May 08, 2012

Extremes

Eleven days. Remember that. All in eleven days. 


It began with a drive from DC to Brooklyn, a reunion with my TRIP CITY crew in the Hang Dai office next door to BookCourt, where I'd be reading that evening to launch the paperback of Don't Kill the Birthday Girl. Realization that the launch needed drinks-->frantic runaround to secure wine and cups-->Thai dinner with four writer friends (DC & NYC worlds collide)-->my reading-->a perfectly balanced scotch cocktail with another writer friend (from VCCA days)-->Rev Jen's Anti-Poetry Slam at the Bowery, where I saw not one but two naked men in the name of art. Unattractively naked men. Drove to my uncle's place up on West 85th, my first time ever driving in Manhattan, and pondered getting two suitcases up to a five-story walk-up. Chose to nap for an hour in the car instead. Woke up, got inside, set the alarm to move the car to a legal parking place at 7 AM.


Another day, another reading in Brooklyn: a launch for the gorgeous redesign of AMERICAN POET. But first a meeting at the New York Times offices (outside, playing it cool // inside, what?!? this building is so fancy! will I get to write for them? maybe?? pleasepleaseplease), sushi lunch with another food allergy memoirist, interview for Beatrice.com at Random House, bloody mary with a fellow freelancer at Bubby's. First time in DUMBO. I stuffed the month's bills & checks into a postal box; some of them would disappear forever. Yusef Komunyakaa stood us up, so Thomas Sayers Ellis (bless his crazy brilliant heart) did his best Yusef impression. Late-night with the TC crew, where we literally pooled nickels and dimes to cover the six-person bill. Got dropped off at a subway stop that turned out to be closed; lost and intimidated by the men hanging out in the park, called my friend to come back, pick me up, drive me...around the corner. Where there turned out to be a perfectly functional subway stop, albeit one where I walked nine blocks on the Manhattan end. Watered my uncle's plants, his one request. Set my alarm for 5 AM to drive to BWI.


Got to Baltimore and flew to Atlanta. Rented a car and drove to Birmingham, to crash on the couch of a friend from Oxford days. Laughed a lot. Gossiped a little. Slept hard.  


Drove to Mississippi to "Experience Poetry in Vicksburg" on a Saturday afternoon. If being practical, this would have been the reading to cancel once committed to being in NYC two days earlier. But you just don't do that.And there turned out to be a library auditorium full of good people, a great conversation, an honorarium I didn't know about, every copy in my stock of all three titles sold by Lorelei Books, and garlic-stuffed olives I scarfed down by the handful at a fun reception (I know, I know--never kiss me). I went from crashing on a 20-something's couch to sleeping in a 20-foot ceilinged room in a B&B built in 1860. 


Next day: realizing my B&B had no pantry I headed to Anchuca, built in 1830, where I sipped sweet tea & gave the Southern chef a panic attack with my allergies. ("So...is this lactose intolerance?" "No. This is severe, deadly, no cheese no butter no nothing." "Oh. Just checking.") BBQ breakfast? Whatever works. I stood on a balcony once occupied by Jefferson Davis. Toured National Military Park, realizing my comment from the reading the day before while reading "Antietam"--about the anticlimactic nature of field trips to Civil War battlefields--applies to every town BUT this one. I looked down cannon barrels. I peered up at domes. I stood in the body of the U.S.S. Cairo. Vicksburg ain't kidding around. 





Stopped off in Jackson for campari (with grown-ups) and playing kitties (with a little'un). Note to self: when breaking up a drive, don't clear a mere hour on the first end, leaving six hours on the other end. Ate an entire bag of apple chips while trying to stay awake. That's the equivalent of five apples. Napped in a McDonald's parking lot off I-40 E. Rolled into Atlanta's Highland Inn at 2 AM.


Hid out at the Highland Inn. Had a very affirming phone call regarding the New York Times. Had a very alarming phone call regarding the New York Times. Couldn't absorb having something fall through before I'd even laid in my own bed to daydream about it. Bought myself a ring. Bought a Father's Day gift. Went to dinner at Doc Chey's with a poet friend. Restless, wandered out to hear stand-up in Little Five Points. Was asked by a man on the street: "Do you think you know poetry? Because I can show you poetry." 


The next morning I migrated from the boho charms of the Highland Inn (burned out light bulbs) (scavenging Folger's coffee and an unripe banana every morning) to the luminous beauty of SCAD's Ivy Hall (chandelier) (fridge stocked with juice and San Pellegrino). Turned on computer; demoralized by number of unread emails; turned off computer. Led a workshop on "Projecting Your Voice on the Page." Tried to look pretty for the photographer despite having only had two baths in a week. Reading. Dinner ambush: a salad in which the squash I'd okayed did its finest cucumber impression. Beers at Manuel's Tavern with three poets. Arguing over the Decatur Book Festival, bluffing about the future of bookselling, commiserating over the job market.


