A Poem Can Change a Life

It was fall of 1999 at Morris Brown College, and I needed extra credit. My African-American Literature professor, Mr. Yancy, offered five percentage points to anyone who read a self-written poem at a Morehouse open mic. I wasn’t shy about public speaking, and writing had quietly grown into an obsession. So this should’ve been easy. But when you’re deep in a story, writing can take you hostage. That day, it did. I left for the event at 7:40 p.m.—just twenty minutes before it ended.

Luckily, Morehouse was only a mile away. I parked, jogged through the doors of what looked like a chapel, and slipped into the back at 7:45. Poets were still on stage, voices echoing over the pews. The room was full—students from all over Atlanta’s campuses. I spotted Mr. Yancy in the front. He saw me, shook his head, smirked. Here he goes again.

He came to the back. “Where you been?”

“I got caught up writing.”

“You trying to get on this mic now? Man, it’s ten minutes left.”

“I know, but I brought something. A poem. I was just late.”

He tilted his head. “You got poems now?”

“I got a few novels, too. But yeah, I got one with me. Wrote it at the end of one of my books.”

He gave me that look—the one teachers reserve for students they want to believe in but can’t yet trust. “Let me see it.”

I handed him Finding the Hidden Soul. He read it slowly, pausing once, twice, and then again longer at the end. He waved the paper.

“Bring this to class tomorrow.”

“But can I still read tonight?”

“No. You’re too late.” Another wave of the paper. “But bring this to class tomorrow.”

The next day, I walked in and handed him the poem. I sat in the back, expecting a lecture or at most a pat on the back.

Instead, Mr. Yancy stood up front and said, “We’re gonna do something different today.”

He picked up my poem, cleared his throat, and without warning, began to read:

“It’s a shame to see that the world has as many problems as it does…” The class fell still. I froze. I hadn’t expected this. “So to pinpoint one thing out would be prejudice…” He stomped his foot, repeated the line, this time with more power. He was performing it. My words. With passion.  “It’s hard to love when you feel there is nothing out there worth loving…”  By the time he finished, the room broke into light applause. Mr. Yancy wasn’t done.

“Did y’all hear this?” he barked. “Let me take y’all through it!”

He dissected the poem line by line, tone by tone, like a sermon. I shrank into my chair, stunned, unsure whether to smile or run.

Then he called me forward. “Marcel, come read it yourself.”

I didn’t want my voice to crack, but I stood tall, unfolded the poem, and read. This time, I owned it. The class clapped harder. And when I finished, he handed the poem to other students, one after the other, coaching each through delivery like it was theater.

That one poem carried us through the whole class. When the bell rang, he called me up again.

“Marcel, you got more of those?”

“Poems? Yeah. Maybe 60.”

“Bring them. Next week. Don’t forget.”

As I turned to leave, I threw one last question over my shoulder: “So, uh... do I get that extra credit?”

He laughed. “Man. You are something else.”

Eventually, I got the extra credit, but more significantly, Mr. Yancy stopped teaching the class his curriculum the next two weeks, and instead, taught the class my poetry.