Chasing Utopia

by Nikki Giovanni

  Dedication

  For Aunt Agnes and Sister Althea,

  my two oldest friends on Earth

  For the gypsy in my soul

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chasing Utopia

  A Short Essay Not on Why

  If a Lemon

  Podcast for Bicycles

  Why I Wrote The Grasshopper’s Song

  My Sister and Me

  Spices

  The Other Place

  The Lioness Circles Her Brood in New Orleans

  The Right Way

  Spring Blooms

  The International Open

  The Giggle Bank

  Kick Stretch Kick

  Mrs. Scott

  Where Did the Night Go

  It’s Just Love

  Still Life with Apron

  One Thing

  And Everyone Will Answer

  Day Pass to Heaven

  My Dream

  Artichoke Soup

  On Knoxville, TN

  Affirming My Birth Date

  The American Vision of Abraham Lincoln

  I Am at That Point

  I Hate Mondays

  A Song for a Blackbird

  Icarus

  When the Girl Became a Poet

  When God Made Mountains

  These Women

  Cooking with Mommy

  What the Fly on the Wall Overheard

  Fear: Eat in or Take Out?

  Biscuits: Dropped or Baked

  Poets

  For Mark Dressman

  Postcards

  In Defense of Flowers

  Werewolf Avoidance

  Exercise

  I Communicate

  The Lone Ranger Rides the Lonesome Trail Again

  For Runaway Slaves

  My Diet

  Nickels for Nina

  Blues for Roanoke

  The Spotlight in the Sky

  The Spider Waltz

  I Wish I Could Live (in a Book)

  I Wish I Could Live (in Music)

  I Wish I Could Live (in a Painting)

  Don Pullen

  Making a Perfect Man

  When My Phone Trembles

  Still Life with Crying Girl

  Robert Champion

  Allowables

  Flying in Kigali

  Terezin

  To the Lion Who Discovered a Deer in his Habitat: Give Him Ketchup!

  The Significance of Poetry

  Note to the South: You Lost

  The Golden Shovel Poem

  Morgantown, WVA

  For Sonia Sanchez

  For Haki Madhubuti

  Our Job Safety Is Your Priority with Coffee

  The Brown Bookshelf

  Interior Vision

  I Give Easily

  People Who Live Alone

  Before You Jump

  You Gave Her Something

  Thirst

  The Scared and the Vulnerable

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Nikki Giovanni

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHASING UTOPIA

  So here is the actual story. I was bored. Well, not bored because I had the privilege of interviewing Mae Jemison, the first Black woman in space, who said she pursued a degree in physics and also became a medical doctor to keep her mind occupied. Mae’s IQ must be nine hundred and fifty-five or thereabouts. I asked: “How do you keep from being bored?” And she replied: “A friend of my father’s once told me ‘If you’re bored you’re not paying attention.’”

  So I said to myself: “Beer.”

  We are foodies, my family and I. My grandmother was an extraordinary cook. Her miniature Parker House rolls have been known to float the roof off a flooded house in hurricane season. Grandpapa made pineapple ice cream so rich and creamy with those surprising chunks that burst with citrusy flavor. My sister made Spring Rolls so perfectly the Chinese complained to the State Department and my aunt fries chicken just short of burning that has been known to make the Colonel denounce his own KFC. Mommy is the best bean cooker in this world or the next and I do a pretty swell pot roast. We are, in other words, dangerous when it comes to food. But I’m a wine drinker. My sister was a wine drinker also. Red, of course. One aunt married a minister so they ate their wine instead of drinking it. That left Mommy and my middle aunt, Ann, as the beer drinkers.

  Mommy also liked Pig Feet. Boiled. Not Pickled.

  I was sad when Mommy died. Then six weeks later Gary died. Then my aunt Ann. I tried to find a way to bring them back.

  Beer.

  Mommy drank Miller Genuine Draft. Ann drank Bud Light. Not for me. If it was going to be Beer I needed to learn something.