Got up, flew home to BWI, discovered my car battery had gone dead in the airport parking lot. Got a jump. Needed to drive home, fast, and work. Drove home, ate an entire bag of roasted peanuts, and watched three episodes of Gossip Girl


Thursday. Had to be in Vienna, Virginia, by 10 AM to lead a discussion for the "Writing Your Personal History" symposium. Made it by 10:03. Was so busy signing books at the lunch break that I ate my embarrassingly fragrant basil-chicken with a plastic fork while hunkered down against a wall during the next presenter's talk. Dashed to my folks' house nearby so I could take a 3 PM conference call for being a judge at this year's Poetry Out Loud semifinals. Alice Quinn recited her office number over the line and I resisted the urge to jot it down. Another phone call that resurrected my hope in the New York Times gig. Sat on the deck with my mom and tried, helplessly and haphazardly, to catch up. Drove on to DC just in time to catch Philip Levine give his closing address as Poet Laureate at the Library of Congress. Waved to Ron Charles of the Washington Post. He didn't recognize me until I teased him about it over Twitter the next day. 


On Friday, May 4, it turns out I won the Larry Neal Writers' Award from the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. I wasn't there to accept, to my eternal regret. Where I was--and where I know I needed to be--was in Great Falls, at my mother's first open studio for a solo art show in over two decades. 




























That's my mom. She is amazing. 


So I didn't even know I'd won. I didn't know until I got an email from one of the other finalists that arrived Saturday night. May 5. My birthday--and the unholy extravaganza known as Cinco de Sandra. I had woken to an entire day spent shopping for beer, bottles of water, chips, pretzel goldfish, gummi worms, tablecloths, flowers...and a fancy dress because damn it, I haven't bought a single item of clothing in over a year. I got out the construction paper and the rubber cement, made five small signs and one big one. At 7 PM we got access to a space that had to be ready by 8 PM. A man came up and said "I love your work," and I asked him if he could help assemble a table. A man walked up and said "Happy Birthday," handed me a mini bottle of Knob Creek, and walked away without ever telling me his name. 


We came. We hustled. We jimmied tech hook-ups and poured chips and crammed flowers into water. We mingled (well, everyone else did; I dervished). There was an amazing DJ. We read. We projected comix. We laughed. My sister bartended with style. Eric ran a half-mile to get five extra bags of ice. I saw students, old friends, writers, strangers. I said to my sister "I'm going to read a dirty poem, don't listen." And by midnight we had to be packed up and cleared out. 








This life moves so fast. I say that with neither pride nor self-pity; I know better than to think it will always be this way. I say that with wonderment. Some days, I worry that a life moving so fast won't allow anyone to get close enough to love me. Then comes a day when I stand in a room with 70 people singing "Happy Birthday," and my heart is filled to bursting. 



Brooklyn
Manhattan
Birmingham
Vicksburg
Jackson
Atlanta
Washington, DC


Eleven days. Six readings. That's what I've been up to lately.

April 24, 2012

Write What You Know...Kinda

This past weekend I took part in both the Bethesda Literary Festival and the Annapolis Book Festival. At the latter I got to take part in two panels. One was on "The Politics of Food" (super-interesting, and nice to draw on the science/policy research I did for DKTBG) and one that asked "Can Creative Writing Be Taught?"


This is invariably a rhetorical question when five writers who teach weigh in (the event was hosted by the Writer's Center). There was still enjoyable variety in what we had to say. I particularly loved hearing from Ron Capps, who works with veterans who are often coming to the table without even -wanting- to write. But at one point the old saw of "Write what you know" came up, and because of time constraints I didn't speak up to complicate that advice. I regret not doing that, so I'll do it here. 


Write what you know, yes.
But know things beyond your own navel. 


Too often we use "write what you know" to justify solipsism, an indulgence of the "I,"a family story or personal narrative offered without context in the larger world. 


When I sit down to write, it is often in the key of loneliness. So I could write about what's right in front of my face: a failing relationship, a 14-hour drive, a warm scotch on a cold night. All things I know. But I am also lucky enough to live near the National Zoo, where I take weekly walks to clear my head as I ruminate on these things. There I visit with platypi, capybaras, peacocks--creatures whose habits and personalities I perceive in a visceral way that is then expanded by a few hours of research into their genetic lineage, their anatomy, their role in human history. In sitting down to write a somewhat confessional poem, yes, I'm writing what I know. But in sitting down to write an ode to peacocks--which you will find in your May issue of Poetry, such a huge thrill--I am also writing "what I know." 


