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An Ode to Curls

in movement

freedom and inspiration flow through them

like something hozier wrote,

or something nina sang,

and it bends and twists like the river that flows through me

containing multitudes in every inch

it grows. kinky, curvy, topsy turvy, voluminous

curls sprout from my head

like waterfalls they flow 

one special, wound up tight 

right above my eyebrow.

–Me, Moss Kuon

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I’ve always liked writing. When I was younger, I’d write stories about my dolls falling in love and the friendships between my stuffed animals.

When I got to middle school, I was introduced to performance poetry and slam. I had always thought poems were something you answered questions about in standardized testing–but reading and watching these amazing poets, my mind was blown.

I wanted to be just like them.

As an autistic person, I’ve always felt a little like an outsider. I had trouble expressing my feelings in ways others understood. Poetry became my coping strategy.

I’d write daily, pouring out everything I couldn’t say out loud. Eventually, I found my voice, but my love for writing remained.

I started to share my work with English teachers, in open mics, and at events like Poetry Out Loud. At first, it was terrifying. I couldn’t help but doubt myself. Was I even good enough?

Luckily, I had amazing people in my life who encouraged me to stick with it, and the more I practiced and performed, the more it felt electrifying. I couldn’t get enough.

Last Monday, I was in my element. The lights shone on my face, masking the crowd with an electric haze. I felt the ground beneath my feet: pounding steady with my heart as my words cut through the air.

I was performing in a poetry exhibition with other local poets at the historic ʻĪao Theater. Our set was called Raw Raconteurs, a mix of love, loss, grief, and empowerment.

That was my first performance in front of a crowd of more than 20 people, and I was scared. I was scared my work wasn’t good enough. I was worried Iʻd mess up in front of everyone and make a fool of myself.

At the beginning, my voice shook. My nervous laughter filled the room and echoed off the walls of the theater.

But, as I continued through my set, I felt more and more at home. I started cracking jokes with the crowd, pausing to build suspense. What felt so scary at first became the most fun I’ve had in years.

Iʻm glad I didn’t let my fear get the best of me–but that isnʻt the point of this post. The point here is that I did it scared.

When I hear people talk about the great leaders and change makers of the world, they often use the words courageous, brave, or fearless, These words can make it sound as if in order to do something great, you need to be completely confident.

But, that simply isnʻt true. Many of the people we label with those words were also scared and unsure. The difference between them and those who donʻt step up is that they didn’t let their fear stop them.

They found their center, stepped up to the microphone, and spoke their truth, even if people weren’t listening.

Every time you face your fears, it gets a little bit easier. If I hadn’t worked through my fear of sharing my work, I wouldn’t be who I am today: a finalist for the Hawai’i Youth Poet Laureate, soon to be sharing my work with another theater full of people on Thursday.

So, that thing you want to do but feels scary? Do it. That hard conversation? Have it. That job you think might be out of your reach? Apply for it.

Imagine what you could do if you didn’t let fear stop you. I do.