Prom Night She'd worked a long time to earn enough money for the dress she wanted. Her softball team was behind her, and her teachers too, who saw that hard work and her bright eyed pride that very day of prom night. She didn't make it out of the neighborhood. It happened in front of some parents who knew her. Dead on the scene when the ambulance arrived, one of the cars crossed the lane. It was head on. The text messages went out just as the kids were arriving at prom. The counselor was called in. One kid just sat in the corner crying until he was taken home. Others went in. The decorations were beautiful 'cause Lindy did such a good job. The dresses were the best part: kids who looked like slobs all week looked like gods and goddesses that night, lords of springtime glory if only for one night. Most of them still had a good time, somehow, that night. One girl gave it all up to a guy she liked: a hard, stupid agent of her quick knowing, sudden adulthood, and breathless flight from death. She'll get married too young, too quick, got that child to care for. He'll cheat on her in about a year and they'll be one more divorce stat. In the meantime, a teacher comes straight home just to hug her children, and the most helpless of them all can do nothing but write yet another damn poem that makes sure we keep that bloody, gaping wound wide open. Wesson, MS 04 April 2017
I’m proud to announce that Spanish poet Jacobo Llano visited Mississippi College last week and was able to speak to my Creative Writing: Poetry class. He also presented to Dr. Beth Stapleton’s Modern Languages students. In these presentations, he discussed poems from his latest book, El Silencio de los Peces — its sources, meaning, and form — and in my class read two of his poems in Spanish while I read them in English translation. He was warm, personable, approachable, and a natural in front of the classroom. I was able to record his reading and discussion of his poem “Authority.” Video and poems below.
Earlier today, Millsaps College had scheduled the Jamaican poet Claudia Rankine to visit campus and read her poetry. She’s the Frederick Iseman Professor of Poetry at Yale University, and unfortunately her flight was snowed in, so she couldn’t make it. In her place, three local poets and authors — and one undergraduate sociology student — read from her poetry and discussed it. The topic of race came up quite a bit, of course, as it is a central concern of Rankine’s poetry, but one point that came out about Rankine’s poetry is that it didn’t offer any solutions to the problems of race. One of the worst of these problems is how we tend to be intractably identified with a series of racial characteristics that seem to define our behaviors for others even before we act. Her poetry seems to hope that if these problems with race are presented clearly enough that others could eventually discover solutions.
Her Jamaican origins got me thinking about Caribbean history and, by extension, postcolonial theory. One of the central problems with Caribbean identity is that it is hard to define: for the most part, any original islanders have long since been gone, so that island populations tend to be a mix of Africans, Indians (from India), Native Americans, and a variety of Europeans. Compounding the problem is the fact that few, if any, islands have a single European identity. Islands tended to change hands among the British, French, Spanish, and other European nations throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth century as treaty concessions.
So the question left with Caribbean nations — once they cut loose of the last European country to have colonized them — is, “Who are we?” They are too distanced from their African heritage to claim that as their own, and they are not just African anyhow. They seldom have a single European language or background, and if they did, it would be oppressive, so why keep that?
One solution that has come up, however, is the idea of hybridity. History has left most Caribbean nations a diverse mix of a variety of European, African, and Indian influences. They have been left by history a hybrid of many cultures and languages, and once they realized that, they realized they could form a new cultural and national identity out of that hybridity.
And then I realized the United States is a hybrid nation as well. And more personally, that I am a hybrid person. I grew up in a brand new Southern Californian subdivision alongside Scottish, Irish, Chinese, Mexican, Korean, Vietnamese, African-American, Puerto Rican, and mixed-race families. One couple was a Chinese man married to an African-American woman. Now when I say these families were Scottish, etc., I don’t mean really American with some Scottish background in the distant past. As Puerto Ricans we were all citizens of the United States from the start, but my mother grew up in Puerto Rico, as did my father’s mother, and Puerto Rico is very different culturally from the rest of the United States. Everyone else my age was first generation: first generation Scottish, Chinese, Irish, Mexican, etc. Their parents had moved to the US from those countries. My Chinese friend’s father didn’t even speak English yet.
So what is my culture? So Cal suburban? Yes, but a pretty diverse one, with many different languages, habits, and foods. But there’s more to it than that. I started thinking about Black culture and how much it made up my environment, and I realized that Black culture was a part of me. Among the hybridity that I experienced personally was a Black cultural identity. That was part of it too.
And while I realize this notion of hybridity is not an all-encompassing solution, I think it does present one possibility: every Black person in the United States can look at every white person in the United States and say, “My culture helped form who you are. It formed your history, your literature, your music, your art, your drama, your film, your sports, your science, your engineering. That means, like it or not, you’re part black. It’s not just that, as an American, I am part of your society. It’s that, as an American, you are part of mine.”
How might that change the terms of the discussion?
Liber Abaci O! Could any great stone, mountainous though it is, resist that wry, gentle, know- ing look that pierces your dark surfaces with humor like prismatic sunlight dript through summer windowpanes in early morning: you want the light, but don't want to wake up. c 2017 Jim Rovira
Frendeles Elated, lucid rotund peaches heave their twin, soft, downy curves into the still loneliness of cold northern climes, of dark lands with a night that lasts all day. c Jim Rovira 2016 Colorado Springs