My point is, what you know extends far beyond internal monologue. Write about the history of a Shenandoah National Park trail, not just a fight you had with your boyfriend as you hiked it. Write about how to make a perfect pie crust, or how to dock a sailboat with one knot. Write about fights your parents had over money when you were a kid, but look up what the actual state of the economy was at the time--how much did a loaf of bread cost? a house? what was the living wage?--and include that too. 


I'm not preaching from on high; I struggle with this. As a memoirist, part of me wanted to curl up in the safe zone of my own story, which couldn't be easily contradicted. But I knew my book had to look to the larger realms of science, cultural analysis, and public policy, even at the risk of getting something wrong or entering an argument. I wrote a chapter on peanut allergies although I'm not allergic to peanuts. I interviewed allergic women my age who decided to become mothers because, though I have not, that is an important part of the story.  And I think (I hope) it's a better book for all that. 


Tomorrow I head up to New York for back-to-back readings in Brooklyn: the paperback launch for Don't Kill the Birthday Girl at BookCourt on Wednesday, April 25, and a reading with Yusef Komunyakaa and Thomas Sayers Ellis to celebrate the redesign of American Poet at the DUMBO powerHouse Arena on Thursday, April 26. Then I dash to make an afternoon flight on Friday out of BWI; from there on to the "Experience Poetry in Vicksburg" festival--a return to my beloved Mississippi!--on April 28 and a reading at SCAD's Atlanta campus on Tuesday, May 1. Home just in time for a Vienna memoir conference on May 3. I might just barely break even on all this. Oh: and then we throw a reading/extravaganza/birthday thingie on May 5. You should come.


In another news, my sister is awesome. She is truly a friend to the sea turtle, both the fleshy and beanbag variety. And she'll be bartending at Cinco de Sandra.

April 19, 2012

Where You Should Be in DC on April 30

So, here's the thing: I was already going to tell you that this reading coming to the Folger on April 30 is the most important poetry event to go to in DC in the remaining days of April. I'm so sad I don't get to go. I'll be en route from the "Experience Poetry in Vicksburg" festival to a reading at SCAD's Atlanta campus. As I said to a friend: remind me, this time next year, to leave days free to go to readings instead of giving them. 


At least I'll see Thomas Sayers Ellis in New York. He is joining me and Yusef Komunyakaa for a reading to celebrate the redesign & release of American Poet on Thursday, April 26 at the DUMBO powerHouse Arena. With that lineup, it's gonna be epic. 


Anyway, back to DC and April 30. A funny thing has happened ...Tracy K. Smith won the Pulitzer for Life on Mars. Go Tracy! So not only is this the place to be, you better get your tickets in advance. If you want a sneak peek of what you might expect, here's a report from their initial reunion reading in Chicago. 



O.B. Hardison Poetry Series presents
“Nothing Personal: The Dark Room Collective Reunion Reading Tour”

Renowned African American Poets Look Back on 25 years



(WASHINGTON, DC)  The O.B. Hardison Poetry Series at the Folger Shakespeare Library presents an evening of poetry with The Dark Room Collective on Monday, April 30 at 6:30pm. Nothing Personal features Collective members Tisa Bryant, Thomas Sayers Ellis, Major Jackson, John Keene, Tracy K. Smith, Sharan Strange, Natasha Trethewey, and Kevin Young. In 1996 The New Yorker deemed them “…a group that could turn well out to be as important to American letters as the Harlem Renaissance.”  The evening will also include a discussion moderated by Meta DuEwa Jones and a reception with book sales and signing. Tickets are $15 for adults and $7.50 for students and may be purchased at Folger box office, 202.544.7077, or online at www.folger.edu/poetry.

Founded in Boston in 1987 by Thomas Sayers Ellis and Sharan Strange, The Dark Room Collective began as an informal community of African American poets. Poet and member Major Jackson described the Collective as “a group of aspiring black writers and artists who spanned outwards with large arms to embrace any black writer who had a sophistication and commitment to art and artfulness.” The group has gone on to distinguished careers, winning awards and marking literary achievements for their exuberant works.

Tisa Bryant works with innovative hybrid formats, including essays, prose poetry, cinematic novels, and ekphrastic writing. She explores the relationships between artist, art, and viewer with a focus on ethnicity, sexuality, identity, and myth. She wrote Unexplained Presence and Tzimmes, and is co-editor of War Diaries, an anthology of black gay male desire and survival, which was nominated Best LGBTQ anthology by the LAMBDA Literary Awards. She is a faculty member at California Institute of the Arts.

