ESSAY: WOUNDED

photo by Alex Lear

 

Wounded

 

All five of our children were sitting, their big eyes furtively looking around, each one both anxious and fearful to hear what I had to say. Tayari, her voice steely and cold, had told me I had to be the one to tell Asante, Mtume, Kiini, Tuta and Tiaji. And now the time had come.

 

The usually active siblings were silently, even sullenly, bunched at one end of the table, occasionally fidgeting, resentful like kids waiting for a whipping they all would receive because of something that only one of them had done. Tayari did not look up or at me. I sucked up some air, screwed up my courage, and proceeded to make the dreaded announcement.

 

The whole house on Tennessee Street had been holding its breath waiting on Kalamu’s proclamation, a statement that would signal permission to exhale. I don’t remember what I said, nor who spoke up when I half-heartedly asked if anyone had a question or something they wanted to say.

 

None of us knew what all was going to happen next nor what this rearrangement would bode for the immediate future.

 

After years and years of getting along, including all of us weathering and reconstituting ourselves following Tayari’s brain aneurism operation, no one at the table, surely not Tayari nor the oldest of the young quintet, Asante, now suffering through her sweet sixteen year, but also and paradoxically not even the man whose steadfast daddy had set the example for him of what it meant to be a husband and father, none of the attentive ears  really wanted to hear Kalamu say that he and mama were breaking up and that he was leaving home.

 

When I uttered whatever fate-filled words I spoke I was determined not to go back on my declaration. I really can’t recall the specific syllables I muttered, but regardless of the haziness of my memory, what still shakes me is the repulsive feeling of self mutilation, even though at that time I rationalized my actions as corrective surgery.

 

Cutting loose was something I knew how to do. At various moments in my life, I have not hesitated when I decided to sever ties. I have become acclimated to dealing with the freedom of uncertainty even as I am certain that I will continue to push forward notwithstanding that too often my moving forward means leaving others behind.

 

Although six other people were present and feeling their own pain, none of them was aware of what I was really doing. I had pulled out the ever rigid knife of my pig-iron-strong willfulness, unsentimentally pressed the edge to my nostrils and proceeded to chop away at my big-ass nose all because I had come to the conclusion that my marriage had run into the wailing wall and had posted a big, red stop sign displaying a one word curse.

 

Divorce.

 

I was pulling the plug. Tayari and I were separating.

 

It’s over a quarter century later and the emotional wound still aches a bit whenever I place my finger on that unraveling.

 

Once you cut it off, your nose never grows back the same way it was before you amputated it in a vain bid to save face. Was living my life the way I wanted really worth breaking up our family? Regardless of the answer—an answer that varied from time to time over the last thirty years or so—regardless, the deed was done and never rescinded.

 

I do not like to think about that day but sometimes like a hurricane that unexpectedly turns or doubles-back, the awfulness of that day engulfs me in a flood of harsh, unforgettable recollections, forcing me to recognize just how deeply I wounded myself.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

POEM: WE WAS RED BEFORE THEY CALLED US BLACK

photo by Alex Lear

 

WE WAS RED BEFORE THEY CALLED US BLACK

 

We was red before Marx gave a color

to sharing (which

after all, we did all the time

before we became acquainted with snow

and learned to look at a machine

to tell us what time it was, some of us

even carry clocks in our teeth

and get a toothache

every time the opportunity to escape

presents itself

 

it is so boring becoming white

all you got to do is do the same shit

over and over again

try to be god

fuck over women

and vainly conspire to chain the weather

over and over

 

I know you think this poem is crazy

but that’s only because

you’re a capitalist

and hate anything red, not to mention

if it’s black and riffing

about peace and freedom

 

no, I didn’t get this from Marx

Marx got the idea

of sharing from us

 

you don’t believe me, ask

Engles who the first humans was

and how they used to live

a long time before

the calendar

 

how do you think people kept track

of what time it was twenty thousand years ago

I bet you they survived

I bet you they had children

lived, loved, laughed and cried

I bet you they weren’t late for work

or worried about the midnight tax deadline

in the middle of April—taxes? What is that

some form of devil worship, of paying tribute

to the great-great grandchildren of terrorists?

I bet you long time ago women still had their

periods regular without having to take Tylenol

for three days straight, and we didn’t

have to wonder what to do with trash

that wouldn’t disappear if you buried it or

what time the church service was or

leaving work late to avoid the rush hour traffic

or none of that

 

I bet you they didn’t worry about the stock market crashing

or paying the mortgage—mortgage? A strange word, mort =

death, gage = pledge, what are we pledging

to pay back some money or die trying, I know

most of yall believe in progress

believe we know more than people did ten thousand years ago

 

I bet you think a cell phone and a computer prove

that we better off than natives was in Africa even two

thousand years ago

 

Ok, here’s one for you, there were at least 12 Egyptian dynasties

each one at least four or five hundred years long, how much

longer you think America going to be around

 

I’ll give you a few moments to think about that

 

Opps, time’s up…)

 

 

—kalamu ya salaam

ESSAY: THE BLACK ARTS MOVEMENT

photo by Lynda Koolish

 

 

The Black Arts Movement


Kalamu ya Salaam

Both inherently and overtly political in content, the Black Arts movement was the only American literary movement to advance "social engagement" as a sine qua non of its aesthetic. The movement broke from the immediate past of protest and petition (civil rights) literature and dashed forward toward an alternative that initially seemed unthinkable and unobtainable: Black Power.

