Sarah Kay, 2013 Commencement Speaker

Most of us think of poetry as words on a page. But the best poetry comes to life when it is performed — not simply read aloud, but infused with emotion and nuance. Sarah Kay is leading a movement to bring spoken word poetry to a wider audience through her own remarkable work and through the organization she started, Project VOICE (Vocal Outreach into Creative Expression).

In 2011, Kay burst into the national sceen with a TED performance of her poem, "B," which begins, "If I should have a daughter …". An online video of the honest, funny, and moving performance has been viewed more than 2.6 million times. A book of the poem became a number-one Amazon bestseller.

Though Kay was just 23 years old at this performance, she was already considered a powerhouse in poetry circles. She began performing at the Bowery Poetry Club in New York at age 14 and was a featured performer at the 2004 World Youth Report at the United Nations. In 2006, she was the youngest person to compete in the National Poetry Slam. She has been on HBO's Def Poetry Jam and has performed at the Lincoln Center and the Tribeca Film Festival.

Kay has been featured in a wide range of national media and heralded by publications as diverse as Wired, Inc. and Poets & Writers.

But her ambitions stretch far beyond personal success. Through Project VOICE, she has taught thousands of school-age children and young adults across the nation to understand and to create their own spoken word poetry. Through their poetry, she seeks to help them explore their culture and themselves.

For her efforts to expand the reach and power of spoken word poetry, Grinnell College is honored to recognize Sarah Kay.

Transcript

Good morning, esteemed faculty. Good morning, President Kington. Good morning, families, friends, and guests, and good morning, Grinnell's Graduating Class of 2013. Thank you for having me.

What an honor it is to be speaking with you this morning. My name is Sarah Kay, and I am a spoken-word poet, or a performance poet.

I wasn't always a performer. I wasn't always comfortable speaking in front of large groups of people.

I have always been a poet, or a lover of poetry.

When I was a child, before I knew how to write, I used to chase my mother around the house yelling, "Poem," and make her transcribe while I dictated. My mother is an amazing listener. She listened to every silly rhyme I made up, took it seriously, and wrote it down.

My mother and father are not poets. But they knew that I loved poetry. And from kindergarten through fourth grade, every day I took my lunch to school. And one of them would write a poem on a tiny Post-It note and slip it into my lunchbox. They were short poems, silly poems — Dr. Seuss-y or Shel Silverstein-like. Some rhymed, some didn't — the point is that they made poetry into a gift. A gift I waited every day with anticipation. I have hundreds of them from five years of lunchboxes, but the one that I keep tacked to my wall is one my mother wrote one day after some kids at school had been bullying. The note says, "A lion is brave. A mouse can be, too. Courage depends on what you have to do."

I love that poem, for a number of reasons, but the most immediate is that I have a lion, a stuffed animal lion. It was given to me when I was born by my mom's best friend from college. For a long time, it was bigger than I was, and when I was a baby, I dragged it around everywhere. It has these great ears that I would whisper into all the time. All the secrets a kid could gather I poured into that stuffed animal lion's ears. I am now 24 years old. I have performed for hundreds of audiences in venues all over the world. I am a best selling author, I run a small business, I teach students of all ages, and I sleep every night with a stuffed animal lion. Try explaining that to your Friday night date.

Why tell you this? Why admit to an audience full of smart sophisticated strangers — peers of mine — something personal and potentially embarrassing like that?

I get asked that question a lot.

As a spoken-word poet, I write poems that are personal, and I share them in front of audiences. It is often terrifying. The first time ever I performed spoken-word poetry was when I was 14 years old. I wore baggy clothes and no makeup, and sometimes boys teased me for looking like a guy. I wrote a poem it, about being made fun of. I shared it in a room full of other teenagers. After the performance, I was still nervous and shaking, but a girl in a baggy, heavy sweatshirt tapped me on the shoulder, looked me squarely in the eyes and said, "Hey, I really felt that." So much of our lives are spent trying to hide parts of ourselves we think should be attached to shame. When I chose not to hide it, it allowed someone else to say, "Me, too."