Multi-talented Thomas Sayers Ellis is a poet, photographer, and co-founder of The Dark Room Collective. “The fine and noble tradition of protest poetry is in safe, strong hands with this latest collection,” wrote the New York Journal of Books about Ellis’ recently published SKIN, INC.: Identity Repair Poems. Ellis is the author of The Maverick Room, which won the John C. Zacharis First Book Award, and was a recipient of a Mrs. Giles Whiting Writers’ Award. Ellis is an assistant professor at Sarah Lawrence College, a faculty member of the Lesley University, and a Caven Canem faculty member.

With his story-telling poetry, Major Jackson celebrates the complexities and subtleties of the American landscape, its people, and their environment. He has written several collections of poetry, including Hoops and Leaving Saturn, which was winner of the Cave Canem Poetry Prize and finalist for a National Book Critics Circle Award. Jackson is a professor at University of Vermont and a core faculty member of the Bennington Writing Seminars. He serves as the poetry editor of the Harvard Review.

John Keene explores identity and its many facets, from race and social class to sexuality, with the rhythmic craft of his poetry and prose. He is the author of the award-winning novel Annotations and of the poetry collection Seismosis. He has received many fellowships, a 2005 Whiting Foundation Award in Fiction and Poetry, and a 2008 Fellowship for Distinguished First Collection from the inaugural Pan-African Literary Forum. He is an associate professor of English and African American studies at Weinberg College of Arts & Sciences, Northwestern University.

Tracy K. Smith’s poetry questions love, loss, and social justice, as well as examining God, death, and the impact people have on each other and the planet. She has written three books of poetry: Life on Mars, Duende, and The Body's Question. Smith is the recipient of the 2002 Cave Canem Poetry Prize, a 2004 Rona Jaffe Writers Award, a 2005 Whiting Award, and the 2006 James Laughlin Award of the Academy of American Poets, and was Literature protégé of the Rolex Mentor and Protégé Arts Initiative. She is an assistant professor or creative writing in the Lewis Center for the Arts at Princeton University.

With Southern wit and direct eloquence, poet Sharan Strange describes the beauty and pain of life, family, neighborhood, childhood wonder, and innocence lost. Strange, a co-founder of The Dark Room Collective and a contributing and advisory editor of Callaloo, is the author of Ash, a collection of poems. Strange has been a writer-in-residence at Fisk University, Spelman College, the University of California at Davis, and the California Institute of the Arts. She is a professor of English at Spelman College in Atlanta, Ga.

Pulitzer Prize winner Natasha Trethewey writes about the working-class in the South, showing personal journeys in the landscape of history, and drawing on her own experiences for enrichment. Her first collection of poetry, Domestic Work, was the winner of the Cave Canem Poetry Prize for the best first book by an African American poet and won both the 2001 Mississippi Institute of Arts and Letters Book Prize and the 2001 Lillian Smith Award for Poetry. Trethewey’s other works include Native Guard, which received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, Bellocq's Ophelia and a book of creative non-fiction, Beyond Katrina: A Meditation on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. She is a professor of English at Emory University.

Kevin Young draws inspiration from African American music and American history in his poetic tales full of sorrow and insight. The New York Times Book Review described his book Black Maria as “highly entertaining, often dazzling, and, as book reviewers like to say—but rarely about contemporary poetry—compulsively readable.” Young has written seven books of poetry, including Ardency: A Chronicle of the Amistad Rebellion and Jelly Roll: A Blues, which was a finalist for the National Book Award and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and winner of the Paterson Poetry Prize. He is a professor of creative writing and English, and curator of Literary Collections and the Raymond Danowski Poetry Library at Emory University in Atlanta.

Moderater Meta DuEwa Jones, Ph.D specializes in poetry of the 20th and 21st centuries, particularly in relation to gender, sexuality, performance, and music. Her book, The Muse is Music: Jazz Poetry From the Harlem Renaissance to Spoken Word, was noted as “an important addition to the growing literature about jazz poetry” by Choice. Jones is co-director of the Texas Institute for Literary and Textual Studies, as well as an associate professor of English and African American studies at University of Texas at Austin.

DATE & TIME: Monday, April 30 at 6:30pm
LOCATION: Folger Shakespeare Library
201 East Capitol Street, SE, Washington, DC
TICKETS: $15 adults / $7.50 students 
Purchase at the Folger box office, 202.544.7077, or www.folger.edu/poetry
METRO: Capitol South (blue/orange lines), 4 blocks
PARKING: Street parking in neighborhood