In a 1968 essay, "The Black Arts Movement," Larry Neal proclaimed Black Arts the "aesthetic and spiritual sister of the Black Power concept." As a political phrase, Black Power had earlier been used by Richard Wright to describe the mid-1950s emergence of independent African nations. The 1960s' use of the term originated in 1966 with Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee civil rights workers Stokely Carmichael and Willie Ricks. Quickly adopted in the North, Black Power was associated with a militant advocacy of armed self-defense, separation from "racist American domination," and pride in and assertion of the goodness and beauty of Blackness.

Although often criticized as sexist, homophobic, and racially exclusive (i.e., reverse racist), Black Arts was much broader than any of its limitations. Ishmael Reed, who is considered neither a movement apologist nor advocate ("I wasn't invited to participate because I was considered an integrationist"), notes in a 1995 interview,

I think what Black Arts did was inspire a whole lot of Black people to write. Moreover, there would be no multiculturalism movement without Black Arts. Latinos, Asian Americans, and others all say they began writing as a result of the example of the 1960s. Blacks gave the example that you don't have to assimilate. You could do your own thing, get into your own background, your own history, your own tradition and your own culture. I think the challenge is for cultural sovereignty and Black Arts struck a blow for that.

 

History and Context. The Black Arts movement, usually referred to as a "sixties" movement, coalesced in 1965 and broke apart around 1975/1976. In March 1965 following the 21 February assassination of Malcolm X, LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka) moved from Manhattan's Lower East Side (he had already moved away from Greenwich Village) uptown to Harlem, an exodus considered the symbolic birth of the Black Arts movement. Jones was a highly visible publisher (Yugen and Floating Bear magazines, Totem Press), a celebrated poet (Preface to a Twenty-Volume Suicide Note, 1961, and The Dead Lecturer, 1964), a major music critic (Blues People, 1963), and an Obie Award-winning playwright (Dutchman, 1964) who, up until that fateful split, had functioned in an integrated world. Other than James Baldwin, who at that time had been closely associated with the civil rights movement, Jones was the most respected and most widely published Black writer of his generation.

While Jones's 1965 move uptown to found the Black Arts Repertory Theatre/School (BARTS) is the formal beginning (it was Jones who came up with the name "Black Arts"), Black Arts, as a literary movement, had its roots in groups such as the Umbra Workshop. Umbra (1962) was a collective of young Black writers based in Manhattan's Lower East Side; major members were writers Steve Cannon, Tom Dent, Al Haynes, David Henderson, Calvin C. Hernton, Joe Johnson, Norman Pritchard, Lenox Raphael, Ishmael Reed, Lorenzo Thomas, James Thompson, Askia M. Touré (Roland Snellings; also a visual artist), Brenda Walcott, and musician-writer Archie Shepp. Touré, a major shaper of "cultural nationalism," directly influenced Jones. Along with Umbra writer Charles Patterson and Charles's brother, William Patterson, Touré joined Jones, Steve Young, and others at BARTS.

Umbra, which produced Umbra Magazine, was the first post-civil rights Black literary group to make an impact as radical in the sense of establishing their own voice distinct from, and sometimes at odds with, the prevailing white literary establishment. The attempt to merge a Black-oriented activist thrust with a primarily artistic orientation produced a classic split in Umbra between those who wanted to be activists and those who thought of themselves as primarily writers, though to some extent all members shared both views. Black writers have always had to face the issue of whether their work was primarily political or aesthetic. Moreover, Umbra itself had evolved out of similar circumstances: In 1960 a Black nationalist literary organization, On Guard for Freedom, had been founded on the Lower East Side by Calvin Hicks. Its members included Nannie and Walter Bowe, Harold Cruse (who was then working on Crisis of the Negro Intellectual, 1967), Tom Dent, Rosa Guy, Joe Johnson, LeRoi Jones, and Sarah Wright, among others. On Guard was active in a famous protest at the United Nations of the American-sponsored Bay of Pigs Cuban invasion and was active in support of the Congolese liberation leader Patrice Lumumba. From On Guard, Dent, Johnson, and Walcott along with Hernton, Henderson, and Touré established Umbra.

