Source of book: Borrowed from the library
This is the last day of Black History Month, and also the last of my posts about books I read for Black History…until next year. Not that I won’t read any more books by black authors until then - I try to read diversely throughout the year. In any event, you can check out my list of Black History Month posts and other notable books by black authors from around the world here.
Back when I was in high school, The Color Purple was on the AP English reading list for 11th Graders in our county. Because of this, there were always dozens of copies at used book stores and thrift stores at a certain time of the year. Because we lived in the mountains at the time, we made one full day of travel to Bakersfield and back - music lessons and youth symphony, and our weekly grocery run. But that tended to leave an hour or two in the middle to kill, and we usually did so by hanging out at the local used book store.
It was during those times that I read The Color Purple, one chapter or so a week. I can’t even remember if I finished it - probably not - but in any case, I definitely want to revisit it as an adult.
But for this year, I ran across Hard Times Require Furious Dancing at our library’s display for Black History Month, and grabbed it. I wasn’t particularly familiar with Walker’s poetry, but had heard good things about this collection.
The first thing I noticed about Walker’s style is her love for very short lines - often a single word. There is no one “right” way to write poetry, of course, but this seems the polar opposite of, say, Whitman. As with all poetry, it is best read aloud, and the unique cadence of the short lines adds to the experience of Walker’s art.
The preface explains the title. Walker, while she admits she has always danced, like most everyone in her community, took it up in a more serious way late in life, and realized that dancing is a form of therapy for muscle issues. “Some of the lower-back movements handed down to us that have seemed merely sensual were no doubt created after a day’s work bending over a plow or hoe on a slave driver’s plantation.” Interesting thought. And perhaps a reason white prudes get their panties in a wad over people of color dancing.
The poems vary greatly in length, from single stanzas to ten page epics. So many were good, but I selected the following to feature in this post.
Sometimes
Sometimes
who knows how?
the body & the soul
come back
together
again
the hand
holding the pen
writes
not advertising
but
heart.
If that isn’t an argument for poetry and the humanities, I don’t know a better one.
I also liked this one, which reminds me of the handful of truly badass women of my parents’ generation who have chosen to stand up against Trumpist fascism and hate in a very visible and forceful way.
Calling All Grand Mothers
We have to live
differently
or we
will die
in the same
old ways.
Therefore
I call on all Grand Mothers
everywhere
on the planet
to rise
and take your place
in the leadership
of the world
Come out
of the kitchen
out of the
fields
out of the
beauty parlors
out of the
television
Step forward
& assume
the role
for which
you were
created:
To lead humanity
to health, happiness
& sanity.
I call on
all the
Grand Mothers
of Earth
& every person
who possesses
the Grand Mother
spirit
of respect for
life
&
protection of
the young
to rise
& lead.
The life of
our species
depends
on it.
& I call on all men
of Earth
to gracefully
and
gratefully
stand aside
& let them
(let us)
do so.
And also this one:
One Earth
One Earth
One People
One Love
One Earth
One People
One Love
One Earth
One People
One Love
“The Taste of Grudge” is the longest in the book - nearly 20 pages - and too long to quote in its entirety. However, there is one stanza that really resonated with me. And perhaps with all of us cult survivors who had our choices bounded in ways that still affect us.
XII.
We did what
we could
with what
was
forced
on us.
No regrets.
No blame.
The taste
of figs
cherries
peaches
mangoes
orange peel
scent
with blind
luck
& many
tribulations
we made it
to
this
world!
Here is another one that seems so spot on for our times. I have felt this way so many times watching the people I used to love and respect be slowly consumed by their fear and hatred.
Watching You Hold Your Hatred
Watching you
hold
your
hatred
for such a long time
I wonder:
Isn’t it
slippery?
Might you
not
someday
drop it
on
yourself?
I wonder:
Where dies it sleep
if ever?
And where
do
you deposit
it
while you
feed
your
children
or
sit
in the
lap
of
the one
who
cherishes
you?
There is no
graceful
way
to
carry
hatred.
While
hidden
it is
everywhere.
It is so weird, watching people throw away longtime relationships, watch their families crumble, watch our nation tear itself apart, and yet their hatred matters more. Their fear that someone they hate might get something good, might be allowed to live in peace, might have the opportunities that they think only people like them deserve. It must be so hard to hold that hate, and there is no graceful way to carry it.
Next up is this one, another idea that resonates with many of us ex-Fundies. After decades of expectation that we deny ourselves everything that makes us us. We could not have (and certainly not express) “negative” emotions, and could not break the code of silence under any circumstances.
I Will Not Deny
I will not deny
my lips
their smile
I will not deny
my heart
its sorrow
I will not deny
my eyes
their tears
I will not deny
my hair
the wildness
of my age
It is
profound
selfishness
I will deny
me nothing
of myself.
This next one is so wonderfully hopeful that I really want to take it to heart. I sense this in my children, who have no illusions that the current American Right intends to harm people like them, that it hates people like them, and that in many places it appears to be winning. The world has changed, and is changing, and that is why the Right is lashing out with such terror and hate and violence. It has lost the battle for hearts and minds, and the world has already changed.
The World Has Changed
The world has changed:
Wake up & smell
the possibility.
The world
has changed:
It did not
change
without
your prayers
without
your faith
without
your determination
to
believe
in liberation
&
kindness;
without
your
dancing
through the years
that had
no
beat.
The world has changed:
It did not
change
without
your
numbers
your
fierce
love
of self
&
cosmos
it did not
change
without
your
strength.
The world has
changed:
Wake up!
Give yourself
the gift
of a new
day.
The world has changed:
This does not mean
you were never
hurt.
The world
has changed:
Rise!
Yes
&
Shine!
Resist the siren
call
of
disbelief.
The world has changed:
Don’t let
yourself
remain
asleep
to
it.
This next one reminded me of a number of failed marriages I have seen personally and professionally. There are many reasons a marriage can end, but one of them is definitely the slow poisoning when one party is disappointed (often unfairly - they picked someone and then were disappointed they weren’t someone else) and lets that disappointment turn bitter. And this goes for both genders too.
Sometimes Our Disappointment
Sometimes
our disappointment
possesses
a purity:
Sometimes
we are merely
blind.
My friend -
who could be
me
or any one
of us -
tells me,
tears
streaming
through
her voice:
I thought he was a cupcake
& instead he is
a biscuit.
My friend
is known
for her
good cooking
as we might be
too.
Still
for years
those
around her
witnessed
the unhoneyed
bitterness
kneaded
into
the flour
of this biscuit;
the greased
lightning
rage
and
unseasoned
scorn
pounded
into
the
dough.
Until,
finally,
all sweetness
beaten away
this biscuit,
much like biscuits
you and I have known
was baked
in
nobody’s
oven
but
her own.
I’ll end with this one, another hopeful note.
Even So
Love, if it is love, never goes away.
It is embedded in us,
like seams of gold in the Earth,
waiting for light,
waiting to be struck.
I should also mention the lovely illustrations by Shiloh McCloud. This was a beautiful collection of poems, many of them expressing that hope in hard times that we all need right now, particularly those of us who dream of true community, where no one is okay if we are not all okay. A fitting way to finish up Black History Month.
