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Books by Miriam DeCosta-Willis
Daughters of the Diaspora: Afra-Hispanic Writers
(2003 /
Singular Like a Bird: The Art of Nancy Morejon
(1999)
The
Memphis Diary of Ida B. Wells (1995) /
Erotique Noire/Black Erotica
(1992) /
Homespun
Images
( 1989) /
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* * * *
Through My Open Window
—for Fannie
By
Miriam DeCosta-Willis So often in the dark I look out over the
city—pinpoints of light against an ebony landscape,
ribbons of cars streaming across the 14th
Street Bridge, planes flying low over the Potomac—and I
remember
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the quiet
beauty of her days
the simple dignity of her ways |
It was noon on a Memphis-hot August
day, 1979, that I first saw her there on the second
floor of Brownlee, filing stacks of yellowed papers,
throwing out manila folders, and rearranging desks and
chairs. As she organized the artifacts of her life, she
imposed her own particular sense of order on the chaos
of campus life: a picture of a student here, a postcard
from a friend there, interminable lists of
“things-to-do,” school books set down neatly in piles.
She could have been an artist with
her sense of color and design, her feel for space and
texture, her gift for making a room her own
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a lived-in
space
warm with touch and look and word
a
hot cup of tea
a
few minutes of healing
a smile
bright with sunlight and desk
lamps and fluorescent bulbs
green with philodendron and
wandering Jew,
rooted-watered-fed |
6:35 a.m., August 21, 1985, “I just
called to let you know you’re on my mind. Bye,” she
said.
And again in February 1986. “Here’s
a little care package [two aspirins, a bandaid, an
herbal tea bag, a note] to get you through today.”
10:35 p.m., October 20, 1988.
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“Why do
you always call when I am crying?” I
asked.
“Have you ever wondered why we are
friends?” she replied. |
She sensed the shapes and
contours of things unspoken, the mysteries of
yesterday, the ragged unravelings of today, the
formless intuitions of tomorrow. She had this
feeling for things, this intuition about people that
was uncanny and sure. Open but guarded, warm but
reserved, she held back with dignity and strength
while the rest of us rushed out to embrace life with
a wild, frenetic passion. We just took for granted
that she would always be there, solid and unshakable
like a rock . . .
“But I’m so slow,” she often complained, unaware
that the predictable rhythm of her life, the steady
beat of her tempered hours, the inevitability of her
measured offerings were the balm that calmed and
soothed those of us who moved, always under
pressure, with a quicker step in a wider circle.
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writing, writing, always writing
words
fleshed out,
summoning up
the smooth
planes and rough edges of our lives
yesterday
memories: births and deaths and baptisms
dreams of what
we might become given the seamless
beauty
of Black lives
words on
big yellow pads—in that careful, precise
script of rounded o’s and open
e’s—
spilling
across pages into articles and books
sheets
of paper—“bits and pieces,” she called
them—spread out over dining room table
and
kitchen chairs, and then pulled together
in that correct, ordered style of hers
teaching and loving it |
“But why? Twelve hours and so
many students, classes after school, classes in the
evening, classes on Saturday, meetings with students
on Sunday?”
“Black students need us,” was the
simple explanation for everything: too much work,
too long hours, interminable summer months without
hiatus. “But I’m going to do better, I promise.
I’m going home early on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’m
going to start thinking about me.” She never did,
of course.
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a gentle woman . . .
unassuming
lovely
life-giving
. . . like Wordsworth’s violet
delicate,
blooming but a day, leaving a
sweet fragrance
on the air
her self
submerged
beneath the crystal waters of a lake
hidden below the
placid surface of a stream
* * *
the lucid prose
of her life pristine and clear
like puddles
of rain on a starlit night |
Note on Fannie Delk
Rudy, one of the projects that I
finally got around to during this trip is organizing
the rest of my papers to donate to the library
here. I have a stack of unfinished articles, notes,
and papers, among which is this piece that I wrote
on the death of my dear friend Fannie Delk. We were
colleagues, co-founders of the Memphis Black Writers
Workshop, and co-editors of Homespun
Images. Right after the book came out in January, she
started complaining about stomachaches and two
months later she underwent surgery for colon
cancer. I moved to D. C. in August, and two weeks
later she died. As you can imagine, finding this
piece brought back a lot of memories. I'm not a
poet but I wanted to express some of her beauty. I
never published this, but I'm submitting it to you,
in case you think it's okay, as a tribute to her.
* * * * *
Whenever I'm working on Memphis
projects, in this case two—the Etheridge
paper and "Notable Black Memphians"—I connect with
so many people who've been out of my life for
years. I just got through talking with an older
friend, who was in my workshop and also Etheridge's,
and I discovered that she's in a nursing home and
has an amputated leg. She was so moved to hear from
me. I've probably talked with 25 or 30 friends &
acquaintances since I've been here, and that's
evoked all kinds of mixed emotions and complicated
memories. I've driven through parts of town—once
elegant or neat with green grass and picket
fences—where the houses are now crumbling, boarded
up, and graffiti-covered. It's very sad. But it's
getting me in the mood and frame of mind to write
this blues-sad testimonial. —Miriam
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posted 22 March 2006
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