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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

 

         

Miriam DeCosta-Willis                                                                                                                                            Fannie Delk

 

 

 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)  /

*   *   *   *   *

 

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

 

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

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.

“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.

                                                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.

            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 twothe 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

 

 
 

Miriam DeCosta-Willis, author and college professor, was born 1 November 1934, in Florence, Alabama. She received her B.A. at Wellesley College in 1956; her M.A. Johns Hopkins in 1960; her Ph.D. Johns Hopkins in 1967 in Romance Languages. In 1967 she joined the faculty of Memphis State University as the first African American member, and while there agitated for more black staff members. When King was assassinated in 1968 she was in the march that erupted into violence and the police used mace on her.

DeCosta-Willis became a professor of Spanish and in 1970 chairperson of the Department of Romance Languages at Howard University. At Howard, she was exposed to Afro-Hispanic authors. In 1975 DeCosta-Willis left Howard and in 1979 returned to teaching at LeMoyne-Owen College. She remained there for ten years before taking a position at George Mason University. Leaving in 1991, DeCosta-Willis took a position with the University of Maryland, where she remained until her retirement in 1999.

DeCosta-Willis served for ten years as an associate editor of SAGE: A Scholarly Journal on Black Women. She is co-founder and a former chairperson of the Memphis Black Writers Workshop, and has served on the Memphis Arts Council advisory committee and a review panelist for the National Endowment for the Humanities. DeCosta-Willis has four grown children. She divides her time between Washington, D.C., and Memphis.

 

Published Works:

Daughters of the Diaspora: Afra-Hispanic Writers (Kingston, Jamaica: Ian Randle Publisher, 2003)

Singular Like a Bird: The Art of Nancy Morejon (1999)

The Memphis Diary of Ida B. Wells (Beacon Press, 1995)

Erotique Noire/Black Erotica (New York: Bantam Doubleday Dell, 1992)

Homespun Images (Memphis, TN: Wimmer Brothers, 1989)

Blacks in Hispanic Literature: Critical Essays (1977)

 

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Related files: The Memphis Diary of Ida B. Wells  Homespun Images    Through My Open Window   Ties that bind