Hill, L. 2001. Black Berry, Sweet Juice. Toronto: Harper Flamingo Canada.
Raabe, W. n.d. “Abraham Lincoln to Harriet Beecher Stowe: ‘The author of this great war.’” https://wraabe.wordpress.com/2008/06/26/abraham-lincoln-to-harriet-beecher-stowe-the-author-of-this-great-war/
Shelley, P.B. 1967. “A Defence of Poetry.” In English Romantic Writers, edited by David Perkins. New York: Harcourt.
Wordsworth, W. 1967. “Preface, Second Edition of the Lyrical Ballads.” In English Romantic Writers, edited by David Perkins. New York: Harcourt.
A Picture of Words
— Angela Walcott —
On August 9, 2017 I faced a bittersweet moment. I had to part ways with something that I felt was a part of me for a long time, but something that was never really mine to begin with. Travelling 222 miles, the visit would include a four-week stay in my hometown of Toronto for the summer. As the final hours approached, I had to agree with Sister Bradley, “I done got my feet caught in the sweet flypaper of life.” And I was dogged if I wanted to shake loose.
I got the call that my library material was ready for pick-up three days ago. There were no renewals allowed and it was recommended that I collect the item asap. “I’m here to pick up an interlibrary loan,” I blurted to the librarian in a high-pitched tone. I did a power walk to end all power walks from the parking lot so I was slightly out of breath; a little sweaty but extremely excited. Embracing my inner geek, I felt I was on a mission—a mission that was long overdue. The librarian paused momentarily, disappeared behind a book trolley and retrieved a thin grey book in a matter of seconds. It looked unassuming. A large piece of paper taped around the front rendered me incapable of judging this book by its cover. “Where is the library book from?” I queried as I surrendered my library card.
The librarian stopped his paper-shuffling long enough to leaf through a few pages of the bound text before settling on the inside back cover page. Looking up, he smiled ever so slightly and said, “North Bay.”
I don’t recall hearing much about North Bay. All I know is that it’s way up north and too far away from home. The one thing I do recall hearing a lot about was this book, The Sweet Flypaper of Life. It was first brought to my attention several years ago. I set the thought aside, but it was reintroduced to my psyche repeatedly. A lecture at the Royal Ontario Museum made mention of it. One day, I said.
Award-winning photographer and special guest lecturer Dawoud Bey mentioned the book again while lecturing at Ryerson University. Another day, I said.
And this goes on for a bit, until one day I decide on a whim, it’s now or never. I fill out a form. It doesn’t really matter if it’s now, I thought, I’d be waiting on never.
I examine the book when I get home. A large white and yellow band of paper that says, ‘Please Do Not Remove’ securely encircles the front cover. Please Do Not Remove. Christmas has come early, I think to myself as I lift the paper flap ever so slightly, in the hopes that I can adequately judge this book by its cover. Over the next few days I begin to obsess with what is on the inside. I pour over its content like I have never done with a book before: drawing diagrams, taking notes and analyzing the positioning of words. But mostly, I celebrate. I celebrate the fact that I have a chance to experience this tactile literary jewel, if only for a short while. I even celebrate the sweet scent of ‘old book.’ First published in 1967, Langston Hughes and Roy DeCarava collaborated to create The Sweet Flypaper of Life, a tender depiction of African-American lives.
Roy DeCarava, an award-winning photographer/artist and the first African-American Guggenheim Fellow, together with Langston Hughes, legendary poet, novelist, and essayist, was a match made in creative, literary heaven. Their artistic genius provides a new perspective. Despite wrestling with a voyeuristic tendency of the book’s images to peer into the kitchens and parlours of America’s cross-section in this Harlem neighbourhood, we are made to feel welcome.