I discovered that I write poetry whenever there is something I am having trouble understanding. It is as if I am showing all of my work on a math problem. I write a poem and say, "Here, this is what I have got so far. I haven't solved it yet, but I am working on it." When that girl spoke to me, it was as if she was saying, "I am working on that, too. Thanks for sharing so I can build on it."

When I was asked to be a speaker at this year's commencement, I was worried somebody had made a mistake. I asked, "Do you guys know that I am 24?" I suspect they wanted someone of the same generation, just a couple years out, to be able to say, "Look, I am still here, it's not so bad. Here's what I've been doing since I graduated. Here's what you need to know to survive."

I worried a lot about what wisdom I have possibly garnered in just three years that I could give anyone. I argued with them. I don't have anything figured out. So instead, I want to share two things I have got so far. I haven't solved anything yet, but it's what I use to help me navigate.

One is the importance of listening. I listen to others, and I listen to myself. Two is the importance of mentors. I say thank you to the mentors I have, I seek the mentors I need, and I am a mentor to others.

What do I mean when I say listen to others? I think it is really easy to look at others, to talk about others, to stalk others' Facebook accounts, to envy others or pity others without ever listening.

Right now you may have found a group of friends who have the same interests as you, maybe the same background or ethnic group or the same religion or politics, the same passions. That's such a gift that college gives us — finding our tribe. The world outside of college has a lot of other kinds of people, and it would be a shame not to spend time meeting and working with folks who are different from you. It takes a lot more energy to listen to people, especially people outside your tribe, than it does to only look at them. Think about seeing a coin sitting on a table. You can see one side of it. To see both sides requires balance. It requires spinning. It requires constant motion and negotiation.

It is easy to look at someone and see only their privileges and to think their path has been nothing but roses. You never know what their personal battles have been. It is easy to look at someone and see only their lack of privileges to underestimate what other privileges they have that are invisible to us. It is too easy to make assumptions. It is more difficult to consider more than just a glance.

This is the difference between thinking you know and wanting to learn more. When you listen carefully to people, you have a better chance of seeing more sides. You get to learn all the more about that person, about what the world looks like through their eyes. Your initial perception of their privilege or non-privilege is not the whole story.

"A lion is brave," my mother writes. A mouse can be, too. Courage depends on what you have to do." "Look at how much success that person has. Look at the job they have got. Look at the paycheck they receive. It is because they come from so much privilege." Since leaving school, I have heard this a lot — the attaching of shame to privilege or vice versa. "Look at the way that person dresses. Look at that person's background. It's clear they are underprivileged." I hear that, too — attaching shame to a lack of privilege. These comments are fleeting and casual, and for the most part I've found that privilege is not something many people want to talk about. It is at the top of a list of what we believe is shameful.

I have been at a table full of people I love when someone suggests something I can't afford, and I felt shame at being the only one unable to afford it. But I have been at another table full of people I love who talk about hating their jobs, and I felt guilty about having the privilege of a job that I adore. Every person alive has certain privileges and lacks others. One of the things I have been trying to do is stop attaching shame to it — instead, to treat it like a coin I need to keep in constant motion in order to view both sides.

On a daily basis, I try to examine my own privileges, to take ownership of them, give thanks for them, try to make use of them. It takes work. But I want to be as diligent as possible because the work is important. An awareness and acknowledgment of privilege and the role it plays in my life enables me to be a better listener. I listen to others to help me see more of the privileges I'm not even aware I have. I also examine the places where I lack privilege and the things I've had to overcome and still have to overcome. I am trying to learn how to own all of it.

When you head out into the world, it will be up to you to decide who you listen to, how you listen, and when you listen.

Don't be tricked into thinking that certain people deserve less of your listening.

Don't be tricked into thinking you can read someone without listening.

Don't be tricked into thinking it is always your turn to talk. Sometimes your privilege means that it is your turn to listen.

My work in schools brings me to places all over the globe. In one of my travels, I was working in a school in Hawaii, where I learned the word kuleana. It means a lot of things, but it roughly translates to the intersection of privilege and responsibility — the honor of having a responsibility. It allows me to think about what I am doing, how I am able to do it. And it allows me to be grateful for the task.

