Cover Road:Cover - Teen Ink

Slammed by Hanna Telander, Glen Ellyn, IL
The host’s untamed hair bent in time with his
strides as he glided up to the microphone. His
words seemed to drag as he spoke. Distinctly
annunciating every consonant, he announced the
scores of the poets prior to his entry. His free hand
lingered on his waxy dreadlocks. It felt as if he were
purposefully dawdling to build up my growing anxiety.
I knew this was it; there was nothing more that he
could possibly do to put off my moment. My name
left his lips so definitely and so genuinely that it
sounded as if he had known me intimately for years.
His voice was a pistol at the beginning of an Olympic
race; it filled me with relief, eagerness, and fear. Fear
that the words that I had been analyzing so diligently
for the past few months wouldn’t stream out of my
mouth in a fashion identical to the host’s. Fear that
this Chicago crowd wouldn’t be as open-minded as
they looked. Fear that the saying “Don’t let the fear of
striking out keep you from playing the game” was, in
Photo by Jessica Chantler, Corvallis, OR
form a huddle and link arms for
the return crossing. We wade into
the river but suddenly only one
of us is tall enough to stand! The
current pulls us downstream.
Frantically, I kick as hard as I
can to help propel us.
I want out!
* * *
The ride back is
four miles, and we
have the luxury
of vans due to an
approaching thunderstorm.
I’ve never experienced
anything quite as wonderful as
that heater.
We hurry to our tents. The rain
turns from a trickle to a torrent.
A flash. A boom. The girls search
through soaked gear scattered
around our parachute shelter.
The current
pulls us
downstream
The rain is pouring down. I
change into dry clothes only to
be drenched again.
“I CAN’T FIND MY SHOES!”
And this is how I end up standing
in the mud in my wool socks,
with everything I am
carrying scattered
around me. I wonder
if I will survive.
Airman Heath spots
me from across the
Instructors’ Meadow.
“WHERE’S YOUR
BUDDY!” I can hear him only
faintly over the tremendous storm.
“I DON’T KNOW!” I bellow
back, close to tears from cold and
fright.
He scoops up my stuff and
leads me up the hill like a child. I
don’t bother with my flip-flops.
fact, garbage. But then again, if that phrase was
garbage in this lecture hall full of authors, whose fault
would that be?
* * *
“You look a little pale. Are you all right, Hanna?”
She spoke with concern. When I couldn’t answer in a
steady voice, I really started to second-guess the confidence
I had gone to bed with last night. I glanced
out the cab’s window at the snowflakes that resembled
white satin falling from the gray sky. For so early
in the afternoon, it was the darkest gray I had seen in
a long time.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said as convincingly as I could.
“Well, you don’t look fine. It’s okay to be nervous,
love. I would be nervous too if I was reading my poetry
to a room full of college kids.” Aunt Hilary spoke
softly, like she didn’t want the driver to hear. I let my
attention fall on the two names that were carelessly
carved into the pleather seats in a border of a lopsided
heart. I smiled. A sudden jolt quickly
brought me out of my reverie.
“Columbia College, right? Up here on
the left?” The cabbie’s thick city accent
made my shoulders tense up. I got out of
the cab, which drove off even before I
closed the door. I watched my shoes join
and part with the slush until we reached
the opaque double doors.
We entered in silence, but chaos met us with open
arms. Clusters of students wore matching shirts with
their team names, team sponsors scrambled around in
search of a schedule, individual poets stood in a
group, yet each was staring at his or her own markedup
sheet of notes.
It suddenly occurred to me that that’s where I
should be. I nervously stumbled to the front table and
received a “Hello My Name Is” sticker; my hands
trembled so that although my name is only five letters
long, it was completely illegible. I dragged my reluctant
feet to join the rest of the slammers.
Orange plastic chairs scuffed across the linoleum as
friends bunched together, leaving empty scars across
the floor. The florescent lights went out, and hollers
filled the lecture hall, a sign of readiness. Behind the
low stage was a window that was shared with the train
station next door. It allowed little light, and the exposed
pipes rattled and shrieked when the train passed. The
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When contemplating death, who
cares about shoes?
After hours, we reach the top of
the hill. The boys have managed
to start a fire under a parachute
tarp. It is small, with no guarantee
it will survive for two minutes,
but it is a fire.
We huddle in our group of 48,
as close to the fire as we can get.
I stand in the innermost ring,
holding a poncho over the fire
to protect it from any water that
might drip through the smoke
hole in the tarp.
I am freezing, my sleeping bag
will be soaked tonight, I can’t find
my sneakers, I have smoke in my
face, tears in my eyes, and snot
pouring out of my nose. But I am
surrounded by my team. I am
okay. We’ll all be okay. ✎
All that
was left was
me and the
microphone
conversations were uninterrupted by this, and I
observed, as worry waved through my body, I might
be the only newbie in the room.
The first individual poet was introduced and
stepped onto the stage, followed by two teams and
another individual. Suddenly it occurred to me that I
could count those before me on one hand. Just five
left before I had to go up there and spill my heart out
to a room of strangers and their families?
Five: A boy about 17, with dark hair in an unkempt
ponytail at the nape of his neck. His ashen skin awkwardly
combined with a dark T-shirt that clung to his
sickly ribs.
Four: A young woman of 15, with tightly woven,
ornate braids that accented her dark, shadowy skin.
Her torn, fitted sweatshirt said “Stimax,” which I later
learned was her team name. She spoke of peace and
drugs in free-flowing verses that riled up the audience.
Three and Two: Boys who could have passed for
mid-twenties, but were 18, decked out in
matching Nike Premiums splattered with
vivid paint. Their jeans were loose, but
their words streamed out continuously and
tediously for what seemed like hours.
One.
One? Really?
I traced a circle on my knee over and
over as the host ascended the stage holding
a coconut banana smoothie.
The music began again and he announced my name
slowly, which – in comparison with my bolt to the
platform – seemed like an eternity. The music faded,
and so did the crowd noise: the chairs, the train, the
rattling and shrieking of the open piping. All that was
left was me and the microphone.
My nerves surged out along with my words; no
stalls, no stumbles, no stutters. And to be honest, I
had never meant anything I said prior to that moment
like I meant the things on the paper crammed in my
pocket that day.
But I didn’t need the paper as a safety net. I didn’t
need the notes on my hand (as illegible as they now
were), nor did I need the applause and the congratulatory
remarks I received after I descended slowly, chin
up, from the platform.
What I did need was that surge. And that’s all
anyone really needs. ✎
Photo by Julia Edelman, Roslyn, NY
APRIL ’09 • Teen Ink
non•fic•tion
07