Saving words
By Melinda Harrell
Published in News on January 26, 2016 1:46 PM
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News-Argus/CASEY MOZINGO
Jamela Lrato performs spoken word at the Arts Council of Wayne County on Jan. 14. She said spoken word has helped her find a sense of belonging in Goldsboro and her poetry has helped her cope in difficult times. Ms. Lrato also makes jewelry, paints and clothing that she sells through her company Divine 9 Design.
Jamela Lrato spent most of her life with a feeling of loneliness.
That nagging sense of isolation plagued her youth, so much so, she lashed out eventually, angry at herself -- from the way she looked to the way she was presented.
It wasn't until she discovered writing and spoken word that her loneliness lifted.
"I have been writing since I was 13, and it came from being bullied," she said.
"When I came (to Goldsboro) -- my parents were in the military and I came here -- and I was picked on a lot because I was a little black girl with big hair."
Ms. Lrato said she tired of the bullies and, instead of going "into a shell," she decided to fight back.
"So I fought back. I used to get in a lot of trouble. I was always a good student, but I got into a lot of trouble. My dad got tired of coming from work to the school to get me out of this trouble so he sat me down one day and asked me why I was so angry. And I told him I hated who I was, I hated how I looked, I hated my name, I hated my fingers, I hated my hair. And so from that moment on he started pushing this material on me to remind me of what he used to say 'the queen inside of me,'" she said.
Her father would give her photographs of black women in history and provide her with books.
"He would give me books to read and most of those books were poetry," she said.
"It could be by female authors or authors that spoke about black females. We went to the public library, and he was a little apprehensive about letting me read this one book, but I liked it because it was purple. And that author was Nikki Giovanni and the name of the book was 'Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day.'"
"Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day" was the beginning for Ms. Lrato. She had read poetry in school like Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe, but the spark of inspiration was not in her heart until Giovanni's poem.
"But I never wanted to write it, I didn't actually want to write poetry until I read Nicki Giovanni's 'Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day' because the actual poem called 'Cotton Candy on a Rainy Day,' that exact day I felt exactly what she was feeling about being lonely, like in a world full of everything you still feel like you are by yourself," she said.
"I felt that. It was so profound and so simple. I knew I could do it."
Her father then began to buy her notebooks -- those notebooks would become her friend and her outlet of expression -- and her work naturally became poetry.
But those notebooks could not heal childhood trauma that, for her, would come in the form of sexual abuse, and ultimately fuel much of her poetic works, but also caused her to sink deeper into the feelings of isolation.
"After that I started to rebel," she said.
"It wasn't my mother's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. Everyone is going through something."
Ms. Lrato got into more trouble, and at 15 years old she underwent a psychological evaluation and was placed in Kennedy Homes in Kinston.
"I got kicked out there, how you get kicked out of a home for bad kids is amazing," she said with a laugh.
"From there I went to juvie and from there I had a choice -- you go to Job Corps or you go to jail, so I went to Job Corps."
Throughout all these trials, she was still writing.
"That made me go further into my shell, and it made me write more," she said.
She went into Job Corps, met her ex-husband and worked a 9 to 5 job. It was not until she met Khalif Goodman in the mall that the idea of presenting her poetry came to the surface. He invited her to the open mic night at Poetry Shangri La, where Los Fogones is today.
"Here is the thing about Khalif Goodman. He has a way of getting you on that mic. He is very aggressive," she said about her reticence to present spoken word initially.
"I get on the mic," she said.
"I thought I was going to fall completely through the floor. I was just going to melt through the floor. I was completely nervous."
The turning point for Ms. Lrato was that evening. Before she stepped behind the microphone, a woman had presented a poem about how she was living with HIV.
"When I got off the mic, she came to me and said, 'You will never understand how much that moved me.'' And I was shocked because this woman poured out her soul about having HIV. I didn't understand how that could be possible. That I could touch her, because I felt like what I was going through was very minuscule compared to what she was going through, but you never know who needs to hear what when you get on that mic and from then on I kept going on the mic after that," she said.
Spoken word became her way of expression and her way to cope. She became less and less lonely, finding her niche in poetry and kindred companionship in other poets.
"At one point, you are excited to go to open mic so you can read what you just wrote because you didn't feel alone anymore," she said.
"I promise you, by the time I got to this town to the time I got on the mic I was all the way by myself. You get this excitement, 'I just wrote this it was deep, I can't wait for everyone to hear it.' It was amazing. That was the beginning of me doing spoken word."
Now, when she stands in front of an audience -- whether it is at open mic nights downtown or in other towns and cities -- her spoken word has rhythm that reverberates through the crowd, and her place is behind the mic.