i being the youngest daughter of Africa and the sun was rejected
and all the while them saying “isn’t she beautiful?” and she being
i thinking “aren’t you sick” and i remember wanting to give myself but
nothing being big enough to take me and searching for the right way
to live and seeing the answer understanding the right way to die
though death is as distasteful as the second cigarette in the morning
and don’t you understand? i value my life so surely all others must value
theirs and that’s the weakness the weak use against us. they so
casually make decisions like who’s going to live and who’s
going to
starve to death and who will be happy or not and they never know
what their life means since theirs lacks meaning and they never
have to try to understand what someone else’s life could mean
those guards and policemen who so casually take the only possession
worth possessing and dispense with it like an empty r.c. cola bottle
never understanding the vitality of its contents
and the white boys and girls came with their little erections and i
learned to see but not show feeling and i learned to talk while not
screaming though i would scream if anyone understands that language
and i would reach if there were a substance and Black people say
i went communist and i only and always thought i went and Black people
say “why howard johnson’s” but i could think of no other place and Black
people ask “why didn’t i shoot it out?” when i thought i had. and they say
they have no responsibility and i knew they would not rest until my
body was brought out in tiny flabby pieces
the list is long and our basic Christianity teaches us to sacrifice
the good to the evil and if the blood is type O positive maybe they
will be satisfied but white people are like any other gods with an insatiable
appetite and as long as we sacrifice our delicate to their coarse we will sacrifice
i mean i started with a clear head cause i felt i should and feeling
is much more than mere emotion though that is not to be sacrificed
and through it all i was looking for this woman angela yvonne
and i wanted to be harriet tubman who was the first WANTED Black woman
and i wanted to bring myself and us out of the fear and into the Dark
but my helpers trapped me and this i have learned of love—it is harder
to be loved than to love and the responsibilities of letting yourself
be loved are too great and perhaps i shall never love again cause i would rather need than allow, and what i’m saying is
i had five hours of freedom when i recognized my lovers had decided
and i was free in my mind to say—whatever you do you will not know
what you have done
we walked that october afternoon among the lights and smells of autumn
people and i tried so to hold on. and as i turned 51st street and eighth
and saw, i knew there was nothing more to say so i thought
and i entered the elevator touching the insides as a woman is touched
i looked into the carpet as we were expelled
and entered the key
which would both open and close me
and i thought to them all
to myself just make it easy
on yourself
A Poem
for langston hughes
diamonds are mined…oil is discovered
gold is found…but thoughts are uncovered
wool is sheared…silk is spun
weaving is hard…but words are fun
highways span…bridges connect
country roads ramble…but i suspect
if i took a rainbow ride
i could be there by your side
metaphor has its point of view
allusion and illusion…too
meter…verse…classical…free
poems are what you do to me
let’s look at this one more time
since i’ve put this rap to rhyme
when i take my rainbow ride
you’ll be right there at my side
hey bop hey bop hey re re bop
But Since You Finally Asked
(A Poem Commemorating the 10th Anniversary of the Slave Memorial at Mount Vernon)
No one asked us…what we thought of Jamestown…in 1619…they didn’t even say…“Welcome”…“You’re Home”…or even a pitiful…“I’m Sorry…But We Just Can’t Make It…Without You”…No…No one said a word…They just snatched our drums…separated us by language and gender…and put us on blocks…where our beauty…like our dignity…was ignored
No one said a word…in 1776…to us about Freedom…The rebels wouldn’t pretend…the British lied…We kept to a space…where we owned our souls…since we understood…another century would pass…before we owned our bodies…But we raised our voices…in a mighty cry…to the Heavens above…for the strength to endure
No one says…“What I like about your people”…then ticks off the wonder of the wonderful things…we’ve given…Our song to God, Our strength to the Earth…Our unfailing belief in forgiveness…I know what I like about us…is that we let no one turn us around…not then…not now…we plant our feet…on higher ground…I like who we were…and who we are…and since someone has asked…let me say: I am proud to be a Black American…I am proud that my people labored honestly…with forbearance and dignity…I am proud that we believe…as no other people do…that all are equal in His sight…We didn’t write a constitution…we live one…We didn’t say “We the People”…we are one…We didn’t have to add…as an after-thought…“Under God”…We turn our faces to the rising sun…knowing…a New Day…is always…beginning
Stardate Number 18628.190*
This is not a poem…this is hot chocolate at the beginning of Spring…topped with hand whipped double cream…a splash of brandy to give it sass…and just a little cinnamon to give it class…This is not a poem
This is a summer quilt…log cabin pattern…see the corner piece…that was grandmother’s wedding dress…that was grandpappa’s favorite Sunday tie…that white strip there…is the baby who died…Mommy had pneumonia so that red flannel shows the healing…This does not hang from museum walls…nor will it sell for thousands…This is here to keep me warm
