I'd like to say thank you to everyone who has supported me on my journey to completing my first novel. To those of you who don't know me or my work and are visiting this page for the first time, welcome.
Over the next few weeks, I hope to share with you a little of my progress as I begin research on my new book -- a yet-to-be titled historical novel, set in the 1920s and involving the founding and establishment of The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, the predominently African-American labor union, led by A. Philip Randolph. Sleeping car porters worked on the railroads, cleaning and preparing sleeping cars and acting as valets and waiters for passengers. The union struggled for more than a decade before they received recognition and equity from the Pullman Company.
As part of my research, I'll be traveling by train from Oakland to New York City, following the path of those porters from years ago. This trip will include a visit to the A. Philip Randolph Museum in Chicago. Along the way, I'll be sharing with you what I learn and experience. Thank you for coming along.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Our more recent presidents have allowed themselves to be seduced into this thinking. They begin talking about their legacies as soon as they enter office, recording every moment, hoarding every piece of paper, writing diaries in anticipation of books to be written and libraries to be built after they leave office. I've never had much time for people who were more concerned with how they would be perceived than what they could accomplish. I don't see how we can ever have an effective leader if he (or she) is making decisions based upon how his actions will be perceived in a future history book than how effective his actions are in the present. That's not leadership; that's an audition. Right now, it seems to me that we need a leader far more concerned with our present problems than with his legacy.
Leadership is really not about a leader or at least, it shouldn't be. Leadership should be about service. It appears counter-intuitive but the role of the leader is of both domination and submission. We elect our leaders because we assume that he will make decisions that are in our best interest but we do not relinquish our role in the decision-making. We are not children to be lead but partners in the process. The role of a leader is noble one and, more so, in this country because it is a choice. One does lead but only, with the permission of those to be led. The leader chooses to lead and the populace chooses the leader. That is the essence of democracy. Those that forget that do so, to the detriment of us all. I bring this up only because it appears, at times, that we, all, have forgotten our roles and responsibilities. We elect leaders, assign them the role of messiahs and wait for the miracles to happen. The leaders, in the void of our attention, become less and less concerned with our well-being and more concerned with their legacies.
I don't believe in messiahs or miracles in politics. I believe in democracy,though not with the fevor of some because I am aware of its imperfections. It is, I think, a work in progress. Being a part of it is a tireless and thankless job. But it has occurred to me that while there may not be messiahs, but there might be superstars, those people that just through the force of their will and talent stand above the rest. Those folks, the ones that would want to be president now, while we are facing the largest economic crisis ever, are in engaged in two wars and have strained relations with our allies, would have to be one of those people. This would have to be a person, like Micheal Jordan, who wants the ball when it is the last game of the championship series and the team is down by one with time ticking off the clock. They want the ball, yes, because of the moment but also because they have the courage to take the shot, all with sweaty palms, the roar of the crowds, and hands-in-your-face defense and the pressure of your fans, family and teammates watching. Because they can see past it, to the basket and the victory afterward.
Sometimes they make the shot; sometimes they don't. I say, give them the ball and see what they can do.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
On many levels, that isn't such a bad idea. I agree with Johnson, the complexity and diversity of African American life is one that it often overlooked and quite possibly denied. I recall, before the election of Barrack Obama, black publications, such as Ebony, having written articles which questioned whether or not Obama could or should be called African American! I hope they are ashamed of it now but it does illustrate a point that Johnson makes about the way in which the definition of who is and what it takes to be black has often been constricted to this one particular ancestral history. I only raise this point because I think we need to be aware that there are multiple histories of the African presence in America. This isn't intended to diminish the history or the legacy of slavery in any way; only to point out that the African American identity is as plural as the languages Africans spoke when they reached this shore, regardless of the century in which they reached it. When we ignore that, we actually handicap our ability to understand our shared problems and our shared destiny.