Another formation of Black writers at that time was the Harlem Writers Guild, led by John O. Killens, which included Maya Angelou, Jean Carey Bond, Rosa Guy, and Sarah Wright among others. But the Harlem Writers Guild focused on prose, primarily fiction, which did not have the mass appeal of poetry performed in the dynamic vernacular of the time. Poems could be built around anthems, chants, and political slogans, and thereby used in organizing work, which was not generally the case with novels and short stories. Moreover, the poets could and did publish themselves, whereas greater resources were needed to publish fiction. That Umbra was primarily poetry- and performance-oriented established a significant and classic characteristic of the movement's aesthetics.

When Umbra split up, some members, led by Askia Touré and Al Haynes, moved to Harlem in late 1964 and formed the nationalist-oriented "Uptown Writers Movement," which included poets Yusef Rahman, Keorapetse "Willie" Kgositsile from South Africa, and Larry Neal. Accompanied by young "New Music" musicians, they performed poetry all over Harlem. Members of this group joined LeRoi Jones in founding BARTS.

Jones's move to Harlem was short-lived. In December 1965 he returned to his home, Newark (N.J.), and left BARTS in serious disarray. BARTS failed but the Black Arts center concept was irrepressible mainly because the Black Arts movement was so closely aligned with the then-burgeoning Black Power movement.

The mid- to late 1960s was a period of intense revolutionary ferment. Beginning in 1964, rebellions in Harlem and Rochester, New York, initiated four years of long hot summers. Watts, Detroit, Newark, Cleveland, and many other cities went up in flames, culminating in nationwide explosions of resentment and anger following Martin Luther King, Jr.'s April 1968 assassination.

In his seminal 1965 poem "Black Art," which quickly became the major poetic manifesto of the Black Arts literary movement, Jones declaimed "we want poems that kill." He was not simply speaking metaphorically. During that period armed self-defense and slogans such as "Arm yourself or harm yourself' established a social climate that promoted confrontation with the white power structure, especially the police (e.g., "Off the pigs"). Indeed, Amiri Baraka (Jones changed his name in 1967) had been arrested and convicted (later overturned on appeal) on a gun possession charge during the 1967 Newark rebellion. Additionally, armed struggle was widely viewed as not only a legitimate, but often as the only effective means of liberation. Black Arts' dynamism, impact, and effectiveness are a direct result of its partisan nature and advocacy of artistic and political freedom "by any means necessary." America had never experienced such a militant artistic movement.

Nathan Hare, the author of The Black Anglo-Saxons (1965), was the founder of 1960s Black Studies. Expelled from Howard University, Hare moved to San Francisco State University where the battle to establish a Black Studies department was waged during a five-month strike during the 1968-1969 school year. As with the establishment of Black Arts, which included a range of forces, there was broad activity in the Bay Area around Black Studies, including efforts led by poet and professor Sarah Webster Fabio at Merrit College.

The initial thrust of Black Arts ideological development came from the Revolutionary Action Movement (RAM), a national organization with a strong presence in New York City. Both Touré and Neal were members of RAM. After RAM, the major ideological force shaping the Black Arts movement was the US (as opposed to "them') organization led by Maulana Karenga. Also ideologically important was Elijah Muhammad's Chicago-based Nation of Islam.

These three formations provided both style and ideological direction for Black Arts artists, including those who were not members of these or any other political organization. Although the Black Arts movement is often considered a New York-based movement, two of its three major forces were located outside New York City.

As the movement matured, the two major locations of Black Arts' ideological leadership, particularly for literary work, were California's Bay Area because of the Journal of Black Poetry and the Black Scholar, and the Chicago-Detroit axis because of Negro Digest/Black World and Third World Press in Chicago, and Broadside Press and Naomi Long Madgett's Lotus Press in Detroit. The only major Black Arts literary publications to come out of New York were the short-lived (six issues between 1969 and 1972) Black Theatre magazine published by the New Lafayette Theatre and Black Dialogue, which had actually started in San Francisco (1964-1968) and relocated to New York (1969-1972).

In 1967 LeRoi Jones visited Karenga in Los Angeles and became an advocate of Karenga's philosophy of Kawaida. Kawaida, which produced the "Nguzo Saba" (seven principles), Kwanzaa, and an emphasis on African names, was a multifaceted, categorized activist philosophy. Jones also met Bobby Seale and Eldridge Cleaver and worked with a number of the founding members of the Black Panthers. Additionally, Askia Touré was a visiting professor at San Francisco State and was to become a leading (and longlasting) poet as well as, arguably, the most influential poet-professor in the Black Arts movement. Playwright Ed Bullins and poet Marvin X had established Black Arts West, and Dingane Joe Goncalves had founded the Journal of Black Poetry (1966). This grouping of Ed Bullins, Dingane Joe Goncalves, LeRoi Jones, Sonia Sanchez, Askia M. Touré, and Marvin X became a major nucleus of Black Arts leadership.

