On Monday night, a young man who calls himself an “unsigned artist” on Clubhouse was in a room (similar to a chat) with me and 250 others.
The topic was speaking with confidence.
The man raised his hand, asking for feedback on a poem about the ruthless streets and people he’s known all his life.
Clubhouse is an audio-only app, so everyone in the room could only hear this man’s voice.
A deep baritone enveloped with the thickness of the streets.
His avatar was a logo; we had no idea what he looked like.
We went merely by the sound of his voice, his mumbled words, his quick cadence.
It was nearly impossible to understand his words.
He raced awkwardly through his poem and asked for feedback.
He apologized for sounding “so ghetto."
One of the moderators on stage with me asked him respectfully to slow down, enunciate and recite the poem again.
The feedback came in heaps of praise and love for this young man who...
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