Clapping for Courage, Investing in Excellence

I don’t believe I’m ever late to a conversation.

Sometimes I intentionally delay my thoughts. When certain topics become popular, they often become oversensationalized. People rush to respond with pure logic, pure emotion, or rigid ideology, and in the process we lose something important: reflection. Listening. Learning.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about gatekeeping.

The other day I hosted an open mic featuring one of my favorite artists of all time. Standing there, watching the room fill with poets and performers, I had a moment of reflection. I realized that I am now part of a community of artists I once could only imagine meeting. Now they are people I call friends. People who support me not just as an artist, but as a human being.

And that kind of community brings responsibility.

After my show last night, my best friend reminded me of something that stopped me in my tracks. The same artists I used to sneak out of the house in high school to go see… now call me to ask which stages they should be on.

Now I have the opportunity to support their art financially.

Now I have the opportunity to amplify their voices through platforms I’ve built.

And in some ways, that makes me what people call a gatekeeper.

I decide who stands on stages affiliated with me.

I decide who gets certain opportunities.

I decide how much artists are paid.

But I don’t believe I decide who is worthy.

The audience decides that.

The art decides that.

What I decide is who I invest in.

And that is a powerful space to be in. But it can also feel heavy.

Because lately, there has been a strong cultural push against gatekeeping. We often hear the idea that there is room at the table for everyone. And to be clear, I absolutely believe that.

But sometimes that belief evolves into something else: the idea that every person deserves every opportunity simply because they want it.

If someone believes they are good enough, if they believe they’ve done enough work, if they feel they deserve the opportunity, then the opportunity should be given.

And if you disagree, you’re labeled elitist.

Sometimes I don’t know exactly where I stand in this fight.

I am part of a collective of artists I’ve grown with for over a decade. These are my comrades. Some people might even call them my relatives because we operate like brothers and sisters. Over the years, I’ve given them opportunities. I’ve put money in their pockets. They’ve done the same for me.

Our relationship is mutually beneficial.

But even within that friend group, I’m intentional about what opportunities I give to whom.

One of my brothers is a rapper. He can write poetry, but he prefers to be seen as a rapper. So when I think about opportunities for him, I’m more interested in showcasing the thing he actually wants to do.

Another friend is building a brand centered on marriage, fatherhood, Christianity, and love. There are certain spaces I curate that simply wouldn’t align with his message or his audience.

Those considerations matter.

I’m also part of a broader community of artists here in Chicago—people I love deeply and have grown alongside since reemerging into the poetry scene in 2020. I’ve watched them develop incredible work and achieve success far beyond anything I’ve personally offered them.

When opportunities arise, I think of them often.

But there are also artists I respect as people whose work I admire, and yet I don’t always believe they’re ready for certain stages I curate.

And that’s where things get complicated.

Because I don’t believe in putting people on stage simply because I like them.

I believe in professional artists doing professional work.

That belief is informed by my own journey:

an English degree,

20 years of writing poetry,

25 years in competitive speech,

years studying great performers,

years studying spoken word, music, and performance art,

and years studying the market—what actually makes audiences leave their homes, buy tickets, and invest in a show.

When someone spends their hard-earned money to attend an event, they deserve excellence.

If I cannot guarantee that level of experience, then I cannot in good conscience put someone on that stage.

That doesn’t mean the artist has no value.

It simply means the stage matters.

Some events are better suited for emerging artists. Some spaces exist specifically for practice and growth. Some rooms allow experimentation without the pressure of high stakes.

And those spaces are important.

I believe poets should be paid.

I believe singers should be paid.

I believe artists should be paid.

But if we’re honest, everything that is bought and sold becomes a commodity at some level.

We often want art to be exempt from that reality. We want art to be worthy simply because it exists.

And in many ways, it is.

But when we ask people to pay for art, we’re also asking them to recognize its value.

I pay more for authentic Mexican dining than Taco Bell because it tastes better, has better ingredients, and offers a better experience.

I pay more for certain clothes because they last longer or are crafted with greater skill.

I would pay far more to see a Beyoncé show than I would for many local singers in my city—not because local singers aren’t talented, but because I recognize the level of genius, discipline, and craftsmanship Beyoncé brings to her performances.

Her excellence justifies the cost.

But in poetry, we sometimes pretend experience doesn’t matter.

We act as though someone writing their first poems deserves the same pay and opportunities as someone who has spent 10, 15, or 20 years honing their craft.

And if you question that idea, you’re accused of gatekeeping.

Here’s the truth.

I do sometimes lean on the same poets for bigger stages. Not because I want to exclude others, but because I know they will deliver excellence.

At the same time, I travel across Chicago from open mic to open mic, constantly meeting new artists and building relationships. When I see someone who leaves me breathless with their work, I make it a point to connect with them and give them opportunities when I can.

But excellence matters.

Even among my closest friends, I’m honest about their performances. If I believe a piece could be stronger, or a performance could be sharper, I say so.

I don’t believe in echo chambers of praise.

I don’t believe every piece of art is meant to be shared.

I don’t believe trying automatically makes s

omething good.

I clap for courage.

But I invest in excellence.

And if we’re honest, most of us operate this way instinctively.

Now I find myself in a season where my influence is growing. My stages are expanding. My responsibility is increasing.

And my desire is not to hold onto these spaces forever.

My desire is to eventually hand them over to artists who can steward them with the same commitment to excellence.

In 2011, I started an open mic at my university that still exists today.

I have nothing to do with it anymore.

The students who run it now probably have no idea who I am. And honestly, they probably wouldn’t care.

But the culture of excellence that was established there still exists.

When poets from Nashville tell me they visited that open mic and how meaningful it was to them, they’re often shocked to learn I founded it.

And I like it that way.

Because this has never been about me.

It has always been about the art.

It has always been about creating spaces where excellence is encouraged and nurtured.

And it’s also about reminding artists that wherever they are in their journey, they are still worthy.

Worthy of growth.

Worthy of discipline.

Worthy of the commitment it takes to become the best version of themselves.

But just like with any other product, you don’t sell an underdeveloped product at a premium price.

That’s unfair to the audience.

And honestly, it can be unfair to the artist too. Because premature praise can create complacency. It can create ego. It can create a slow drift toward mediocrity that ultimately weakens the art form itself.

Maybe that perspective is elitist.

I don’t know.

But it’s where I am in this season.