It’s Sunday night, 7pm. I jump up with the sudden realization that the legendary poetry slam is just getting underway at the Green Mill Jazz Club. I briskly walk the few blocks and find my seat at the bar as the crowd cheers on a 21 year old “Asian from The South”. (He later announces that he is Japanese and lives in North Carolina). He instructs on us how to respond to being called “Chinese” and continues to poke fun at all the racial slurs he endures.
The guy at the bar next to me happens to be from….Minneapolis. He tells me somewhat begrudgingly. “I’m from Minneapolis!” I say in my They-Just-Played-Sunshine-Daydream kind of way.
Turns out he’s only been there eight months, originally from Portlandia, and he’s come to Chicago to escape for the weekend. He works at…and even says it with the appropriate French accent…Targét. The evening becomes a volunteer gig for me as a spokes model for Minneapolis. We talk about “Minnesota Nice.” He says, “A Minnesotan will give you directions to anywhere but their own home.” He winces when I mention Garrison Keillor, as it is for him a shining example of exactly what is wrong with Minnesota. I’m feeling desperate and get a foothold when I offer up the May Day festival at Powderhorn Park. It’s been mentioned to him before and I see a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
The poets rap about Saturday morning cartoons, Southside neighborhoods, The Wizard of Oz and death. I want to give them all 8s and 9s. Another example, he points out, of Minnesota “Nice”. So accommodating, so polite. He is cynical and offers 4s and 5s.
One reason I love the poetry slam on Sunday nights is because it reveals humanity. The poet, the poem and the audience response all slice through the surface flesh and reveal our guts. A poet with stark red-dyed hair and a sunken belly raps about the quality of light in the hallway, the colostomy bag and nightstand full of medications near where her mother lies dying. A young dude with shoulder length hair and a tuque pulled down low is probably Ashton Kutcher and raps about the creation of the universe. The crowd is either silent or scornful or exuberant. It’s a surprise, just like every other human experience.
I want to hug each one - every poet who had the courage to get on stage tonight and all the members of the audience for being willing to bear witness to the stories told. I am accommodating. I do want to be nice and I’m not sure if it is because I am from Minnesota or because I believe in magic.
My new friend newly from Minnesota has a point, though. Another friend, who has lived in Minneapolis for 18 years, has told me how difficult it can be to make your way in Minneapolis as an “outsider”. Perhaps we have mistaken insulated for insular.
As I hopped off the barstool to head home, my last words of encouragement were, “Be a detective. Find out what’s good about Minneapolis.” And my words to you, dear friends from Mpls, is to reach out to those expats who may be feeling a bit chilly in their new home and give them a big hug. Show them what is so magical about Minnesota.
