Black History Month Redux

I have always read books. I like to read books. I would like to say all types of books, but that wouldn’t be true. I don’t do non-fiction well unless it’s a history, and even then it would depend on what kind of mood I’m in for me to read it. I like novels. Give me a good fiction that tries to explore the “human condition” (cliché) and I will be wrapped up for days if not weeks trying to get to the end. Then I’ll spend even more time trying to decipher how the story relates to my own life. Right now I’m in the middle of Anna Karenina, Oprah’s book club version and even though I know how it’s going to end, I’ve seen at least 4 movie versions of the story, I’m still enthralled. I should have that same feeling for poetry, but I don’t.

That’s the reason why I have never seen Russell Simmons Def Poetry Jam. I don’t think I could get into it. In fact the only poem that I remember from high school is Macavity the Mystery Cat by TS Elliot, and that’s only the first 2 lines. Poetry for me has always been an arduous task of reading between phrases and trying to find meaning when I would be so much happier if someone were to just slap my face and say, “Hey this is what I want you to know.” But no one ever did that to me, except for Essex.

I have been thinking about Essex Hemphill for the last couple of weeks. I’m not sure why, maybe because of Black History Month or maybe not, but Essex was a poet. He was also an editor and an activist. I met him at a barbeque party for Marlon Riggs and himself in West Philly. I think the party was to celebrate the release of Marlon’s film Tongues Untied, I’m not sure. I was just there for the free booze and red meat; I was young.

I had read and skipped over some of Essex’s poetry in the book In the Life, so I knew he was, but I didn’t really have much to say to him. Nevertheless we did talk for a little bit, about what I don’t know.

I remember that he had this way of asking a question that made you know that he really wanted know what your answer would be. He had a way of looking at you and you could tell he was analyzing you. He would look into you as far as you could let him and maybe even a little further without being obtrusive. He had the ability to take your thoughts without you being aware of it happening and then place them back where they belonged before you knew they were missing.

I knew Essex for about 2 years and he would do this to me again and again. I only saw him 4 or 5 times but each time was so intense that I would have to have a cigarette after talking to him. It was almost as if we’d had sex and I had walked away panting, trying to catch my breath. Then Essex died.

I went to the memorial service they held at the Quaker Friends Meeting House for him. I didn’t really think that I would miss him. We weren’t great friends, but I did.

I still do.

So I found this poem written by Essex and I’m working on trying to understand it. I hope the family doesn’t sue me.

Conditions XXI

You judge a womanby the length of her skirt,

by the way she walks,

talks, looks, and acts;

by the color of her skin you judge

and will call her "bitch!"

"Black bitch!"

if she doesn't answer your:

"Hey baby, whatcha gonna say

to a man."

You judge a woman

by the job she holds,

by the number of children she's had,

by the number of digits on her check;

by the many men she may have lain with

and wonder what jive murphy

you'll run on her this time.

You tell a woman

every poetic love line

you can think of,

then like the desperate needle

of a strung out junkie

you plunge into her veins,

travel wild through her blood,

confuse her mind, make her hate

and be cold to the men to come,

destroying the thread of calm

she held.

You judge a woman

by what she can do for you alone

but there's no need

for slaves to have slaves.

You judge a woman

by impressions you think you've made.

Ask and she gives,

take without asking,

beat on her and she'll obey,

throw her name up and down the streets

like some loose whistle --

knowing her neighbors will talk.

Her friends will chew her name.

Her family's blood will run loose

like a broken creek.

And when you're gone,

a woman is left

healing her wounds alone.

But we so called men,

we so called brothers

wonder why it's so hard

to love our women

when we're about loving them

the way america

loves us.

"Conditions XXI" © 1986,1996, 2002 by Essex Hemphill