 

Theory and Practice. The two hallmarks of Black Arts activity were the development of Black theater groups and Black poetry performances and journals, and both had close ties to community organizations and issues. Black theaters served as the focus of poetry, dance, and music performances in addition to formal and ritual drama. Black theaters were also venues for community meetings, lectures, study groups, and film screenings. The summer of 1968 issue of Drama Review, a special on Black theater edited by Ed Bullins, literally became a Black Arts textbook that featured essays and plays by most of the major movers: Larry Neal, Ben Caldwell, LeRoi Jones, Jimmy Garrett, John O'Neal, Sonia Sanchez, Marvin X, Ron Milner, Woodie King, Jr., Bill Gunn, Ed Bullins, and Adam David Miller. Black Arts theater proudly emphasized its activist roots and orientations in distinct, and often antagonistic, contradiction to traditional theaters, both Black and white, which were either commercial or strictly artistic in focus.

By 1970 Black Arts theaters and cultural centers were active throughout America. The New Lafayette Theatre (Bob Macbeth, executive director, and Ed Bullins, writer in residence) and Barbara Ann Teer's National Black Theatre led the way in New York, Baraka's Spirit House Movers held forth in Newark and traveled up and down the East Coast. The Organization of Black American Culture (OBAC) and Val Grey Ward's Kuumba Theatre Company were leading forces in Chicago, from where emerged a host of writers, artists, and musicians including the OBAC visual artist collective whose "Wall of Respect" inspired the national community-based public murals movement and led to the formation of Afri-Cobra (the African Commune of Bad, Revolutionary Artists). There was David Rambeau's Concept East and Ron Milner and Woodie King’s Black Arts Midwest, both based in Detroit. Ron Milner became the Black Arts movement's most enduring playwright and Woodie King became its leading theater impresario when he moved to New York City. In Los Angeles there was the Ebony Showcase, Inner City Repertory Company, and the Performing Arts Society of Los Angeles (PALSA) led by Vantile Whitfield. In San Francisco was the aforementioned Black Arts West. BLKARTSOUTH (led by Tom Dent and Kalamu ya Salaam) was an outgrowth of the Free Southern Theatre in New Orleans and was instrumental in encouraging Black theater development across the south from the Theatre of Afro Arts in Miami, Florida, to Sudan Arts Southwest in Houston, Texas, through an organization called the Southern Black Cultural Alliance. In addition to formal Black theater repertory companies in numerous other cities, there were literally hundreds of Black Arts community and campus theater groups.

A major reason for the widespread dissemination and adoption of Black Arts was the development of nationally distributed magazines that printed manifestos and critiques in addition to offering publishing opportunities for a proliferation of young writers. Whether establishment or independent, Black or white, most literary publications rejected Black Arts writers. The movement's first literary expressions in the early 1960s came through two New York-based, nationally distributed magazines, Freedomways and Liberator. Freedomways, "a journal of the Freedom Movement," backed by leftists, was receptive to young Black writers. The more important magazine was Dan Watts's Liberator, which openly aligned itself with both domestic and international revolutionary movements. Many of the early writings of critical Black Arts voices are found in Liberator. Neither of these were primarily literary journals.

The first major Black Arts literary publication was the California-based Black Dialogue (1964), edited by Arthur A. Sheridan, Abdul Karim, Edward Spriggs, Aubrey Labrie, and Marvin Jackmon (Marvin X). Black Dialogue was paralleled by Soulbook (1964), edited by Mamadou Lumumba (Kenn Freeman) and Bobb Hamilton. Oakland-based Soulbook was mainly political but included poetry in a section ironically titled "Reject Notes."

Dingane Joe Goncalves became Black Dialogue's poetry editor and, as more and more poetry poured in, he conceived of starting the Journal of Black Poetry. Founded in San Francisco, the first issue was a small magazine with mimeographed pages and a lithographed cover. Up through the summer of 1975, the Journal published nineteen issues and grew to over one hundred pages. Publishing a broad range of more than five hundred poets, its editorial policy was eclectic. Special issues were given to guest editors who included Ahmed Alhamisi, Don L. Lee (Haki R. Madhubuti), Clarence Major, Larry Neal, Dudley Randall, Ed Spriggs, and Askia Touré. In addition to African Americans, African, Caribbean, Asian, and other international revolutionary poets were presented.

Founded in 1969 by Nathan Hare and Robert Chrisman, the Black Scholar, "the first journal of black studies and research in this country," was theoretically critical. Major African-disasporan and African theorists were represented in its pages. In a 1995 interview Chrisman attributed much of what exists today to the groundwork laid by the Black Arts movement:

If we had not had a Black Arts movement in the sixties we certainly wouldn't have had national Black literary figures like Henry Louis Gates, Jr., Alice Walker, or Toni Morrison because much more so than the Harlem Renaissance, in which Black artists were always on the leash of white patrons and publishing houses, the Black Arts movement did it for itself. What you had was Black people going out nationally, in mass, saving that we are an independent Black people and this is what we produce.