I know how lucky I am to get to travel the world, and share my art, and teach students and learn.

I know how rare this life is.

I know how lucky I am that I was taught as a young person that I have value. There are so many young people not told that.

I own these privileges. I work with other young people so they know their voices are valid and necessary, that there are people who really do want to listen.

I also work on listening to myself. When I graduated college, a lot of friends had a clear idea of what the definition of success was. It was getting through medical school and one day becoming a doctor. It was winning a Tony for a Broadway musical. It was getting hired as a journalist for The New York Times. I did not have any clue as to what my definition of success was. I could make something up based on what I heard or read. I could say, "I'' know I'm a success when I win a Pulitzer." What has proven more helpful to me is not defining success now and then searching for it; it is allowing success to redefine itself again and again by listening to myself, by checking in over and over and saying "How do I feel about this?" Sometimes the answer is "Wow, I don't like this." Or the answer is "This makes me really happy. I love doing this. Why do I love doing this? What is it about this that is bringing me joy and feels meaningful? What do I need to do to find more opportunities to do this?"

Of course, if you want to be a doctor or a journalist or a social worker or anything at all, I salute you for having that clarity of vision. I am not saying you should not have goals, but rather that by listening to myself, I can tell when I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, for now success is when I am working on things that bring me joy and meaning. I might find that joy and meaning in the most unlikely of places, but invariably I find it when I am listening carefully to myself.

There is an author by the name of Simon Sinek who says that people don't buy what you do, they buy why you do it. I believe this to be true. For me the what, the where, even the how has changed. The why has not. The reason why I get on a stage or why I step foot in the classroom has not changed. Figuring out that why is what I am listening for.

Several years ago my organization, Project V.O.I.C.E., was asked to perform in a middle school in Southern California. Nobody at that school had ever seen spoken-word poetry before. We performed our set, and afterwards teachers and students told us how much they enjoyed it. A year went by, and we were invited back to the school to perform again. We were thrilled. Whenever Project V.O.I.C.E performs at a school, we always take a moment to see if anyone in the audience wants to come on stage to perform their own poem. We never know when there might be a poet in the audience who's been waiting for an opportunity to share their work.

The first time we visited the school, nobody volunteered, which is understandable. They had never seen or heard of this art form before. But a year later, when we returned, we were performing on stage, and we asked if there was anyone who wanted to come up and share. As soon as I finished asking the question, a little boy came leaping toward the stage. He didn't even raise his hand or wait for me to call on him. When he got on stage, he was breathless. I asked his name. He said, "I wrote this poem the day after you left last year, and I have been waiting all year to share it with you." It is moments like this that remind me why I do what I do. The potential to have that kind of impact is overwhelming. It is my privilege and my responsibility, my kuleana.

I know that at a school like Grinnell, you understand the value of community and mentors. In a graduating class of 325, you have had the opportunity to know each other intimately, to spend considerable time finding the role models and mentors that are available to you. That might be what you are most terrified of. Leaving this safe place where all of your close friends and mentors are at your fingertips. I know that was one of my biggest fears when I graduated. What a blessing to receive this kind of education. Not the stuff in textbooks — you could have read that on your own — but the access to people who believe in you, who are giving you the tools you need to approach the obstacles life throws at you.

They are your professors, who tirelessly listen and take seriously all your ideas and papers.

They are your friends, who stay up all night with you while you struggle with heartache.

They are your family, who work to support you and have faith that whatever it is you are doing here in Iowa is what you are supposed to be doing.

There are a lot of happenings that came before this.

There will be a lot of happenings after this. Right now you are in the middle of graduating from college. You are in the middle of a happening that will not happen again. You are in the middle of a happening that would not be if not for the mentors you have had.

Say thank you to them today, tomorrow, as often as you can.

As you leave college, you will be responsible for seeking out the mentors you need. They are there. If you are listening to others, if you are listening to yourself, you will be able to find them. It will be up to you to reach out to them. I never knew I would find a mentor in an entrepreneur-marketing guru. I don't know anything about that, but I needed him. I did not expect to find a mentor in a high school chemistry teacher or a professional freestyle rapper. Don't just look for mentors in your profession or career; don't just look for mentors who you think can help you get jobs. Look for mentors willing to listen to you and who listen to themselves.