This is not a sonnet…though it will sing…Precious Lord…take my hand…Amazing Grace…how sweet the sound…Go down, Moses…Way down to the past…Way up to the future…It will swell with the voice of Marian Anderson…lilt on the arias of Leontyne…dance on the trilling of Battle…do the dirty dirty with Bessie…moan with Dinah Washington…rock and roll through the Sixties…rap its way into the Nineties…and go on out into Space with Etta James saying At Last…No, this is not a sonnet…but the truth of the beauty that the only authentic voice of Planet Earth comes from the black soil…tilled and mined…by the Daughters of the Diaspora
This is a rocking chair…rock me gently in the bosom of Abraham…This is a bus seat: No, I’m not going to move today…This is a porch…where they sat spitting at fireflies…telling young Alex the story of The African…This is a hook rug…to cover a dirt floor…This is an iron pot…with the left over vegetables…making a slow cooking soup…This is pork…simmering chitterlings…surprising everybody with our ability to make a way…out of no way…This is not rest when we are weary…nor comfort when we are sad…It is laughter…when we are in pain…It is “N’mind” when we are confused…It is “Keep climbing, chile” when the road takes the unfair turn…It is “Don’t let nobody turn you round”…when our way is dark…It is the faith of our Mothers…who plaited our hair…put Vaseline on our faces…polished our run d
own shoes…patched our dresses…wore sweaters so that we could wear coats…who welcomed us and our children…when we were left alone to rear them…who said “Get your education…and nobody can put you back”
This is not a poem…No…It is a celebration of the road we have traveled…It is a prayer…for the roads yet to come…This is an explosion…The original Big Bang…that makes the world a hopeful…loving place
This is the Black woman…in all our trouble and glory…in all our past history and future forbearance…in all that ever made love a possibility….….….….……. This is about us…
bleached and natural…braided and straightened hair…
made up…or…beaten up faces…
tall…short…stately…bent…
CC Riders…junkies…whores…
wives…mothers…grandmothers…aunts
working in the home or outside…
working in the system or outside…
working praying working to survive…
giving pride…giving succor…giving voice…giving
encouragement…giving whatever…we can give
This is a flag…that we placed over Peter Salem and Peter Poor…the 54th Regiment from Massachusetts…All the men and women lynched in the name of rape…Emmett Till…Medgar Evers…Malcolm X…Martin Luther King, Jr…. Thisa banner we fly for Respect…Dignity…the Assumption of Integrity…for a future generation to rally around
This is about us…Celebrating ourselves…And a well deserved honor it is…Light the candles, Essence…This is a rocket…Let’s ride
Brother Brother Brother
(the Isley Brothers of Lincoln Heights)
You see…I Know the Isley Brothers. Know where they come from. Know the high school they went to. Remember when they moved to Blue Ash. Knew their little brother Vernon who used to do a mad and wonderful itch. And who remembers the itch? But Vernon would stand on stage and reach around and swizzle his hips and the amateur night audience would be on their feet though Rudolph and O’Kelly were probably the beneficiaries of that energy but…you see…I know them
You see…We all come from Lincoln Heights which is an independent Black city just outside Cincinnati and we mostly say we are from Cincinnati because nobody knows Lincoln Heights but back in the old days when white people would periodically go crazy and need/want/have to kill somebody Black lots of Black people moved from the river front into the West End and when they could if they could out of the West End and into the Valley and in the Valley…you see…land was ten cents an acre which is not a lot today but from folks walking away from slavery and folks running from crazy folks who wanted to/needed to/were definitely going to/kill them ten cents meant the difference between life and death…But
You see…it’s like everything else so Black folks moved way out there and the Erie Canal was suppose to go from Cleveland down what ultimately became I-75 to connect the Lake to the River and if that had happened instead of it not happening then all the Black folks who scraped together a nickel or so so that they could get a little piece of land would have had worthless condemned land but the canal did not happen though Lincoln Heights did
And then wars and stuff started happening and General Electric where progress is the most important product wanted to have a lot of land but they didn’t want to have to pay for it so they split the land and called it Evendale and what was left on the hill was Lincoln Heights and I’m sure I don’t have to say which is Black and which is white but I bet you can guess…So
You see…The Valley Homes were built for folks to work in the GE plant not to mention folks needing some place to live and other folks not wanting to live near them though the Valley Homes were good enough for us which considering the alternative they were but that doesn’t make it right but it was definitely O.K. because Lincoln Heights had great athletes who would have been famous if they had been allowed to go to desegregated schools so that Virgil Thompson went to West Virginia State but nobody much cared about talented boys from a small Black town that was incorporated and he came back
You see…we had singers too and Pookey Smith could really sing and everybody loved to hear him at Christmas or any other time but Pookey and his brother didn’t have a mother like Mrs. Isley who was determined that her boys were going to get out not because she didn’t like Lincoln Heights or even the Valley Homes but she knew if she could get them out then the talents they had would have a chance to grow and that’s more or less when they moved to Blue Ash and Vernon was run over by a car and all of Lincoln Heights wanted to see them become rich and famous since we already knew they were talented and beautiful. But Ernie came along and we all were happy though nobody does the itch anymore since that’s what Vernon did…And we all remembered.
