds packed El Toro and Sam’s Burger Joint on Broadway for several years. They flowed to On the Half Shell on Navarro Street and Bubblehead Tea on South Presa. Years later, poets of all ages converged at Barrio Barista on Culebra.
In 2012, Martinez, Wilkinson, and other local poets started Blah Poetry as an open mic space.
Wilkinson said they started it to help newcomers get better so they could go and compete. They encouraged fledgling poets to read twice. If their poems needed a rewrite, they’d have them go outside, practice, and perform again at the end of the show. During COVID, Wilkinson said they pivoted to a podcast and Zoom performances on Facebook.
“There’s been a great desire to get past it and back to life,” Wilkinson said.
Texas, be the role model for the beautiful, bold-a** cast iron melting pot America wants to be.
For a hip-hop and Baptist church vibe, 2ND Verse at the Continental Cafe and Event Center on Rittiman Road was the place. Fans can find that atmosphere at the Upstage Comedy Club on second Fridays with Andrea “Vocab” Sanderson, San Antonio 2020-2023 poet laureate, and Gloria “Glo” Miles.
The duo co-hosted 2nd Verse every second Friday at the Continental Cafe, which closed after 14 years. In 2011, the National Poetry Awards chose the venue as Best Open Mic in America.
Now, Sanderson and Miles host the monthly event with DJ Anthony “Mr. G.” Gordon.
Sanderson said they wanted to bring back urban open mic in more of a nightlife setting.
“Poets in this city are good storytellers,” Sanderson said. “They develop a narrative to express their feelings, where they bring in their life experiences, coupled with what they see happening on a national level. It’s a place of honesty. You’re getting their authentic selves.”
At open mic night, some penned last-minute thoughts on notebook paper and napkins minutes before going on stage, rewriting until the words sounded right. A crowd of 30 people clapped when Sanderson paid tribute to the queen of swing, Ella Fitzgerald, through song and verse.
“We cut our teeth in the city that respects you if you bring it to the stage,” Miles said. “But if you’re not that good, it can be a rough city.”
“Tamara the Teacher” Brown talked about her experience as a female in the military in a poem called “Resilience.” She spoke of sexual assault and harassment that left her feeling drained, near the edge of defeat.
She found solace in encouraging words from a high-ranking male officer.
He assured her that she was stronger than her offenders.
“If they ever attempt to victimize you, you tell them this: that you are the definition of resilience,” Brown said. “So, I wrote my name behind it, so I’ll always be reminded of my ability to bounce back from adversity.”
Texas, y’all, emphasis on the all.
Marcos Cervantes, an associate professor at the University of Texas at San Antonio, deeply respects those with the courage to pen their life on paper, step on stage and reveal their innermost secrets and thoughts. Cervantes, aka “Mexstep,” has performed rap with many local spoken word artists.
He fondly remembers hearing local poets like Nephtalí De León, Carmen Tafolla, Ariana Brown, Norma Cantu, Sanderson and Miles. Cervantes is inspired by the tight-knit community of artists who share joy, pain, history and education with audiences. He’s been embraced by those, he said, “stand and speak about social conditions” people face every day.
“Poetry has allowed communities to voice issues that are going on within the living spaces they are in,” Cervantes said. “Poets have been able to express that in ways that a political speech or discourse might not be able to. I think the artistic complexities of poetry, being able to tap into our humanity, is something that allows these messages to have strength and impact people.”
Cervantes understands the rush from forming lines, writing, playing with words and creating phrases in a way that can spark emotions.
“It’s one thing to write it, but it’s another thing to say it,” he said. “And to find your rhythm that really conveys that meaning and helps evoke emotions so you can really give the audience an experience.”
Texas, you hate yourself for everything you’ve become, but I’ll never leave you.
After Orduña ended his set, the crowd trickled outside into the sweltering night. Among the group were first-time open mic night patrons Mario Martinez, 50, and Yvette Pabon, 35, who came to support YaYa Frausto.
“I’m at a loss for words,” Martinez said. “All the different stories, all the different views. It’s definitely a learning experience.”
Frausto, 21, spoke about the joy of having her mother — Christie Frausto, 50 — in the crowd. It was her mom’s first time seeing her daughter perform.
YaYa also dedicated a piece, entitled “Dinner,” to her mother. Her works often focus on her heritage.
“It’s burdened me a little bit not being able to experience the same surroundings and culture that everyone who has my DNA has,” YaYa Frausto said.“But, I’m learning.”
Pabon said it was therapeutic listening to the readings. She emphasized the need for kindness.
“You don’t know what people are going through and what they’re carrying until they speak,” she said. “It reminded me that we’re all the same. We all have a cross that we carry. We all have a story.”