For the publication of Black Arts creative literature, no magazine was more important than the Chicago-based Johnson publication Negro Digest / Black World. Johnson published America's most popular Black magazines, Jet and Ebony. Hoyt Fuller, who became the editor in 1961, was a Black intellectual with near-encyclopedic knowledge of Black literature and seemingly inexhaustible contacts. Because Negro Digest, a monthly, ninety-eight-page journal, was a Johnson publication, it was sold on newsstands nationwide. Originally patterned on Reader’s Digest, Negro Digest changed its name toBlack World in 1970, indicative of Fuller’s view that the magazine ought to be a voice for Black people everywhere. The name change also reflected the widespread rejection of "Negro" and the adoption of "Black" as the designation of choice for people of African descent and to indicate identification with both the diaspora and Africa. The legitimation of "Black" and "African" is another enduring legacy of the Black Arts movement.

 

Negro Digest / Black World published both a high volume and an impressive range of poetry, fiction, criticism, drama, reviews, reportage, and theoretical articles. A consistent highlight was Fuller's perceptive column Perspectives ("Notes on books, writers, artists and the arts") which informed readers of new publications, upcoming cultural events and conferences, and also provided succinct coverage of major literary developments. Fuller produced annual poetry, drama, and fiction issues, sponsored literary contests, and gave out literary awards. Fuller published a variety of viewpoints but always insisted on editorial excellence and thus made Negro Digest / Black World a first-rate literary publication. Johnson decided to cease publication of Black World in April 1976: allegedly in response to a threatened withdrawal of advertisement from all of Johnson's publications because of pro-Palestinian/anti-Zionist articles in Black World.

The two major Black Arts presses were poet Dudley Randall's Broadside Press in Detroit and Haki Madhubuti's Third World Press in Chicago. From a literary standpoint, Broadside Press, which concentrated almost exclusively on poetry, was by far the more important. Founded in 1965, Broadside published more than four hundred poets in more than one hundred books or recordings and was singularly responsible for presenting older Black poets (Gwendolyn Brooks, Sterling A. Brown, and Margaret Walker) to a new audience and introducing emerging poets (Nikki Giovanni, Etheridge Knight, Don L. Lee/Haki Madhubuti, and Sonia Sanchez) who would go on to become major voices for the movement. In 1976, strapped by economic restrictions and with a severely overworked and overwhelmed three-person staff, Broadside Press went into serious decline. Although it functions mainly on its back catalog, Broadside Press is still alive.

While a number of poets (e.g., Amiri Baraka, Nikki Giovanni, Haki Madhubuti, and Sonia Sanchez), playwrights (e.g., Ed Bullins and Ron Milner), and spoken-word artists (e.g., the Last Poets and Gil Scott-Heron, both of whom were extremely popular and influential although often overlooked by literary critics) are indelibly associated with the Black Arts movement, rather than focusing on their individual work, one gets a much stronger and much more accurate impression of the movement by reading seven anthologies focusing on the 1960s and the 1970s.

 

Black Fire (1968), edited by Baraka and Neal, is a massive collection of essays, poetry, fiction, and drama featuring the first wave of Black Arts writers and thinkers. Because of its impressive breadth, Black Fire stands as a definitive movement anthology.

 

For Malcolm X, Poems on the Life and the Death of Malcolm X (1969), edited by Dudley Randall and Margaret Taylor Goss Burroughs, demonstrates the political thrust of the movement and the specific influence of Malcolm X. There is no comparable anthology in American poetry that focuses on a political figure as poetic inspiration.

 

The Black Woman (1970), edited by Toni Cade Bambara, is the first major Black feminist anthology and features work by Jean Bond, Nikki Giovanni, Abbey Lincoln, Audre Lorde, Paule Marshall, Gwen Patton, Pat Robinson, Alice Walker, Shirley Williams, and others.

Edited by Addison Gayle, Jr., The Black Aesthetic (1971) is significant because it both articulates and contextualizes Black Arts theory. The work of writers such as Alain Locke, W. E. B. Du Bois, Langston Hughes, and J. A. Rogers showcases the movement's roots in an earlier era into sections on theory, music, fiction, poetry, and drama, Gayle's seminal anthology features a broad array of writers who are regarded as the chief Black Arts theorists-practitioners.

Stephen Henderson's Understanding the New Black Poetry (1972) is important not only because of the poets included but also because of Henderson's insightful and unparalleled sixty-seven page overview. This is the movement's most thorough exposition of a Black poetic aesthetic. Insights and lines of thought now taken for granted were first articulated in a critical and formal context by Stephen Henderson, who proposed a totally innovative reading of Black poetics.

 

New Black Voices (1972), edited by Abraham Chapman, is significant because its focus is specifically on the emerging voices in addition to new work by established voices who were active in the Black Arts movement. Unlike most anthologies, which overlook the South, New Black Voices is geographically representative and includes lively pro and con articles side by side debating aesthetic and political theory.