You see…When they started perfecting SHOUT and Mrs. Isley said she was taking her boys to New York and Elaine said she was going with Rudolph and Ronald used to date my sister but she had to go on to college and the Isleys know because…you see…they are from Lincoln Heights that they had to take care of each other and they have done that…We all mourned when O’Kelly now called Kelly died because he was such a good friend to all of us and none of them ever forgot where they came from and how much love all of Lincoln Heights still sends out to all of them and just recently
You See…I was home and it was Mother’s Day at church and their Grandmother wanted to sing a tribute and she was still doing that Isley SHOUT at 92 and a lot of other people did that Isley SHOUT like the Beatles and Joey Dee and stuff but it was the Isley SHOUT that was our thing and other than the Beatles they have sold the most records…and Lincoln Heights
You see…Always knew they were special and that’s why we know Brother Brother Brother may be an album title but it is a way of life with these powerful, wonderful sons of Lincoln Heights who are Brother to us all…don’cha know
Afterword
Some Poems Are More Useful Than Others
My second visit to the African continent was at the invitation of the USIA. I was excited to return to Africa and this time I was taking my son and Debbie Russell, who had worked for me off and on since I had taught her at Livingston College. I was always teasing Debbie about having her passport which she had not had ready when Soul! took us to London to film the dialogue with James Baldwin. For sure, that was a different time because Debbie borrowed the passport of a friend under the auspices of “all colored people look alike.” “But, Nikki,” she said. “What if they know it’s not me?” “Well, then,” I comforted her, “you’ll go to jail and we’ll have to go to London without you.” But I honestly didn’t think they would care and they really never noticed the difference. When we got back my first question was: Going to get your passport? And she scurried on down to the main post office. When Africa came up she was ready. Her mother wasn’t so sure, so she traveled over from Newark to have a talk with me. She wanted to be assured that I would bring Debbie back. “Whatever else would I do?”, I wanted to know. But as it turned out her mother was quite prescient as I had not an inconsiderable number of good offers if I would let Debbie marry. If Debbie had played tennis she would remind you of Serena. Not that tall but that same African-American butt that is so interesting to people who are used to looking at flat behinds. Some just wanted to know if they could keep her overnight and others were more honorable. But I kept my vow to Mrs. Russell and not only brought Debbie back but made sure she was chaperoned while there. I got quite a few good gifts trying to win my favor but I definitely played hard ball. No. I have promised her mother.
In trying to get ready I put a big map of Africa up on the playroom wall. I colored in all the countries we were to visit. Since I am, shamefully, language poor I was only being invited to the English speaking countries: Ghana, Nigeria, Botswana, Lesotho, Swaziland, Uganda, Tanzania and Kenya. This was before you could travel directly to Africa so we had a stopover in Paris. Change planes and on to Liberia. Stop over briefly in Liberia then on to Ghana. Disembark in Ghana. Since I wanted Thomas
to not only know the geography but where he was going we went over our routine and route many times. “What are we going to do to get to Africa?” I would innocently ask. “First we say ‘Where is that Debbie? If she doesn’t come right away we’re going to leave her,” Thomas would reply. “Then we go downstairs and I say: Taxi! Then we say Kennedy Airport.” And I would cheer him on. “That’s wonderful! What next?” “Then we get on the plane and go to sleep,” he’d say. Then looking accusingly at me he would invariably add: “You always do.” Which is true. Flying so petrifies me that if I don’t go to sleep I fear I’d be screaming in the aisles. There were people who refused to fly after 9-11-01 but not me. Friends said to me after the events “Aren’t you afraid to fly after all that’s happened?” I had to say nothing has changed for me. I was afraid to fly way before anything like the unimaginable happened and I’m afraid now. I figure I’m lucky to have always been scared. Not only has nothing changed, I’m not angry with anyone because of my own fears. Sort of a different way of looking at fear but at least I can smile when I see brown people on the plane. “Mommy works hard,” I explain which sounds a whole lot better than Mommy is scared shitless. “What happens next?” “We wake up in Paris! And we get good food.” I’ve never been a fan of airplane or airport food. And after all those people got sick on United back in the 1970’s I refuse to eat anything at all. Plus mostly I am asleep. I can sleep from coast to almost coast. If I wake up its usually within the hour of landing and I have been known to drink a Coke. But I try to lull myself back to dreamland because landing is as dangerous as take-off and I really don’t want to start screaming. “In Paris we change airports then off to Africa!” I am reward prone and at that he gets hugs and kisses. This is really good for a not quite first grader. “Where will we land?” “Mommy, we land in Monrovia, Liberia. Named for President Monroe and started by slaves.” I am so proud I could burst. “Do we get off the plane?” “No. We stay on until take-off. Then the plane flies to Ghana. We get off at Accra. Ghana was started by a nice man who went to school in the United States.” Still pretty good for a kid. “And where do we go?” “To our hotel.” I am so pleased. I think he really understands this visit and will get lots out of it.
The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni Page 22