  Going through books I came across Utopia. Sam Adams. The #1 Beer in the World. Having always been a fan of start at the top I called my local beer store. “I’d like to order a Utopia, please.” Thinking this would be easy. “No Way,” Keith said. “We never get that!” O.K. I called Bounty Hunter. They have everything. I bought my Justice Series: Blind Justice, Frontier Justice, Poetic Justice. Great red wines. “No, ma’am, we don’t sell beer.” In Canada they sell Utopia as a Special Brew because the alcohol content is so high but it’s still a beer.

  But here is the happy part. I am a poet. I occasionally get invited to speak at Important Government Agencies. I was thrilled. Sure, someone will say why would you, a poet, a rebel, you who hate the TSA and think Railroads should make a big comeback, you who think modern wars are stupid and unworthy . . . why would you speak for an Important Government Agency? Well for one thing I am an American. So government, whether I like it or not, R Me. For another thing I know they have the world’s best computers. I was charming; I was funny. I was very nice and a good citizen. I wanted an illegal favor.

  “Please, Sir,” said I, “can you find Utopia?” “Of course, Little Lady,” said the Director. “It’s in your heart and mind.” He smiled a lovely smile and patted me on my shoulder. Not wanting to appear to correct him I smiled the smile of the defeated. And waited for him to leave. I asked his assistant. “I think,” he pontificated, “it is in your soul. Search deep and you will find it.” I knew I needed someone of color. Finally an older man, gray hair cut short, came by. “Please excuse me,” I said, “I’m trying to find Utopia. Can you help?” “Why sure,” he said, “as soon as I can find a safe computer.” We moved into another room and he made me stand way away from him so that I could not see the computer screen. He pulled up a website. “Here you go.” And he was right. “I can’t buy it as it’s against the rules but get someone else to go to this site. I hear it’s a great beer. At $350 a pint it ought to be.”

  And now that I’ve found Utopia I am at peace . . . drinking the Jazz Series from Dogfish brewery: Brother Thelonious, Bitches Brew, Hellhound on My Ale. I have Utopia and if I were Egyptian I would be buried with it. I use it to start conversations and make friends. It is not for Mortals. Or Americans. Utopia is for Poets . . . or the Gods.

  A SHORT ESSAY NOT ON WHY I DON’T ASK PERSONAL QUESTIONS BUT A BALANCING SHARING ON WHEN I FIRST DID

  I went to the memory bank to see when it was that I last asked a personal question since we were talking and I said to you: I don’t. When it got to be more than twenty years back I began to feel the journey wasn’t worth it but then I said: Oh, put ten more years in. I still couldn’t come up with a question. The last person I asked a personal question of, I think, is Sister Althea and I wanted to know why she became a nun. I must have been twelve or thirteen years old. Thank goodness she took it in the love it was given or I guess in this case Asked.

  So I thought since I had asked a personal question of you, mainly: What were you like at 17? I th
ought I should answer it about myself.

  I asked because my own journey begins not actually at 17 but events that would make 17 a mountain began to be put in place. My aunt Ann lived in Philadelphia and my grandfather wanted to go visit her. I was living with Grandmother and Grandpapa in Knoxville and was in school at Austin High. There are still memories I need to mine to see the how and why but I knew I couldn’t live with my parents and my grandparents were kind enough to take me in. I think now the reason I went to Philadelphia with Grandpapa and not Grandmother is that we probably could only afford two tickets. I wasn’t thinking about that then or maybe Grandmother had meetings (she was a committed club woman: Garden, Book, Deaconess, Bridge, NAACP among others). Grandmother was very popular so she may have had commitments. At any rate Grandpapa and I took the train to Philly. It was a day trip, change in DC and we were there that night. I learned the subway system the hard way: I got on and rode to Center City. I walked to the Liberty Bell and purchased a little copy for my mother which sits still on my dresser. I was very proud of myself because I am mostly adventurous in my head. I had lunch at the Reading Market and went back home by subway. I was thrilled that I could do it.