I also think back on my years in college when so many upper and middle class black students felt that in order to be authentically black that they had to embrace a image that was the antithesis of themselves, which as Cornell West points out "highlight histories of black abuse and black struggle." To illustrate this, in one my classes, I reminded my students of the climatic scene in the movie, 8 Mile, in which Rabbit, played by white rapper Eminem outs his opponent by telling the predominantly black crowd that his real name is Clarence, attends private school and has two parents! Clarence stands dumbfounded at apparently being found out and Rabbit wins the competition. So I asked my class, what is wrong with having two parents and attending private school (or being named Clarence). Nothing, except that the underlying assumption is that those experiences makes one privileged and those privileges are outside of the black experience; therefore, those who have had those experiences (i.e. growing up in a two-parent family, attending private schools, etc.) are not black or not black enough.
I point this out only to demonstrate that it has been a assumption,(I would argue with Charles Johnson, that it is relatively new, say the past twenty years or so) that limits black identity to one experience. All others have been largely ignored or belittled, as either atypical or unimportant since the vast majority of black people did not share those same experiences.(Remember those who wouldn't watch The Cosby Show because they didn't believe a black family with a lawyer and a doctor was real. It seems, to me, important that we, at least, allow ourselves the luxury of believing that it could be.) I, like Johnson, find this problematic because it limits our vision of who we are and what we can dream possible for ourselves. Vision and imagination is nurtured, I believe, not just by an understanding of what was but also what is and what is possible. So, yes, it is important that we begin to write a literature that "captures our diversity."
But I take issue with anyone telling another artist what they must or must not write. An artist should only be subject to the dictates of her own conscience. Further, I take strong issue with the characterization of African American literature as one of group victimization, one in which one's destiny is based on color. The literature that I read, that nurtured me and articulated my own history, was not about victimization; it was about identity, human relationships, alienation, and the American Dream. The first three are themes in literature of all people. The last unique to those of us living here in the United States. It seems to me to label African American literature as of victimhood betrays Johnson's own myopia. Racism was the context, not the story.The story was and always will be who are we and what are we doing here. Those questions do not occur in a vacuum; they occur in the context of a particular history, whether your grandfather was brought here in a slave ship hundreds of years ago or flew here in a plane, with a ticket paid for by a grandmother from the islands, some thirty years ago.
I also take issue with the assumption that only way we can create a literature that is diverse is by ignoring the legacy of slavery and racism. (No doubt I must now confess my own bias, since I am not only a African American woman, whose own family history is rooted in the legacy of slavery but also because my own interest as a writer always cause me to look back). I do believe that, as the adage goes, that those who do not learn from there history is destined to repeat it. I also believe that our understanding of the present is made possible by our understanding of the past. The past is always relevant, not just collectively but individually.
Slavery and its consequences is always on the table, even in the 21st century. Johnson writes that "at this moment Senator Barrack Obama holds us in suspense with the possibility that he may be selected as the Democratic Party's first biracial, black American candidate for president..." and concludes that, that historic milestone, along with the successes of a myriad of blacks in entertainment, politics, and industry means that "black Americans don't have social problems and cultural problems in 2008." Really? Their success has not guaranteed that black men and women are paid the same wages for the same job. It has not removed the glass ceiling that many middle and upper class blacks find themselves fighting against daily. The triumph of Barrack Obama is meaningful, in part, because of slavery, and its consequence of Jim Crow, lynching, segregation, and institutional racism. Thousands of people -- black, white, Latino, Asian -- cried, yes, because Barrack Obama is a charismatic and dynamic political figure but also because they understood history. The moment was great because of the moments, great and small, horrific and triumphant that came before it. It provided the context for his victory.
Johnson is right when he writes:
A good story always has a meaning(and sometimes layers of meaning); it also has an epistemological mission: namely, to show us something. It is an effort to make the best sense we can of human experience and I believe that we base our lives, actions, and judgments as often on the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves (even if they are less empirically sound or verifiable) as we do on severe rigor of reasons.Stories do have meaning and they do show us something. They do help us to make sense of our lives. I ask how can we do so without the an examination of what lead us to the present? Our understanding of the past is not fixed, either. Even our understanding of the past has to be changed and revised in view of our changing future. There are still stories there that are relevant to our present and our future.
Please note that I am not arguing against stories that are set in the present or that deal with our changing identity and our changing history. To the contrary, I am in favor of it. It was when I was watching CNN, a few nights before the election and I heard one of the commentators remark that Obama's election would signal a change in consciousness for many Black Americans (I would argue all Americans, but...) who believed that white Americans would never vote for a black man. It is the change in consciousness, I think, that Johnson is asking us to reach for in the new African American narrative, one that embraces the complexity of a changing America. However, wholesale dismissal of the past is shortsighted and dangerous. It is only through embracing our past and a willingness to re-examine it, re-interpret, if necessary, as well as documenting our present can we create a body of literature that is reflective of our experience.
