 The Experience of Boxing with the Spirit My Mother, My Life My mother endured many things and died at fifty-two of health issues related to the “lived experience” of being a black woman in this country. She was a courageous woman, and this segment on “life and death” issues for black mothers and their children struck deeply for me, as I thought of my mother, my matrilineal line, my father and his matrilineal line, of the black women who have endure the crushing weight of history.
A quote rom the New York Times Daily Podcast: “Black women in the United States are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes as white women, and black infants are more than twice as likely to die as white babies. A growing body of research links this disparity to "the toxic psychological stress experienced as a result of systemic racism." Linda Villarosa goes into this huge topic in depth in this article: https://nyti.ms/2GOKeCf There is so much to say about this. I’ve been aware of the issue generally but the podcast emphasized it powerfully for me. In terms of poetry, I have written about my mother in Talisman, but there is so much more I want to lovingly write about the woman who gave me life. May I be blessed with time and the portal to that space in my writing. Matters of Black Lives In 1997, I took over as editor of Obsidian Magazine. Based at North Carolina State University, it was, as I saw it, one of the three sisters of black journals. The other two were Callaloo and African American Literature Forum. I made my decision in the way of cultural duty and saw it as a chance to contribute something to the tradition of African American letters, and I am so happy to see the journal continuing under the steady leadership of Duriel Harris. Visit Obsidian here: https://obsidianlit.org I was asked by Honoree Jeffers to write something for the Poetic Research column she was editing for Common-Core. My thoughts immediately went to some kind of continuation of the arc of history in A Hard Summation , inspired by the story of Phoebe, the eight year old girl who endured the Middle Passage. While visiting North Carolina back in the 90’s, my Aunt Janet told me Phoebe’s story. While growing up, I was a listener. Few things held my attention more than sitting around listening to stories of the past. I suppose that’s why she chose to tell me. Click here to read my poem and essay for Common-Core, a website maintained by the American Antiquarian Society. As I get older, I often wonder who to give certain stories to, so that the stories will be remembered properly. Of that there is no guarantee, so I come back to a simpler truth. I should just enjoy telling the stories and hope for an attentive audience other than our pets. I can hope to be as interesting as the man from Baltimore who became the world’s greatest harmonica player. Listen here to his story, “A Polite Word for Liar." Meanwhile, I am outdone by the spew of illusory smoke from the White House in this, our Land of Oz. On Black Panther: Mostly loved it, but I would not have the C.I.A. agent character be a friend of Wakanda. In the end, I would have had some rather enterprising and scientifically inclined kids approach the fantastic space ship with their own ideas for investing in African American uplift, as opposed to cutting it up and selling it. A closing scene with the royalty of Wakanda walking with the U.S. president into the U.N. to discuss the Atlantic slave trade, reparations, official ceremonies of atonement, and proclamation of a Day of Silence. What would that take? Hmm. The Magic of Horses Hidden Hollow is a farm near our home here in the Hudson Valley. Hidden Hollow is open to those who need horses. I walk in the soft mush of the pasture, or stand on the fence and just watch them as they watch me. When I meet a horse, I stand near it, and try to empty myself. Standing on the ground and imagining any worries or stresses falling out of me and into the earth’s core, I sink. Usually, the horse will relax, too. Often enough they poke their nose around at my pockets, looking for the treat. There has to be a treat. Why else would a human take the time to be with me? But I had no treats for this old-timer. For that he tried to push me over. His owner told him to cut the crap. That’s the how of how I love being with horses. When I left that day, I felt saved. At other times someone has to tell me to “cut the crap.” Once in a while it’s the voice of the summer breeze. My papers are among the permanent holdings of the Howard Gotleib Archival Research Center at Boston University. Copyright © 2018 by Afaa Michael Weaver All embedded and referenced materials are for educational purposes only. ___________________________________________________ |