Last week, Grinnell alumnus Dorje Gurung '94 was arraigned in Doha, Qatar, and held in jail as the result of a misunderstanding. It takes immense courage to turn a difficult situation into an opportunity to teach. Grinnell played an enormous role in procuring his freedom, banding together and organizing a support group, petitions, advocacy networks and legal defense. Dorje writes about what a privilege it was for him to receive the education he did. It is what drives him to give back. He has been working as a teacher and wants to make education accessible for Nepali children to say thank you for the mentors he has had by becoming a mentor himself.

You do not have to be a teacher to be a mentor. When I started sharing poetry around the world, I discovered that there were people who had started considering me a mentor, and a familiar terror crept up in me. I said, "Don't follow me. Don't follow me. I don't know what I am doing yet. I am 24. I haven't figured anything out." But here's what I've learned: you can be a mentor when you are 24. You can be a mentor when you are 21 or seven. You can be a mentor to someone older than you, someone younger, someone in a completely different career field. It doesn't mean you have to have it all figured out. A mentor is someone who is willing to share and willing to make themselves into a home, into a safe place for someone to seek refuge. You are a mentor when you are willing to say "This is what I've got so far. I haven't solved it yet, but I am working on it. I invite you to build upon it."

There is a way to say thank you for what others have shared with you. It is your kuleana, your privilege and your responsibility.

I grew up about five blocks north of the World Trade Center. On September 11, 2001, I was 13 years old, at school in French class. I watched the smoke clouds envelop lower Manhattan from the window of my classroom. The day was chaos, my family was finally reunited, and we spent the night in my grandmother's house uptown, away from the smoke and fire. My father is 6'4", 200-plus pounds, and not used to not being in control. He paced the tiny living room for two whole days, watching the news, wringing his hands, and finally he decided he needed to get back to the house.

We didn't know whether the apartment windows had been left open, whether everything we owned was covered in ash. All we had with us were the clothes on our backs, and he said he would go downtown, get a change of clothes for each of us, get his bike out of the basement and bike back up town. Of course, it sounds silly in retrospect. It was two days after the attack. Nobody had any information yet, nobody was allowed to go downtown. We could have borrowed clothes. But my father was sick of feeling useless and helpless.

It took him hours to get downtown, and the area was a ghost town. The neighborhood was a war zone: soldiers with guns were everywhere; damaged cars were stacked on top of each other in front of our door; ash and soot and trash covered everything; there was no electricity in any of the buildings. My father describes it as though it was a post-apocalyptic science fiction terrain.

With no electricity, there was no elevator or light in the stairwell, the air smelled of burning debris. My 6'4", 200-pound father was shaking by the time he got upstairs. He found a backpack, he put in a change of clothes for each member of the family, he made sure the windows were closed — and then he caught sight of my lion. He did not know if he would ever be back in our house again. He did not know what the future held. He took out his change of clothes and put in my lion instead. He zipped the backpack up as far as he could and left the lion with his head sticking out. He got on the bike, and when made his way back up through the dust and ash and clouds and ghosts, this stuffed animal lion perched his head on my father's shoulder. My father says the only way he made it back out was by whispering to the lion's ears the entire time, "We're going to make it, you and I. We're going to be okay."

Today I am a 24-year-old woman who sleeps with a stuffed animal lion because it is a daily reminder to me that everyone has a story I haven't heard yet. It is a daily reminder that courage depends on what you have to do. Now to the Class of 2013, have the courage to listen to each other, to listen to yourself. Have the courage to say "thank you" for the mentors you have, to seek the mentors you need. Have the courage to be a mentor for those that need you.

The very first person to teach me what it means to be a mentor was the principal of my elementary school. At the time I did not realize this is what she was teaching me because I was 5, but she was the purest advocate for children. She would give the 5-year-old as much time as a 35-year-old administrator. I grew up in New York City and attended an international school, which meant my teachers were from all over the world. This particular teacher was an Indian woman, and she used to wear saris to school every day. A sari is the traditional dress that Indian women wear. Lots of draping fabric, bright colors, made of cotton and silk — it is what I associate most strongly with her. She passed away a year ago.