Nestled amongst the pages are striking images and striking words—words that string images together so thoughtfully and cohesively you wouldn’t suspect that they were random. Hughes eloquently paints with words while DeCarava sculpts with film. Pictures and words equally consider one another. Told from the unique perspective of an African-American senior citizen, Sister Bradley is our trusted guide. Frame after frame, as the astute narrator shares her dreams we begin to understand her fears. In a pseudo-photo album delivered via DeCarava’s work, Hughes flips the lens wide open by using ekphrastic writing to create an emotional connection with the reader. Ultimately, the artistic duo sheds light on Sister Bradley’s life and the collective lives of countless African-Americans living during those tumultuous times in an important way. The Sweet Flypaper of Life, Sister Bradley. Upon receiving a telegram from the Lord to come home, Sister Bradley knows she isn’t ready, because of the Supreme Court decree for integration. She wants to see what it will be like. Sweet Flypaper is a testimony to the everyday lives of everyday people in a not-so-ordinary world. Langston Hughes bravely delivers a timely, convincing narrative that confronts issues revolving around race, equality, family, and community in a beautiful way. It is a time not too long ago and not too often seen. African-Americans were ready for integration in a society that wasn’t quite ready for them. It’s not just a fancy case study report justifying the need for integration; this is a poignant example of the power of family and community told through pages. The Sweet Flypaper of Life is a photo album that helps to bear witness—its black-and-white photos leap from the page in full colour.
America’s culturally rich tapestry unfolds from its Harlem suburb. The peeling paint of New York apartments where stoops substitute for balconies, represents an undeniable visual splendour. And yet amongst the still beauty is the urgency of its message, just as palpable today as it was when first written back in 1955. America was at the height of bridging its deep racial divide. Hughes deciphers this intersectionality via words while DeCarava helps us to see them. It’s a glimpse into the ‘everyday’—everyday lives told, but seldom seen.
At City Hall, in downtown Toronto, a multicultural oasis full of interesting people calls to me. Inside Nathan Phillips Square, I timidly accept this invitation and look out at the stage before me. The vast sea of grey doesn’t appeal on this matching neutral day. I need contrast. I need repetition. I need texture. I need people. Everyone here has a story, but how can I weave a common thread in a convincingly Sweet Flypaper kind of way? Is it my duty?
Does the responsibility even lie with me?
Centre front: The Toronto sign, erected to mark the 2015 Pan Am Games hosted by ‘The Six,’ beckons. A group of eager tourists recline amongst the O’s, while laughing children play against T’s and too-cool Millennials pose for selfies in-between. I adjust my depth of field, hoping to capture something, anything. In this moment I intrude. In playback, the image is far from perfect.
Stage right: A lone lady with a large, red sun hat occupies a corner bench. I peer and play back. Still far from perfect. To the left, a woman walking her dog enters the frame from stage left. Her sparkly silver bunny shoes bedazzle. Snap. It looks okay.
Photography is about the connection. Roy de Carava invites his audience to explore the inner confines of far-removed worlds. After a forty-five-minute session shooting basketball players at ‘Golden Hour,’ I, the amateur, have collected over 200 random images. Would Roy DeCarava have shot this many in one session? Not. Twenty-four frames per roll were all you got. Each shot had to count. Determine the correct depth of field. And snap. Had I kept to this plan, my hard drive would not have housed thousands of so-so images. Not understanding the correct angle, shooting of the same subject from all possible angles became an obsession. It was a time-consuming, costly lesson of learning via trial and error. Because of this, I never dumped the bad shots. Hundreds of pictures grew into thousands. The more I took, the more compelled I would feel. I ignored the virtual reels of film ga
thering at my feet. I feared letting go would lead to missing out on the story.
Photography, like many realms of art, can occur ‘by accident’ or it can happen with a sense of purpose crafted by the careful planning of a story. My style tends to be the former. I stick to tight shots—abstractions of the truth. Today’s assignment involves photographing people.
It’s not something that I have explored before and, to be quite honest, it’s unnerving. I’m not one for exploiting for the sake of the shot, but candid is one clear way of telling the truth.
