AND SO, LIKE I WAS SAYING ....

....before I was so rudely interrupted by Life, I held my second poetry reading this past Friday night and something's got me a little disturbed.

The venue where we hold the readings is a small, very quaint cafe in a suburb-y strip mall area in the same county where I live. The owners are great and the few women I've met that work there seem to be really warm and eager to assist with getting the vibe just right for our readings. The problem, as I see it, is twofold. First, there isn't much pedestrian traffic in the area. In other words, like any other boring suburb, folks are in their cars passing by and they have to be inclined to jam their foot on the break and come inside. Therein lies the second problem: coming inside.

You see, all of the poets thus far are black, which in my mind is not a problem. But in the suburbs, where many caucasians live and breathe, it can be very offsetting (is that a word? I'm so tired I don't know.) Case in point. At our first reading several white people came to the door as if they were familiar with the place and were just stopping in for their routine latte. Until they saw one of the black women poets standing in front of the mic reciting and then, in what seemed the blink of an eye, their hands released the door handle as if they had touched a flame. I watched the body language of one man who walked up with his wife, looked inside, mumbled a word or two to her then came inside by himself while she stood outside. It was almost comical, as if he told her "hey look, I'll go inside. You keep watch here. If I'm not out in five minutes, call the police." Once he came inside he looked at my girl that was reading, walked to the counter, then turned and walked right back out without ordering a thing. This past week, there were a group of whites sitting inside the cafe but once we got going with the poetry, they stayed for one or two poems then, they too, jetted out the door.

And let me say this: we are not reciting slam poetry. These are experienced poets, writing from various sensibilities. This is not your routine protest poetry and it's definately not of the Love Jones variety. These poets are creative writing instructors, musicians, PhD's and cash register clerks.....I mean, you know what I'm saying? And so the thing that's been working on my mind (and my friend who is sharing the responsibility of hosting) is this: what happens if the owner gets a sense that we black poets are not good for his business? What if someone complains? How long will we have this venue if white folk turn the other way?

And so my friend and I were talking about this the other night because as host she had planned to open up the night with a quasi theme about freedom and war. Well, she had a poem she was going to read by Frances Harper "Bury Me In A Free Land," that she quickly discarded once she saw the whites sitting up in the establishment. I have a piece I've been working on, sort of a Requiem for Israel as I reflect on their continued aggression -- a piece I KNOW I can't read up in that camp. Why? Because I know there'll be some Jewish person that'll come along and swear out that we're antisemetic. (Cause you know, they're the only ones to whom the right to free speech applies. Anyone else wanting to free their speech had better watch what they say -- just ask Baraka) and this is an area quite well populated with Jewish Americans.

So anyway, after the group of whites left, and all that were black patrons, my friend said she immediately felt a sense of freedom; that it was then okay to really read the pieces she'd intended to read. And I can't help wondering why is this? Why are we people of color always in a position of reckoning? Why must we always concern ourselves with the outcome of our decisions as they pertain to white america?

Should I loc my hair? Gheez, I don't know. You might not get that job if you do.

Should I wear my kente cloth scarf to the company ball? Gheez, I don't know. Don't want to seem too ethnic.

Should I say I'm against the war? Gheez, I don't know. Don't want to sound too militant.

Should I read this poem about my black man and the sweetness of his love? Well, I don't know. Again, better not be too ethnic.

And so late into the night on Friday, my friend and I were talking about this very bottom line: why is it that any affirmation of black love or black heritage or black condition is interpreted as negation of the larger, dare I barf as I say it, mainstream culture. Why is it that unless our poems are dripping with some nebulous rhetoric that no one understands and our short stories end with that same flat bland effect that leaves you asking, Okay so what was the point of that story??? (you know, the same feeling you get when the guy comes too fast -- gheez, was that sex or push-ups?) unless we are doing and saying what we do and say in a way that glorifies "mainstream" culture, then we are not worthy of being listened to, read, supported.
That is, unless you live in an area where the people believe in and support freedom of artistic expression. Some place like, ahem, San Francisco. (yea, yea, I'm still jone-sing especially after I heard Rafael Saadiq on the Tavis Smiley Show talking about how cool the Bay area is.....deep sigh).

Well, needless to say, we may need to find another venue. Not because of the owners but because of ourselves. Because being a censored poet is being a liar. And I will not lie. I have to feel free to read what I've written and write what I feel I need to say and examine. Without that I may as well weave baskets all day long.

And a progress note before I retire for the night:

Hair: Third week of locs. Still looking good but going for my wash and retwist tomorrow. Still confident with my decision.

Chapbook: All of the poems that are going to be in the book are in there. I finally finished editing the Butterflies in Brooklyn story which as I said before was much too predictable in the middle. So all told I've got about 18 poems and three good short stories. Good news: a friend who is a creative writing instructor at Morgan State University is writing the Introduction and agreed to give me a blurb on the back. I'm also thinking of sending it off to a really prolific poet in Washington whom I've met before and ask if he'll give me a blurb on the back cover as well. It's gonna look good. I talked to the artist today. She's ready to get started but I've hesitated to send her the complete manuscript because I wanted to wait until my friend completed the introduction. The artist said she'll take it as it is and we'll just insert the introduction when it's done, just before we go to print. I still have to apply for my ISBN number ($225) so I've got to rearrange some things in the budget and try to get those Benjamins together. I've decided that this is not something I want to do, it's something I have to do. I've stopped submitting my work anywhere (haven't submitted since the beginning of the summer) because I'm determined to be the mistress of my own destiny and I will not leave my thoughts and my creative work on some dusty shelf because some asshole in a too tight suit and a plaid shirt tells me "it just isn't quite right for our publication."

Whaddyou know? You're ugly and your mother dresses you funny.

And finally, the novel: I'm cleaning up the last set of chapters before the ending. I suspect that if all goes well this week, I'll have a complete and tight outline by the end of the month with which to start my rewrites. I'm determined that I will not touch that manuscript until I've got this outline looking exactly the way I want that novel to flow. In my mind, no matter how organic writing may seem, there is no way you can keep rewriting a novel and making revisions if you don't have a clear, very very clear sense of where the story is going and where (and how) it's going to end. And so I'm content to follow this necessary path until I've got it where I want it to be. I'm hoping that Nov 1st will be the beginning of the rewrites. But knowing Life, I'm sure she'll be back with her big foot pretty soon.

Be Good,
ANGEL

Oh, and by the way, Kid 2 made "doo-doo in potty" tonight. And Kid 1 is five for five on her spelling tests. Every single word spelled correctly on five of five spelling tests. Girlfriend is kicking some serious butt in second grade. Yes, there is a God.