Open Mic, Zoom Edition

One might think an open mic comes with bongo drums and hushed whispers over a microphone. I certainly thought so last night when I joined a Zoom open mic. Maybe someone would lift up a plate of cookies, and even though not able to share, the Zoom group would understand that this should be an intimate, shared experience. One day, we can go back in person and trip over the microphone cord.

After some trouble logging in, I found myself staring into a Zoom meeting of nine other people. The majority of the people were older men, perhaps in their sixties and seventies. This surprised me. The host was a middle-aged woman who was exceptionally perky and extroverted. Let's call her Margaret.

Margaret started by reading a piece about her father on dialysis, taking place in a nursing home. When she read her piece, she read with enthusiastic fervor, and as I listened, I put together that she was making it comedy. I thought my first critical feedback without saying it out loud: this is going on for too long. It didn't make me uncomfortable, but it made me feel intelligent and seasoned as a writer to have feedback at all.

While Margaret had been speaking, the group chat in the Zoom call had blown up with comments from other writers, all simply quotes from her piece that had stood out to them. Over the course of the two hours I was at the open mic, this was what people did. When someone said something particularly profound, or something that resonated with others, they would type it out in the chat and follow it up by snapping their fingers together in solidarity. I contributed.

One young gentleman who joined later, not an older man, was an exceptionally talented poet. When it was his turn to go, he asked the other writers for three words. Three people shouted out: Salvador Dali. Orange. Clocks.

The poet, on the spot, created a poem using those three words. He tilted his head down, as if in slight prayer, or perhaps a trance. It was incredible. The group chat blew up with praise, and fingers were snapped with enthusiasm. This was art. An open mic, a true performance.

When it was my turn, I decided to read out a piece I wrote for Prose recently. It is called, "Crush". It was relatively popular on Prose, and I thought I'd share. As I spoke, I noticed the group chat was exploding with praise. One young gentleman, who had also joined late and was tuning in from the university close to where I lived, commented: "YESSS GET ON IT!!!!!" I was particularly flattered by this comment, and blushed deeply afterwards. This style continues to be my new foray into writing, and I was happy that it was so popular with strangers. It adds a new flare, being this open to real people, in real time, right in front of me - a tangible community I could make eye contact with, share with an added layer of vulnerability.

The next piece I read, after another round of everyone reading their pieces, was called "Lightning in a Bottle", which I had also written for Prose, this one months ago. While it had won the challenge on Prose, it didn't go over as well with the group - by a long shot. People just seemed depressed after I read it, and I wondered: maybe my new writing style is better. The loose prose I have dabbled in recently may be more relateable. The enthusiastic college student nodded, but did not contribute a comment to the group chat. Later, he read a piece about immigrating to the United States, and used extra flourishes with his hands. I was impressed with the way every performer put added inflections into their pieces when spoken aloud. They all, for the most part, used their hands.

When I signed off after two hours at the open mic, I was bummed about no one liking my second piece, but mostly grateful for the experience.

Zoom is an odd way to perform, but it's the new way. Perhaps I'm contributing something, touching someone. It's rewarding to see the expressions of others; I can only imagine now what they look like, merely reading what is posted to a website.