Centre Stage: Sandwiched between the Toronto sign and the City Hall building, a young girl dressed in black leotards, pink tutu, and matching pink pointe shoes sails into an arabesque. Her wavy black hair, neatly coiled high atop her head in a tight bun, is the only thing that remains stationary. She gracefully pirouettes and ends with a grand gesture of jetés. A middle-aged Black woman is taking pictures of the ballerina girl. Her camera is similar to mine. I soon discover that this photographer is the ballerina’s mom. We start talking. Mom is taking promotional shots of her daughter, who is studying at the National Ballet School. I ask permission to take a photo.
Mom and daughter smile. Mom agrees. I pace myself. Focus. Adjust the shutter speed. Now click. I hold my breath as I analyze the picture. There’s a clearer story there. I see the truth.
In order to tell better stories as writers, we are instructed to show but not tell. Sweet Flypaper manages the subtle art of showing while telling. The collaborative, stunningly effective dialogue that erupts between writer and photographer is undeniable. Sometimes the artists switch places. While Hughes shows, DeCarava tells.
As I flip through the pages of The Sweet Flypaper of Life again, I see how Hughes quiets issues of contention with soothing prose. He reshapes and moulds a space into shared action. The stillness of DeCarava’s images, both seemingly posed and candidly shot, presents a believable narrative. I see the duality of picture and words and I am moved even further. I get it. I venture through areas of my neighbourhood with a different perspective. My camera becomes the third eye. Vast worlds shrink into manageable bite-sized pieces. Fragments of colour, repeating lines, and defined shapes emerge from the woodwork. I discover that nothing is really ever planned when it comes to photography. Yes, planning how you want to deliver the story is something you prepare for ahead of time, but what enters the frame at any given moment is beyond your control.
Sometimes you have to trust, and when nothing goes according to plan, sometimes you just have to believe.
Despite my camera telling me otherwise, the day was an underwhelming mid-tone grey. Most of the photos I had been taking did not feature people—they featured landscapes and objects or abstractions of people.
I remember driving home from Thornhill. It was one of the foggiest nights on record, and despite the fact that I wanted to get off the road because visibility was reduced to nil, I wanted to stay. I didn’t have my camera on hand, but I knew that it would make a great shot. I see photo opportunities in the strangest of places now: in my food, on subway walls, between nooks and crannies. Everywhere.
On August 9, I celebrated in my own way. I read and re-read The Sweet Flypaper of Life from beginning to end and I gave thanks for this gift before sending it all the way back to North Bay. North Bay is really far away from home, but maybe I could take my camera for a visit one day.
Demand Space
— Chelene Knight —
But you don’t look that Black.”
I remember walking into an event where I was asked to be a guest reader by a woman who’d “heard about my book.” We’d never met. I was unfamiliar with the other readers, had never heard of the venue, but was still interested in expanding my literary horizons. This is what emerging writers need to do, right? I introduced myself to her and she stared back at me for a good fifteen seconds before furrowing her brow and saying, “But you don’t look that Black.” I stood there, frozen in my purchased-especially-for-this-event black pumps, my mind spinning and fumbling for the appropriate reply. Once again I was left feeling less-than, not worthy of being part of the event because—according to the white organizer—I didn’t fit the mould of what Black should be. I wasn’t Black enough. How the hell is a Black person not Black enough? Simple. I didn’t meet the expectations of the diversity hashtag. I knew I should have said something right then and there, but although I felt my mouth open, no sound was audible.
This was my initial attempt at navigating a mostly white-privilege-paved terrain (and I survived), but now imagine peeling back that first layer of not belonging, only to reveal another layer of still not belonging, thinner and less opaque, but another layer nonetheless. My mother is an American-born Black woman. My father is an East Indian-Ugandan who was forcefully removed from his country for not being Black, due to the violence, conflict, and displacement that took place in Uganda in the seventies. This unimaginable experience is obviously not comparable to being scrutinized at a literary reading, but having our skin colour be the deciding factor on how we are treated, is. I never grew up with my father, I never sat down with him and discussed how to handle situations where I was judged or made to feel less than. But just having the knowledge of what he has been through has taught me a few things. You can be born into a place, live there your whole life, and still never truly be home.