The seventh book, Eugene Redmond's Drumvoices, The Mission of Afro-American Poetry: A Critical History (1976), is a surprisingly thorough survey that has been unjustly neglected. Although some of his opinions are controversial (note that in the movement controversy was normal), Redmond's era by era and city by city cataloging of literary collectives as well as individual writers offers an invaluable service in detailing the movement's national scope.

 

The Movement's Breakup. The decline of the Black Arts movement began in 1974 when the Black Power movement was disrupted and co-opted. Black political organizations were hounded, disrupted, and defeated by repressive government measures, such as Cointelpro and IRS probes. Black Studies activist leadership was gutted and replaced by academicians and trained administrators who were unreceptive, if not outright opposed, to the movements political orientation.

Key internal events in the disruption were the split between nationalists and Marxists in the African Liberation Support Committee (May 1974), the Sixth Pan African Congress in Tanzania where race-based struggle was repudiated/denounced by most of the strongest forces in Africa (Aug. 1974), and Baraka’s national organization, the Congress of Afrikan People (CAP), officially changing from a "Pan Afrikan Nationalist" to a "Marxist Leninist" organization (Oct. 1974).

As the movement reeled from the combination of external and internal disruption, commercialization and capitalist co-option delivered the coup de grace. President Richard Nixon's strategy of pushing Black capitalism as a response to Black Power epitomized mainstream co-option. As major film, record, book, and magazine publishers identified the most salable artists, the Black Arts movement's already fragile independent economic base was totally undermined.

In an overwhelmingly successful effort to capitalize on the upsurge of interest in the feminist movement, establishment presses focused particular attention on the work of Black women writers. Although issues of sexism had been widely and hotly debated within movement publications and organizations, the initiative passed from Black Arts back to the establishment. Emblematic of the establishment overtaking (some would argue "co-opting") Black Arts activity is Ntozake Shange's for colored girls, which in 1976 ended up on Broadway produced by Joseph Papp even though it had been workshopped at Woodie King's New Federal Theatre of the Henry Street Settlement on the Lower East Side. Black Arts was not able to match the economic and publicity offers tendered by establishment concerns.

Corporate America (both the commercial sector and the academic sector) once again selected and propagated one or two handpicked Black writers. During the height of Black Arts activity, each community had a coterie of writers and there were publishing outlets for hundreds, but once the mainstream regained control, Black artists were tokenized. Although Black Arts activity continued into the early 1980s, by 1976, the year of what Gil Scott-Heron called the "Buy-Centennial," the movement was without any sustainable and effective political or economic bases in an economically strapped Black community. An additional complicating factor was the economic recession, resulting from the oil crisis, which the Black community experienced as a depression. Simultaneously, philanthropic foundations only funded non-threatening, "arts oriented" groups. Neither the Black Arts nor the Black Power movements ever recovered.

 

The Legacy. In addition to advocating political engagement and independent publishing, the Black Arts movement was innovative in its use of language. Speech (particularly, but not exclusively, Black English), music, and performance were major elements of Black Arts literature. Black Arts aesthetics emphasized orality, which includes the ritual use of call and response both within the body of the work itself as well as between artist and audience. This same orientation is apparent in rap music and 1990s "performance poetry" (e.g., Nuyorican Poets and poetry slams).

While right-wing trends attempt to push America's cultural clock back to the 1950s, Black Arts continues to evidence resiliency in the Black community and among other marginalized sectors. When people encounter the Black Arts movement, they are delighted and inspired by the most audacious, prolific, and socially engaged literary movement in America's history.

From The Oxford Companion to African American Literature. New York: Oxford UP, 1997. Copyright © 1997 by Oxford UP.


POEM: WE USED TO COULD

photo by Alex Lear

 

WE USED TO COULD

 

We used to could ‘cause we used to did

All day and twice as much at night

Picking stars out our teeth and licking moonlight

As we oohed and ahhed embracing the fire

Of willing flesh opening itself to passion’s penetration

 

They ban books that show you how to make love

Claim sex is nasty and always was originally

So who fucked mary & with whom

Did eve’s children have children?

 

Restricting what people agree to with each other

Is the beginning of fascism

We used to could go naked without shame

 

Why is the curriculum they teach called a canon?

Haven’t we had enough violence visited upon us?

 

We used to study ourselves before they gave us books

We used to sit in a circle, laugh and listen one to another

Now we sit in rows looking at the teacher

Telling us everything as if we know nothing

 

Each life is a book

Each experience a lesson

When will we become the curriculum?

Our lives again be what matters?