  A day or so later we received a call from Grandmother. She said I needed to come back to Knoxville because she had talked with Mme. Stokes, the French teacher, who told her there was a test I should take. The Ford Foundation had a program called Early Entrant to College. You take a test, do well, and you go off to college. Grandmother was always thrilled when any of us did well so she thought I should come home and take the test. That would have meant Grandpapa would have to cut short his trip which didn’t seem right. Uncle Haynes took me to the train station and gave me directions about changing in DC. I learned later he also asked the Pullman Porters to look out for me.

  The first book I ever bought for myself was a biography of Clarence Darrow, Attorney for the Damned, but I doubt I was reading anything so useful. Most likely something trashy, since I’ve always been a fan of trashy heroes. I bought a small box of chocolate chip cookies and sat down. One of my good things is I can actually sit still for interminable lengths of time. I didn’t do much between Philly and DC but be a bit nervous about making my connection.

  After DC it was on to Knoxville. I no longer had to worry so I opened my book and my chocolate chip cookies. Two young white soldiers started to talk about me: She has those cookies; I wonder if she’ll give us one. I remember looking at them. They were as young as I was or so they seemed. I said: Do you want a cookie? And they laughed. They meant me no harm. They were, I later realized, flirting with me. I didn’t understand it then because I didn’t know that I was pretty. I was 16.

  I passed the test. Never graduated from high school. Went to Fisk. Got kicked out. Failed. Then learned failure is as important as success. I still don’t ask many questions. But I do try to pay attention.

  IF A LEMON

  If a lemon

  Kissed a beet

  Is it sour

  Or is it sweet

  If a bear

  Gives

  A hug

  Will it turn

  Into a rug

  And then there’s me

  And there is you

  I do sometimes wonder

  What will we do

  PODCAST FOR BICYCLES

  I loved before

  I understood;

  Love is a skill

  I loved my Mother’s cool hands

  On my forehead

  I loved the safety

  Of her arms

  I trusted

  Before I understood

  The word

  Mommy would say

  When I had fallen:

  “Come here, Nikki,

  and I’ll pick you up”

  and I would wipe my eyes

  push myself off my fat bottom

  and tottle over to her

  for my reward:

  a kiss and a “That’s my Big Girl!”

  I am still a sucker

  For that one

  But I grew up

  And learned

  Trust and love

  Are crafts we practice

  Are wheels

  We balance

  Our lives on

  Are BICYCLES

  We ride

  Through challenges and changes

  To escape and ecstasy

  WHY I WROTE

  THE GRASSHOPPER’S SONG

  My grandfather was twenty years older than my grandmother so he was an old man when we, the grandchildren, met him. He didn’t seem all that old and he was a very patient man but he didn’t hang out and laugh with us the way Grandmother did. We cooked with Grandmother and did chores. Grandpapa attended to the grocery chores and cut the grass. He was also a Deacon at our church, Mt. Zion Baptist Church. He seemed formidable.

  For whatever the reason he liked me. He liked my younger cousin, Terry, also calling him Terry the Brick. He would on his deathbed charge Terry with “take care of the women.” Which Terry has done.

  I am the only grandchild to live with them. During the Age of Segregation I went back to Knoxville, the place of my birth, and lived with my grandparents and attended Austin High School.

  But before all that we four, my older sister, Gary, and Terry and his older brother, William, spent summers in Knoxville. The two boys, being boys, were up early, breakfasted, and off to the playground or the park or swimming or whatever it is boys do until lunch when they are famished, then off again. My sister liked to cook so she and Grandmother would huddle in the kitchen baking wonderful things. Me . . . I was set adrift. I would, some days, ask Grandmother if I could go to the library which was at the top of our street, Mulvaney. I always enjoyed dusting, it was my chore at home, so some days I would dust then read something from Grandmother’s library. Grandmother wanted to teach me to play the piano but I was too dumb to know that one day I would wish she had.

