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Books by Kalamu ya
Salaam
The Magic of JuJu: An Appreciation of the Black Arts
Movement /
360:
A Revolution of Black Poets
Everywhere Is Someplace Else: A Literary Anthology
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From A Bend in the River: 100 New Orleans Poets
Our Music Is No Accident /
What Is Life: Reclaiming the Black Blues Self
My Story My Song (CD)
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Take
Deep Breaths: Post-Katrina New Orleans
By Kalamu ya Salaam
“How did it feel when you first came
back home?”
“I didn't,” I curtly reply to the
earnestly asked question, “I'm here, but here is not the
home I left.”
Waiting for me to elaborate, none of the four-man crew
say anything. The whole room seems to be holding its
breath.
Had I been on my toes, I would have declared living in
New Orleans is like trying to breath under water. You
can't. What you do is grab gulps of air, drop under for
as long as you can, pop up shortly, gasp another
mouthful or two, and duck back down, re-submerging your
head below the water line.
Isha, one of my younger grandchildren, was all excited
last weekend. She is taking swimming lessons and had
learned how to put her tiny face under water. She was so
proud, so very, very proud of her little five-year-old
self, proclaiming she's going to open her eyes next.
And now, suddenly, for no particular reason, I'm hearing
Etta James singing “I'd rather go blind, than see you
walk away from me.” I second that emotion—I'd rather go
blind than see New Orleans like it is: inundated by an
awful post-hurricane funk.
What I'm seeing hurts my eyeballs.
My good friend Jerry appears ok, but there's a
disquieting edge to his silence. Sledgehammer (that's
me) and surgeon (that's
Dr. Jerry Ward) meet every
Thursday to socialize over a meal. This is our first tete-a-tete after a two week interruption. Initially,
even though I didn't remember him saying anything, I
thought maybe he was out of town but since I was so
preoccupied with my own seemingly endless to-do list, I
just moved on when he didn't answer my phone calls. I
had no way of knowing Jerry had been in jail.
About a month ago Jerry had checked himself into a
hospital; that same afternoon he was released but given
a vigorous recommendation: seek professional help for
what was diagnosed as depression. And now here he was
telling me that he had totaled his car.
Jail? A wreck? What the hell was going on?
My own terrible secret is that I was not really
surprised. Sure, I was taken aback a little, but in
post-Katrina New Orleans we all are predisposed toward
expecting the worse because for natives bad news is now
the norm.
Fatou served us our regular order: a plate of coco rice,
sauteed spinach, plantains and a filet of steamed
talipia-mild for Jerry, mine was spicy liberally
sprinked with dark red cayenne. Jerry had ginger beer, I
had “half-and-half” (half ginger beer, half wonjo, a red
zinger-based herbal brew). When we entered, Fatou was in
the back. I had called out to her and as she came to our
table with her soft smile and charmingly-accented
English, she simply asked “the usual?”
I had nodded yes to her, now I was nodding as Jerry told
me the details of his thirty-some-hour adventure in
central lock up.
”I didn't sleep on the floor, but some did using their
shoes for pillows. They were rapping on and on. At one
point I said loud enough for everyone to hear, why don't
yall rap about conditions in jail? ... Their favorite
word was 'bitch,' but it didn't have a gender
designation. Some of them felt the need to modify the
word when they referred to someone they really didn't
like, like some of the guards, who were
'pussy-bitches'.”
I admire Jerry. Although he holds an endowed chair at
Dillard University, a PhD in English, and has taught at
the college level for over thirty years, there are no
pretensions about him. He often chides his colleagues
who don't dance when dancing is appropriate.
Jail did not frighten Jerry; he had been in Vietnam.
Built like a welterweight, he is a fierce little man who
is proficient at taking care of himself regardless of
where he is.
Jerry volunteered as a polling official in the just past
mayoral race, but now he holds a newly developed
contempt for the police, engendered not by how they
treated him, but rather by the corruption they displayed
toward everyone during his ordeal. “You know they
allowed them to smoke marijuana in jail?”
I was not surprised.
”I couldn't eat. They gave us two sandwiches. I don't
know what was on those sandwiches.”
Our conversation slowed as we both dug into our
consistently wonderful meal at our favorite African
restaurant. True Benechin was the only African eatery
now open; nevertheless our favorite dish, which we
always order, was always, always really satisfying. The
spinach never overcooked. The plantains unfailingly
sweet. The rice moist. And the fish succulent.