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

 

 

POEM: WAYS OF LAUGHING

photo by Alex Lear

 

Ways of Laughing

 

I look at the young women

in our class—Inola, my mother

is there in some of their eyes when they share

with each other whatever little they have: four pieces

of candy, two, or even three, are given away. On the lower back

of one is a tattoo, an adornment to beautify what is already

brown and beautiful, all of them wear colors

like the sky after a spring rain, moisture sparkling

in the atmosphere colored the most promising of colors, their

sharp voices are some times sweet, some times bitter

taking on the taste of their life experiences, their eyes

are so old to be housed in such youthful faces, despite

disasters they are still full of hope and the romanticism

of youth thinking that life is not uncaring, is not totally unfair, will

give them a chance to be something other than disappointed

 

like their earrings they come in all sizes and shapes, and different

ways of laughing

 

—kalamu ya salaam

 

POEM: WADING IN THE WATER

photo by kalamu

 

 

WADING IN THE WATER

(to/for Julie Wedding)

 

Honesty is a crock

Of you know what—and I have a mishmash

Of regrets to certify the sad truths

My life has taught, I am usually

An optimistic person, sunny, bright

Outgoing, devoted to parents & friends, so

Why does life keep shitting on me?

 

Keep hobbling me like rice-sized rocks or corn

Kernels I can never dislodge from my sandals; I know, i

Know, if I wore socks, or better yet

Stockings, pebbles would not be a problem

I could easily dislodge the impediment shards

With a whisk of my wrist, slip back into

My work shoes and move on—but what is wrong

With sandals, with bare feet even, jeez

What is so wrong with being real, why

Do we have to dress up before people recognize

Who we are? besides what happens as we grow

Comfortable, well not really comfortable, as we

Settle in and become resigned to what we become

When we wear costumes, what happens?

 

Shit happens, that’s what happens

When you are no longer young twenty attractive

You’re on the begging side of attention

I’m convinced every man wants a girl and all

Of the fine fellas find women too difficult

Especially when we demand loving more substantial

Than a quick fuck, I’m sorry to say it like that, no

What I mean is, I’m sorry our lives are lived like that

 

I could be happy doing what I do well except

What I do well is not what is wanted

By those who certify pieces of paper

You can take to some money changing vault

In exchange for the best hours of your day

Being enchained to rules, rules and more

Infernal rules to keep you running but never arriving

 

The daily grind is what curdles the milk

And sours the wine of life, when I was driving

Home the last time I even thought of driving

Off a bridge were it not for filial responsibility

To a mother whose age I probably will never make

Not sanely at least—one day you will receive

A call, they will not say I am dead

That would be too much of a thankful release

They will simply say she was standing

In the river singing when the medics

Gently fished her out and committed her

 

I hope I am wrong about the future

But it is long past dawn and still

No sun is coming up

 

—kalamu ya salaam

POEM: MY NAME IS KALAMU

photo by Alex Lear

 

my name is kalamu   

 

i am african-diaspora

i am ancient and new

i am african-american

i am resistance and assimilation

i am a proud and pure cultural mulatto

i am well used labor unemployed

i am illiterate intelligence

i am beauty deformed

i am the fuel of pan-american cultures

i am freedom without wealth

         in my world of constant war

i am a country with no army

i am everyone’s love song

         and even though no one wants to be me

         —some times not even i—

         with the tender touch of my calloused hand

         i continue tending the fruit and flower garden of me

 

i am raped human wise enough to nevertheless

         love my woman self, knowing no woman

         survives slavery untouched

i am tubman feet willfully returning again

         and again to steal my people away

         from thieves

i have killed my children to save them from slavery

i have nursed my children, black and mulatto,

         teaching them all to respect and value life

who knows the pain of slave pregnancy: nine

         months of growing a baby who will surely

         be beaten down—i know

i have sold myself to save my daughters

         and sons from the defilement of poverty

i have denied myself and extinguished

         my dream candles to light a chance for my children

i have chewed the centuries old flag of degradation every

         morning and miraculously somehow managed to suck

         small droplets of hope from the warp and woof of filth

         which i transformed into warm milk and

         breastfed to my babies

no woman knows how to love better than i

         —i love strong men and love pieces

         of men, i love all my babies no matter

         the shade of their skin, and even in the deepest

         white night of my despair, i also love myself

i wrap our wounds with the silk strong softness of my caring

         and the salve cream of my patient quietness hugging

         hurt to the huge humanness of my heart

         knowing that for us, the survivors of slavery,

         there is no better therapy than love and struggle, so

i freely supply the love and steadfastly support the struggle

 

i am emasculated man collaborating and consciously forgetting

         to emulate zumbi, nat turner & toussaint

i am self-emancipating man resisting

         with words, with music, with arms

         with whatever, an enduring mandela of resistance

sometimes i kill my master and love my brother

sometimes i kill my brother and love my master

sometimes i just kill everything

sometimes i kill nothing

sometimes i love no one

sometimes i love everyone

even i cannot predict how i will feel/

         what i will think

         what day is this?

         what is happening?