I don't think I truly understand what an important mentor she was until she was already gone. I have been thinking about her a lot. To end today, I would like to read a poem I wrote for her. I dedicate it to you today.

I was visiting a school in Northern India when I heard it, for the first time in ages.

It was barely audible over the shouting of children, the squeals of laughter bubbling up from the schoolyard through the classroom window, but it was there.

The swish of silk saris and the jingle-jangle of bangles on thin wrists like wind chimes.

This is what learning sounds like. I remember.

I remember when I was five years old the principal of our junior school was Mrs. Rivera.

She was an Indian woman the size of a nightlight. She glided like a sailboat through the hallways of our school.

Once when I got close enough to grab a fistful of her draping silk sari, I lifted it to try to see if she had any feet at all. I thought she floated.

We begged to be sent to her office. The hanging plants were like a jungle above our heads, her quiet laughter. Adults needed an appointment. We did not.

And even when she was in a grown-up meeting, all it took was a gentle knock on the door and a peek around the corner, and she was off, calling "Sorry, dear, we have to reschedule. I have to meet with someone about a very important matter. It is about a gold star, it's about a new diorama, it's about a finished reading book one level higher than last time!"

She knew every student by name. She visited every classroom. She spoke to us as if we were scholars, artists, scientists, athletes, musicians, and we were. My world was the size of a crayon box. It took every color to draw her.

Once on a New York City sidewalk, a group of women in brightly colored saris walked by, and someone shouted, "Look, mom, look at all those principals."

My world was the size of a classroom, it was as tall as I could stretch my fingers, calling "Please, pick me to be the one to show Mrs. Rivera, please let me be the one to read to show her what I know.

C-L-O-T-H, clothes: Shirts, pants, socks, shoes.

Animals: Cat, dog, bird, fish. Look how much I know."

She brought us guests, artists, a petting zoo. They unpacked the cages in the parking lot while we were still tucked up in our classrooms, unawares.

The bunnies and guinea pigs poked out their noses, but Mrs. Rivera came to pause in front of the llama cage. She and the llama considered each other for a long time before she asked whether or not he was tame enough to be brought inside. The trainers laughed and told her, "Yeah, he's plenty tame, but he doesn't know how to walk up stairs." So she led him to the elevator.

When the door slid open on the second floor, there stood Mrs. Rivera in a bright pink sari with gold bangles, and a llama on a leash.

She floated from classroom to classroom. We stared, cheered, laughed and shouted. We tugged at her sari shouting, Ms. Rivera, "What is that? Where did it come from?"

She made us wonder, she made us question, she made us proud of what we had learned: clothes, shirts, pants, socks, shoes, saris. Animals: cat, dog, bird, fish, llama. Look how much I learned.

She taught us to share and to listen to each other when someone else is speaking and then she let us go. We were dandelion seeds released to the wind. She asked for no return.

We are saplings now, with gentle hands.

The girl with bright pink cheeks and flower hairpins, she now works in an orphanage in Cameroon.

The boy with the color-order markers is a graphic designer in Chicago.

The one with the best diorama now an animal activist in Argentina.

The one who loved to read out loud, now a poet in Iowa.

She let us fly. And so I find myself in front of a classroom. My students tug at my sleeves and ask me, "Miss — Do all poets wear glasses and have crazy hair?"

I pray for patience, I pray for wisdom, to find a way to tame all of the peculiar animals of this world, to coax them enough to brave the elevator, to watch the doors slide open to my students' gaping mouths, all their wild wonder.

They worry about everything.

They worry about their grades. They worry about what to write.

They worry about who likes whom. They talk over each other until I cannot hear them.

I tell them, "Listen! Listen to each other like you know you are scholars, artists, scientists, athletes, musicians. Like you know you will be the ones to shape this world, to show me how many colors you know how to draw with. Show me how proud you are of what you have learned, and I promise I will do the same.

Congratulations and the best of luck to Grinnell's graduating class of 2013. [Applause]