the day
i met/or was blued by toni morrison
was
at chinua achebe’s 70th birthday celebration.
i was invited by my friend, a student at bard, to attend.
the college
was warm with folks of color.
we gathered in a small hall.
sat.
watched as
writer after writer
brought
offering after offering
to the large life in the chair.
i remembered the title of his book, from the roots album.
remembered the contents of his book, from my high school’s required summer reading.
but i did not remember his feeling, the feeling of africa, until i saw his face.
down in the front row
was
toni. sonia.
other writers.
my young mind was hungry for
but
had no idea how to pronounce with young tongue.
the offerings continued.
sonia
got up.
read
‘the middle passage’
in a way
i thought was going to stop my heart.
in that sonia way.
that cadence and voice way.
that steals you while setting you free.
i felt my body weeping, not my eyes.
when it was toni’s turn.
(she was once a professor at bard. as was chinua achebe, a professor at bard. this was a reunion of sorts.)
she asked no photographs be taken.
no photographs were taken.
i noticed her tone became chill when an african american male student asked her a question about the responsibility
of the younger folk to her work/ what we could do to continue her legacy.
it was odd.
because
a few minutes prior
there had been honey all through her mouth.
oh, i realized, reluctantly, they were white. the first blue.
the elder achebe spoke, gratitude made his voice cinnamon and heart matter.
we gave him our souls to kiss. we kissed his.
the celebration grew into night, then ended.
i stayed around to meet and speak. waited my turn, as any
young black woman
who’d met pecola breedlove at fifteen
would do.
she was there, toni, speaking to a friend.
her back turned to me.
i steadied my neck.
stood behind her, gingerly.
her friend
pointed to me.
it had come.
the moment.
i was going to meet pecola’s mama.
the woman who brought me back from the dead.
finally, her white brown locs
turned.
she looked over her shoulder.
the eyes of pecola’s mother
was giving me the look of annoyance.
her eyes, ‘what do you want’
her shoulders, ‘i don’t care’.
i was slung. the second blue.
i managed to get a, ‘i just wanted to say thank you, just thank you for your work,’ out.
she returned to her friend. the third blue.
i was confused. wounded by the blue ice. i don’t even know if she had said anything in return before turning back around. that blue ice ate me.
what was i to think. feel. do.
just a few minutes prior i saw her taking pictures with a group of white female bard students.
didn’t she write the bluest eye for me.
why was pecola’s mother so cold.
i was underwater.
trying to build my feet into boats.
when i lifted my head
i saw sonia.
i slowly swam over
to share with her
how her reading of ‘the middle passage’
had brought the ancestors to me for the first time. that i had never felt anything like that from poetry. that it felt like i was there.
in this tender bridging with sonia,
i was still a car wreck.
still
water in cracking glass.
so,
i told
myself
that mothers had broken my heart before.
reminded myself,
it is a wild knife
but
you can survive it.
as i was gathering my things from my seat
sonia
my group of friends and i,
continued our blended conversation.
sonia
was a brillant sense of red and moon.
she was soft spoken.
wide worded.
her energy was wolf balm.
was grandmother song.
was happy prayer.
we were all enjoying each others eyes so much,
but it soon became time for the
honorary dinner.
so we began to share our
deep gratitude and goodbyes with her.
she stopped and said
‘you, young people aren’t attending the dinner.’
we said
‘no, it is a paid, invite only, affair.’
she said
‘i invite you. you will come sit at my table’
she,
her cloth
a cloud
found someone. took
out her checkbook
and
paid for all of us.
she said
‘you are important. you are our future. you must be a part of this, a part of this history, a part of the conversations that will happen in that room.’
we were stunned.
we followed her into the dining room
and
we ate and spoke with our favorite auntie.
the one with the magic.
in that moment.
at that
table.
i became this writer.
this writer.
this writer. who
felt the call.
felt it like new name.
my work must be work.
my work must be work.
this night was no mistake.
i did not go blue
then
silver
because the stars were running instead of walking.
this was
the ancestors showing me.
showing me how
you can
either
break or unbreak
blood.
showing me there is either silence or words.
(via the-uncensored-she)