Most of my own life, if I were to be honest, I have been aware of my reluctance to assume leadership in any endeavor of which I have been a part. No doubt that I have feared failure, but sometimes because of lack of interest, sometimes because of doubts about my own abilities but mostly, there has been a reluctance to be the center of attention. Alone in the spotlight is not a position that has ever appealed to me and to a degree, I had accepted that I would always be an observer of history rather than a creator of it. I wonder if that choice has left me an excuse to remain mired in mediocrity rather than reaching for greatness. I am afraid now that it has done something far worse which is that it has been an excuse to remain silent when I need to speak up. Ironic for a writer.
I excused myself because it was (and still is) that as a teacher, writer and artist I believed that it was important that I allow others the space to think for themselves. As a teacher, particularly, I am aware of the power I hold over my students. As an individual, I am aware of my own personal power (one I have been reluctant to own or even acknowledge) which awes and often silences others. I have never been interested in domination, only cooperation but has that caused me to be silent when I should be speaking up? What price have I paid for peace? Have I allowed ignorance and prejudice to fester because I have to reluctant to confront it? It is tact or cowardice?
Suddenly, I am questioning the image that I have had of myself and I want to see myself differently. Not because a black man is president but because I finally feel a part of a world bigger than myself. I have a stake in it and I have a power to shape it into a world that I believe in and in looking at pictures of people, like myself, from all over the world, I realize that I am not alone in wishing for, hoping for a world that is far different than the one in which we now live. The world, for me, has already changed.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
My first day in New York it rained -- a steady drizzle that lasted all day. Just as well...I had finally gotten my copy of that last of Harry Potter and intended to read it all day (and night). Nothing is better than reading a book on a rainy day. Besides I like the sound of cars driving through standing water and the soft humid air.
I am happy that there are still books for young people to get lost in, just as I did when I was young and my mother took my sister and me to the library. I remember losing all track of time in the school library when I was in fifth grade. We had moved across the country and my only friends were books then. Besides I needed a break from my own mind, my thoughts, my stories, decisions, potential decisions, everything unfiltered, unfocused, undecided. My story is still taking shape. I can leave it behind for a little while.
For the remainder of the week, I'd spend time at the Schomberg, marking time on the subway and walking the streets of Harlem. Still deciding on the setting of the novel -- Chicago or New York. I still had time to decide.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The train ride is longer. It seems that we stop at far more major cities than I had on either the Oakland-Denver or Denver/Chicago legs: Indianapolis, Cincinnati, D.C., Baltimore, Philadelphia. I'm slightly nostalgic for open spaces, although the rain slows the cities down, quiets them, so I can take them in without feeling overwhelmed. Unfamiliar skylines are revealed and train stations, regardless of their location, feel more and more familiar to me. They are similar, not necessarily in style or architecture but in feeling. They've aged. They know they aren't the center of attention of anymore, yet, they are undeterred and determined to make themselves useful, no matter where they are, in the center of or on the outskirts of town, connected or separated from the other more modern versions of themselves. I remember that here in these cities is where we live and contrary to what the media would have us believe, life, vital and valuable, does take place in the space between Los Angeles and New York City.
We are over an hour late when I finally reach New York. The late hour and the remnants of the storm makes for a silent departure. Passengers disembark in silence, walking together but isolated towards the outside world. Grand Penn Station seems to be ensconced in scaffolding and mesh draping. As we finally find our way to the taxi stand, drizzle is falling softly around me. New York City greets me indifferently, as if the entire city has much better things to do than acknowledge my arrival (which, of course, it does). Cars drive by, cutting a path through puddles of water. People walk by, mostly as if I am invisible. The bright neon lights from Madison Square Garden seems rude and gaudy, overly large and self-important. Lights are everywhere, artificially extending daylight or competing with it; I'm not sure which. Finally, its my turn; I'm in a cab and making my way to Brooklyn, where I'll be staying.