 

civilization did not birth me

civilization could not create me

         civilization in enslaving me

         disfigured but ultimately failed

         to totally transform me

they tried conquest and captivity

they expounded dead thinking that stinks

they ceaselessly exploited the strength of my

         labor and shamelessly, in the name of development,

they forged for me an endless debt

they legislated my dependenc3e, my marginalization

         my alienation

they blessed me and so-called saved me

         using all the inhumanity christian masters

         could stuff into my mouth

but my vomit is beautiful

         my spit is song

         my tears are laughter

five hundred years of civilization

         and the mases of me still

         will not cut our hair

         shave all our faces

         cover our mouths when we laugh

         or stop making music, love and babies

i am stronger than dirt

but sometimes i am so full of shit

         you can smell me a mile away

         sometimes

         sometimes i drink too many “sorry-for-my-selves” on ice

         or gulp glasses full of warm “we-will-never-wins”

         until i reel in a drunken self-depreciating stupor

sometimes i am irresponsible and despondent

sometimes i give up hope, wear black ties and

declare my blackness should not be noticed

sometimes i flash diamond rings and do not care

         that they are the stolen teeth

         of south african miners, crystallized tears

         from brasilian favelas

sometimes i act like i am big stuff

         and demand to be treated like a rich slave

         merchant whose only concern for blackness is how

         i can profit

sometimes i even expertly wield the whip of oppression

         like some half-human latin american

         dictator decored with rows and rows of brutality

         medals made of broken bones pinned gloriously

         across my puffed-up chest

or at the very least i aspire to be a u.s. senator

         smoking a long cigar, drinking rare cognac and laughing

         at the donkey fucking the native woman at the private

         floor show staged in my honor after i have cut

         a deal and sit bloated with pride, unbelievably happy

         about the good fortune of my lucrative sell-out

or is it some monster criminal i admire with big hat,

         blazing fast guns and cocained realities

or maybe i’m the infamous international singer with

         thirty thousand tight dresses, surgically shaped

         breasts, a beautiful voice and a string of male

         lovers, none of whom look like me

sometimes i look in the mirror and i am not there

but that invisible self-negation is also me, sometimes

nevertheless no matter where parts of me may run

most of me always remains

bare foot on the ground watching the elite

be driven over me as they thank

their new gods that they are no longer me

 

although i am sometimes a thing,

a wild monster grown fat on self-cannibalism, the majority

of me is a creature of the earth and not an object

sprung fully formed from the forehead of some great european

in essence i am simply a wonderful being, like so many others

in this world teeming with amazing delights,

         there are so many uncaged birds and happy fish,

         fast multi-colored horses and me

         there are hard wood trees and wispy clouds, wild mountains

         naked beaches and me

         there are trade winds, gently baked moon illuminations,

         white foaming green waves and me

i am not a creation of men, those

         creations are automobiles and toilet seats

         televisions and rocket ships, cheeseburgers and satellites

box me in a ship and send me

         to brasil, sill i am me

tie me in a seat and fly me

         to new york still am me

drop me on a burro and walk me

         to bluefields (in nica. libre) i remain me

slow cruise me secretly me secretly at night

         from grenada to barbados, antigua

         to st. kitts, martinque to trinidad

         to any of them, to all of them

         what do i become? in essence

         nothing different because the insides

         of all of that is me

 

no matter the currency or rate of exchange

no matter the longitude or location of our u.n. seat

no matter the year of our abolition

no matter when we first voted

or who was our first rich man

no mater how many sport games we win

         or how much we are paid to shake our ass

no matter your perception

         or my subjectivity

even as we are cut by colonial customs

         into portuguese pieces, into spanish pieces

         into french pieces and english pieces

no matter in what way each of our

twists their tongue in order to articulate

         our sounds

none of that matters

if i hug you hard and you kiss me sincerely

if i and i music together

         dance samba, play pans

         kiaso, gospel and jazz

if we wage struggle wherever we are

         and enjoy peace in each other’s presence

if we laugh at ourselves with each other

         and are serious about helping one another

if i love what you see in me

         and you love what i see in you

if we seek each other’s substance

         and eschew each other’s shadow

if my liberty is your freedom

         and your equality my upliftment

if my brother is maurice bishop

         and your brother is malcolm x

if this, then what does a name matter?

 

my name is kalamu,

that is how i am called

but inside the fullness of me i know

my whole name must include all your names,

all the handles you use, indeed

our ancestors sagaciously buffed

our resplendent obsidian inner-spirit walls

preparing us to receive the hieroglyphed history

of our common conditions which chatteled centuries

have etched into each of us, black

codes mutely detailing, once we learn

to read ourselves, the deep and someday

soon shining joy soaked futures

we all would love to taste

 

when we braille read the keloided past

of us and sight read the as yet unformed

future of us, then today’s names can be seen

for exactly what they are and no more,

simply little squibbles, just different

little catch phrases conveniently used

to detail specific manifestations of

a talented and multi-textured black experience

whose nucleus is foreign to none of us

 

when i learn to pronounce your name

i am simply discovering

another me

 

my name is kalamu

now,

what is yours?

tell me how to speak my name

 

 

rio/4

10/87

 

—kalamu ya salaam