Home. A word that, to me, holds many definitions. The first, a physical place with doors, windows, a roof. The second, a feeling of contentment, safety, and belonging. I wanted both definitions. My family constantly told me that I was light-skinned and prettier because I had good hair. To this day I still have no idea what good hair is or should be.
But I remember feeling like all of the things that were intended to be compliments also made me the outsider. While everyone was inside the house—talking, eating, laughing—I was on the outside peering through the window, waiting for someone to open the door and welcome me in wholeheartedly.
Back at the reading I stood to the side of the wood-paneled podium, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. I tried to look like I knew what I was doing, so I turned the pages of my very first book with shaky fingers and I watched the words jump and blur. I was left to question my own Blackness in a room full of white people, with all eyes on me. I walked up to the mic and I felt my insides drop.
There’s really no other way to describe it. Everything inside me fell to my feet and I was transported back to being eleven and some punk kid at school telling me I should pick a side, or my family telling me I had good hair and that I should be happy I am mixed.
This event was no different. They wanted me to pick a side. I fumbled through my reading without ever looking up from my book.
That one reading changed me. It split me in two. The first me is comfortable in her skin, doesn’t feel the need to explain her own ethnicity, while the second me comes to the table orally armed, ready to defend myself as soon as the slightest pebble of doubt is tossed at my feet.
I constantly think about what it feels like to occupy one body that is essentially your own, but as two separate people: a Black woman writer and a writer. For one, it’s extremely difficult to write while constantly bouncing back and forth like this. Walking into a literary reading to a full house where you are the only non-white face will always bring up questions: Am I the physical representation of a diversity hashtag? Is my writing good? Can I read to this particular room of people? What should we do going forward? We need to demand space.
Rush-hour commutes are similar wherever you go, but there will always be at least one person not willing to play by the rules, or even be the slightest bit considerate. The doors of a sardine-packed train open and the usual stuff-your-body-in-where-you-can game begins. I find a spot to wedge in and place my bag on the floor between my legs to make room for the person beside me and so that I’m not constantly slapping my purse against them every time the train jolts forward.
<
br /> While on the train, I started to think about the space around me. I made do with what I had, while at the same time standing uncomfortably still as to not disturb those around me. There was no space to hold on because one very entitled woman thought the handrail dropped down from heaven just for her. She had the entire length of her arm against the yellow pole, so that the people on either side of her were forced to tilt and fall over multiple times as the train lurched to its abrupt stops. She looked straight ahead without moving.
Did she need the entire pole? No. Could she have moved, readjusted, so that the rest of us could grab onto a small part of the pole so that we wouldn’t fall over? Yes. Did she consider this? No.
If someone refuses to give you the space, you must demand it. Take it. I wedged my hand in-between the pole and her forearm, unaffected by the look of utter annoyance on her face. I gripped pole, taking only the space I required. She didn’t move and kept the pressure against my hand. In fact, she increased it. Both of us looking forward, holding space, as the train wobbled along its tracks. After three stops she finally released the pressure against my hand. Another hand quickly gripped the pole. All of us looking forward, the only acknowledgement was not falling over.
I recently listened to a radio interview where Shelagh Rogers had a brief conversation with Donna Bailey Nurse about how no one is paying attention to Black Canadian female writers.* Bailey mentions that, in the late nineties, we came onto the scene hot and heavy, and then—disappeared. These writers were acknowledged. What happened? I’ll tell you what happened: we demanded space, took it, then let go. We cannot publish because we are constantly told, “there is no audience for these books,” and that we are not marketable. I wonder if this is because of the diversity hashtag issue and how certain intersections are hot right now. It’s an unavoidable situation, the labelling will occur, but I want underrepresented writers such as myself to demand space. Demand space, and keep it. Hold on tight.
Black Writers Matter Page 18