Tuesday, February 28, 2023

Hard Times Require Furious Dancing by Alice Walker

 

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. 

 

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