  I guess Grandpapa noticed that I was by myself a lot.

  He would call me over to read an Aesop Fable or to teach me a Latin verb. I guess he wanted to make me feel needed or interesting or something. In the evenings before there was so much neon that the stars were blotted out, he would invite me to walk with him and he would point out the stars to me, guiding me on a journey through the Underground Railroad. He was a good storyteller and a great teacher. But I was always disturbed by a couple of the Aesop Fables. I didn’t like the way the “Mice in Council” ended. It seemed someone should be brave enough and courageous enough to bell that cat even if a supreme sacrifice had to be made. What little bit of history I was learning showed there is always a hero or heroine in the case of Jeanne d’Arc or Harriet Tubman who risked it all for freedom and justice. As I was older I added Rosa Parks to that list and Daisy Bates. I was particularly angry about “The Grasshopper and the Ants.”

  Grandpapa was always on the side of the Ants. He thought the Grasshopper should have saved up for a “rainy day.” I thought the Grasshopper was being abused by the Ants, though I did not have abuse in my vocabulary then.

  We were Baptist, though I’m sure other Protestants do the same thing. Every Sunday, we youngsters went to church. We had a dime apiece: a nickel for Sunday School, a nickel for ice cream, since in those days you could buy an ice-cream cone for a nickel. We would all walk together to Carter-Roberts Drug Store for our ice cream but we had to be back to church on time.

  After church we would go home; change clothes; then take a plate of dinner to the “sick and shut-in.” There was no variation with this. Dinner in the South on Sunday is early because we were probably going either back to church or to visit another church in the evening. It was the right thing to do. I couldn’t understand when we read “The Grasshopper and the Ants” how the Ants could send the poor Grasshopper out into the cold to freeze to death. Grandpapa and I argued about that one a lot. I, of course, always lost.

  Time, however, was on my side. I grew up to become a writer which let me thi
nk and think and think again about issues. And in the back of my mind there were these Ants and this Grasshopper. I was still unhappy about the justification of taking advantage of the Grasshopper’s better nature. Then an opportunity came to me to write about it and I seized that moment.

  The Grasshopper, like Sisyphus, was an artist. We, Grandpapa and I, had argued about Sisyphus, too. He was not, in my opinion, being punished for bringing fire but rather, like all Artists, challenged to create, yet again. The rock was not there to torment him but rather to remind him he had work yet to do. The Grasshopper made music. And where would we be without music?

  There is a reason when we step into an elevator there is music playing. You are about to get into a box which will rise higher than you can jump. In order to soothe you and make you think everything is all right we play music. The same with an airplane. Your dentist tells you to bring your favorite CDs to play while he drills your nerves. And we all know when we are afraid we “whistle a happy tune.” Music is the first and, I believe, most essential tool in combating the unknown.

  I could have had the Grasshopper go in to destroy the Ants but that would have been unintelligent. The Grasshopper did the American thing: He sued. For R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Of course, respect might come later but half the harvest would be primary. “Am I not worthy of my bread?” the Plaintiff, the Grasshopper, asked. And the Ants tried to respond by asking for a Contract. But isn’t a Contract the services we accept as much as the services we ask for? Aren’t the great ideas of this nation based on the Mayflower Compact, an agreement of mutual assistance not just on who can beat whom out of what? Where is the justice if we only follow the letter instead of the spirit of the law? Young people need to know the law is our shield, our Gladiator, our protection. Right makes Might and not the other way around.

  The Grasshopper prevails because he put his faith in the twelve good people who impartially heard his story. The Ants needed to learn they were helped with the art and soul the Grasshopper offered. They needed to learn to share.

  And they all lived happily ever after because the law said it is good and right to be fair to everyone. Greed is un-American. Thievery is un-American. It is good to recognize and understand that we all benefit from paying our fair share of taxes, treating our friends and colleagues fairly.