Sister Spit
October 8, 2009
I’m an anachronism at the mercy of my youth. The year I was born ensured I’d never see some of my favorite bands live, as they’ve long since disbanded or worse. I missed some fantastic trends and discovered some fascinating names after they’d perished. One thing I missed that has haunted me is Sister Spit. (wiki def: lesbian-feminist spoken word and performance art collective.) Founded by one of my favorite authors, Michelle Tea, I hated having missed the collection of women writers and the gathering that came to see them.
And then? They came back. Sister Spit Next Generation.
When BitchMedia sent out a tweet with a link to an article called Sister Spit: Then & Now I was on my lunch break and made a quick note in my Awesome Monster Journal to read the post and also post something of my own on how bitter I am that I’ve missed out on all those tours. ’Cuz I’m a resentful, sulky brat on a good day. When I returned the office and clicked the link I nearly short circuited when a tour schedule appeared. I’d missed the Los Angeles date by six days but before deep disappointment and self-loathing could fully take over, I saw a Claremont date for the following night.
So on Wednesday evening Kiddo and I rushed home, packed some snacks and juice boxes, and followed our Google Maps directions to Scripps College. After only a moment of wandering the (gorgeous) campus I passed an open door, leading to a small auditorium that housed about ten ladies ranging from femme to butch. A tiny, wild haired woman in glasses was up front, just before the stage, messing with a projector. I knew that was Michelle and still I guided Kiddo into the room slowly, lest I disturb a play in practice or a meeting I had no business barging into. We took third row seats and waited.
As the room filled up, the people in front of us were nice enough to keep the seats in front of Kiddo empty so she could see the stage. I was damn near losing my shit in anticipation. As the crowd grew, everyone that entered the room seemed to be greeting at least a handful of other people. Maybe the lesbian/artist scene is much smaller in Claremont but I like to think they were mostly all students there. Kiddo and I were virtual strangers to what felt like a room full of friends. And yet I’ve never really felt as welcome anywhere. She was the only kid in attendance and numerous people would wave and make faces at her, causing her to blush and bulldoze into my rib cage. Beth Lisick, one of the readers, sat next to me and offered, with a smile, a heads up on the graphic nature and partial nudity that could be on stage tonight. I promised Kiddo was more mature than most freshmen I know and had no worry about her seeing or hearing anything the room could offer.
Girls smiled and waved and said hi. This doesn’t happen. Ever. Not to me. Everyone was so fucking friendly and happy that I think if they’d allow it, I never would have left.
In what I’m positive is the wrong order:
Beth Lisick took the stage and read an absolutely hilarious excerpt from Everyone in the Pool about an internal struggle with whether or not she (or the character, I’m not sure) was bisexual. I was laughing my fool head off partially with her and partially at myself.
Ariel Schrag, a fucking brilliant and funny-as-fuck comic writer showed a page for page excerpt on a projector and read in a multitude of perfectly comical pitches from her book Potential. She left off on a cliffhanger that ensured we’d all run out for the book immediately. It has been added to the grillionty page Amazon wish list though it will never be as fun to read as it is to have it read to you by the author herself.
Kirya Traber approached the mic with a small chapbook in hand, both of which, she soon ditched. She projected spoken word by memory across the room and shook me to the core of my being and brought tears to my eyes and nervous shakes to my fingers. I absolutely cannot accurately express just how profoundly she struck me. Often times a live performance gets deep under my skin but I felt something I’d yet to feel toward music or comedy or poetry – a deep sense of gratitude. You need Kirya in your life. You will be a better person for it. How do I know this? Because you’re human.
This is one of two poems she read: http://www.bodydiscrimination.com/download/creative/KiryaTraber-LaUltimaPalabra.pdf. Though the written word will never, ever do justice to seeing and hearing her, it is so very worth the read.
And because I’ve deleted a dozen sentences to attempt to say something about this piece, I’m admitting defeat and simply going to input a few parts:
“In a world where beauty is a subtraction problem
of infallible ideals minus
the body you were born with
I am not just unusual
I am a stunning abomination.”
and
“and if I make you uncomfortable
is it because I so greatly call to question
your shallow definition of what it means to be woman?
or because you can’t handle the fact
that my unabashed confidence makes me so damn sexy?”
Ben McCoy lip-synced to an audio reading of her piece French Drag Queens, My New Best Friends, which is easily leads a listener along the path of something humorous until it punches you deliciously in the gut at the end. I can speak for the room on this one – we had no idea if we were supposed to applaud or remain seated and slack-jawed. We did a combination of both.
Michelle Tea, host & author extraordinaire, read from a review she wrote of a show at the end of Fashion Week by The Gossip. I was selfishly hoping she’d read from The Beautiful because it’s her only book I don’t own/haven’t read but she could read in an alternate language on moss patterns in the South Pacific and I would have listened.
Rhiannon Argo read from her debut novel The Creamsickle while a kickass slideslow played behind her of women in various dress/poses/places made messes with Popsicles. I’d run into, almost literally, Rhiannon in the bathroom before the show. Had I known I’d adore her so much within a few hours, I might have tried to put my tongue in her mouth.
Sara Seinberg (doesn’t seem to have an up to date site of any kind) read from her very original modern tale of Greek Gods among us in Brooklyn. She was a fucking stud.
Post-show, when I’d normally slink out the side door no matter how bad I wanted to interact with the performers, especially in a tiny venue such as this, I loaded up my fifty-one pounds of sleeping, dead weight, took a few deep breaths and approached Kirya. It took a while to catch her alone but I would have waited all night if needed just to tell her, thank you. She gave me her card, which basically means she’s on board with me buying everything she’s ever touched so I can slowly cultivate and stroke this monster girlcrush I’ve got on her.
I couldn’t possibly leave, despite my numbing biceps, without thanking Michelle as well. For being alive and writing and Rent Girl and organizing a show such as this and bringing it to southern California and Rose of No Man’s Land which is a great book I used to introduce my little sister to her writing and The Passionate Mistakes & Intricate Corruption of One Girl in America which was the first book I ever found of hers and read greedily in my hairdresser’s chair when I was seventeen…
Among other things.
It was a wild good time.
No, fuck that.
It was an emotional, comedic, gut-wrenching, inspiring, motivating, warming, eye-opening fucking HELL of a night and I am fortunate as all get out to have been there.
-CJ
