Word of mouth: the joy of reading aloud

Our relationship with language begins with the spoken word. To children, words are most magical when they make stories, especially when they are delivered in an energetic and expressive fashion. This enables children to better empathize with the characters and to fully immerse themselves in the story.

But as we mature, so does our interaction with words. Most of us crawl into quiet corners and read to ourselves. It is undoubtedly an intimate experience—we create voices and rhythms in our heads and enter into the mesmerizing narrative world. However, we become far more discrete members of this world. Our voices are silenced and our reactions are subtler, often channeled through smiles or an eager flip of a page.

For a while I felt that reading to oneself was the most effective way to interact with a text. I thought that it was challenging to relate to or feel through a voice other than one’s own. And besides, I had already developed a comfortable relationship with the printed word. Its form is permanent and weighty and allows me to manipulate and absorb each word at a time. Spoken words, however, appeared far less approachable. For when words are voiced, their existence is seemingly fleeting. You cannot casually ponder them, and you must accept the immediate reaction you receive from them. But this, I learned, is the very restriction that makes the spoken word so fascinating.

In the past year, I began the adventure of attending spoken word and poetry slam events in New York City. I first came across the Cornelia Street Cafe, which has a lovely and intimate downstairs area narrowly encased by brick walls that holds readings and music performances. Its soothing, dark atmosphere comically contrasts with the boisterous host of the poetry reading series. She announces the readers in the dramatic manner of a television show host, an attitude that stresses that these readers are indeed performers. I had not heard someone read to me in a while, and I would no longer be emphasizing excitement of plot. as I did as a child. The voice would no longer be the means to get to the story—rather, the voice would become a story in and of itself. The voice is not meant to provide clues or signs of how to feel or what to expect. Each voice can be unique, for it is engendered by the writer.

The first time I sat through a poetry reading, I was amazed by how words can be dramatically transformed when read aloud. Every word is charged with emotion, and the language is often more exaggerated and explicitly expressed out loud than it would be on paper. Words are made more physical—they are accompanied by sounds, body movements, fiery or soft gazes, and wide or subtle lips. From my experience, I have noted that the best readers are those who take advantage of the physicality of words, for they impress audiences more forcefully, rendering those fleeting reactions into longer-lasting moments.

At first, because these readings were so new to me, every word sounded fresh, every verbal emphasis came off as interesting. Yet as I began to attend these events more often (i.e., at the Women Poets at Barnard series, the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, and Alpha Delta Phi lit nights), I came to realize that instead of finding more subtleties that differentiate each voice, I found several similar voices.

Many people, but not all, appear to be drawn to the same specific lyrical manner of reading. Though challenging to describe, I will attempt to do so: it involves an “edgy” skill that shifts rhythms and places long, sensual emphases on words. Although the style is expressive, its frequent use drains the work of its emotion. Perhaps these writers are overemphasizing the act of reading as a performance rather than as a mode of expression. They focus too much on how the words sound rather than how they feel.

No longer children, we do not need emotional cues or vocal patterns when people read to us. So I leave you with John Keating’s advice from “Dead Poets Society”: project your “BARBARIC YAWP OVER THE ROOFTOPS OF THE WORLD.”

Elisa de Souza is a Barnard College sophomore. Weaving Words runs alternating Wednesdays.