After we ate, we lingered in conversation, commiserating
about the un-merry place our home has become. Jerry
confesses he just couldn't bring himself to leave the
house last Thursday. I knew the feeling.
As we walked out of the French Quarter to Esplanade
Avenue, where I have parked, I admired the beautiful,
golden time of day—the atmosphere lit by a lustrous,
buttery, almost dark, deep yellow twilight.
I tell Jerry I am working on a piece about being weary.
He smiles grimly and affirms, yes, you must write that.
Then he looks at me, and without a trace of sarcasm or
bitterness, wearily utters, “you know it's a shame when
two old men like us have nothing to look forward to but
the taste of perpetual misery.”
I silently suck Jerry's words into my tightly clenched
jaws. Unfortunately, the syllables fit well within my
mouth: per-pe-tu-al mi-se-ry.
When I drop Jerry home, our firm goodbye handshake seems
necessary, so necessary for us to touch, to hold, to not
let go.
I take a deep breath, look around for oncoming traffic,
slowly back out Jerry's driveway, and push on to my next
destination—no rest for the weary, there are many more
rivers to cross before I get over.
posted 28 July 2006* * *
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Audio:
My Story, My Song (Featuring blues guitarist Walter Wolfman Washington)
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music website >
http://www.kalamu.com/bol/
writing website >
http://wordup.posterous.com/
daily blog >
http://kalamu.posterous.com
twitter >
http://twitter.com/neogriot
facebook >
http://www.facebook.com/kalamu.salaam
Guarding the Flame of Life
New Orleans Jazz Funeral for tuba player Kerwin
James /
They danced atop his casket Jaran 'Julio' Green
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Track List
1. Congo Square (9:01)
2. My Story, My Song (20:50)
3. Danny Banjo (4:32)
4. Miles Davis (10:26)
5. Hard News For Hip Harry (5:03)
6. Unfinished Blues (4:13)
7. Rainbows Come After The Rain (2:21)/Negroidal Noise (15:53)
8. Intro (3:59)
9. The Whole History (3:14)
10. Negroidal Noise (5:39)
11. Waving At Ra (1:40)
12. Landing (1:21)
13. Good Luck (:04) |
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Blacks in Hispanic Literature: Critical Essays
Edited by
Miriam DeCosta-Willis
Blacks in Hispanic Literature is a
collection of fourteen essays by scholars and
creative writers from Africa and the Americas.
Called one of two significant critical works on
Afro-Hispanic literature to appear in the late
1970s, it includes the pioneering studies of
Carter G. Woodson and
Valaurez B. Spratlin, published in the 1930s, as
well as the essays of scholars whose interpretations
were shaped by the Black aesthetic. The early
essays, primarily of the Black-as-subject in Spanish
medieval and Golden Age literature, provide an
historical context for understanding 20th-century
creative works by African-descended, Hispanophone
writers, such as Cuban
Nicolás Guillén and Ecuadorean poet, novelist,
and scholar
Adalberto Ortiz, whose essay analyzes the
significance of Negritude in Latin America. This
collaborative text set the tone for later
conferences in which writers and scholars worked
together to promote, disseminate, and critique the
literature of Spanish-speaking people of African
descent. . . .
Cited by a
literary critic in 2004 as "the seminal study in the
field of Afro-Hispanic Literature . . . on which
most scholars in the field 'cut their teeth'."
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Sister Citizen: Shame, Stereotypes, and Black Women in
America
By Melissa V.
Harris-Perry
According to the
author, this society has historically exerted
considerable pressure on black females to fit into one
of a handful of stereotypes, primarily, the Mammy, the
Matriarch or the Jezebel. The selfless
Mammy’s behavior is marked by a slavish devotion to
white folks’ domestic concerns, often at the expense of
those of her own family’s needs. By contrast, the
relatively-hedonistic Jezebel is a sexually-insatiable
temptress. And the Matriarch is generally thought of as
an emasculating figure who denigrates black men, ala the
characters Sapphire and Aunt Esther on the television
shows Amos and Andy and Sanford and Son, respectively.
Professor Perry
points out how the propagation of these harmful myths
have served the mainstream culture well. For instance,
the Mammy suggests that it is almost second nature for
black females to feel a maternal instinct towards
Caucasian babies.
As for the source
of the Jezebel, black women had no control over their
own bodies during slavery given that they were being
auctioned off and bred to maximize profits. Nonetheless,
it was in the interest of plantation owners to propagate
the lie that sisters were sluts inclined to mate
indiscriminately.
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