Writing is not a Passive Act

I’m Asya Gipson. I’m a part-time poet and a full-time student. I’m currently a senior at West, but I’m also a future Brown student (whoop!). I plan on majoring in political science and Modern Culture and Media, a.k.a. film. One of the things I want to learn how to do is screenwrite. I plan on making my own movies, so stay tuned for that. I’m Toya Brown. I’m a mother, writer/ poet, human. I’ve been writing the majority of my life. I started journaling and writing poetry when I was 10. I needed an outlet as a child and I found comfort in sharing my most intimate thoughts with the page. I honestly didn’t want to suffer the consequence of saying some of what I considered terrible thoughts out loud. I believe there is catharsis in writing and when used as a mechanism for healing, it can be life changing. Now I’m a mother of one and I’m very happy she has also picked up the craft of writing. In fact I’m really happy to be able to share this moment with my daughter Asya Gipson today.

Writing is not

a Passive Act A mother-and-daughter writing duo consider their relationships to poetry

Question: What is your earliest memory of poetry or writing in our household?

Asya Gipson (daughter): My earliest memory writing and my earliest memory of poetry are completely different [laughs]. My first memory of writing...I don’t even remember how old I was, maybe three, and I actually didn’t even know how to write yet. I thought I did though. I remember I had this journal and I swore up and down I knew how to write in cursive, with zero training whatsoever. I just decided one day that I knew how to write in cursive. And so, every day I wrote in that journal like a diary and filled it with swirls and curly q’s of absolutely nothing. And you would ask me what I was writing about, and I would flip through the journal and make up stories on the spot because I couldn’t actually read the—beautiful—calligraphy of gibberish that I thought was cursive.

My earliest memory of poetry is when I was 13. I remember reading some news article about the deaths of Dominique Battle, Ashaunti Butler, and Laniya Miller and just feeling so overwhelmed because I was the same age as these three black girls. I was scared, more than anything. I remember walking out of my room and telling you about it, you had already heard about their deaths, and I don’t really remember what I said, but it was something along the lines of, “Mom, I don’t know what to do.” I can clearly remember the rest though. You turned around and looked at me, and you just said, “Then write about it.” And I did. At first I think I was confused, but I went back to my room and I didn’t come back out again until I had something to read to you [at right].

Toya Brown (mother): We had full on poetry sessions from the time you were in my belly. I definitely did all the talking and reciting, but you were the best listener; being a captive audience and all. Seriously, you were so cute. We would make up little rhymes and rap all over the house. You could barely talk, but you would mimic imaginary words to the beat and it was just the best.

Question: What’s it like growing up with an artistic parent?

Asya Gipson (daughter): Fun. Genuinely, I had a fun childhood. I feel like I got to explore so much. Music, dance, theatre, drawing, painting, sewing. And whenever I had a new passion you were all for it. I think that was the best part. You never questioned what I wanted to do. I just got to create and I’m grateful for it because I still love doing all of those things. Literally. From the piano to painting, I’ll just get an urge to learn something new and...do it.

Toya Brown (mother): I was a senior in high school when I discovered a box hidden in the top of my mom’s closet. I’m pretty sure I was pillaging her amazing shoe collection looking for specific foot attire. I opened the box and, to my surprise, I discovered letters, stories, and poetry dating back over a quarter of a century from both of my parents. It was so amazing. It was the first time I recognized that my parents were more than just my parents. They had these complete back stories and lives that I had no idea about. It was really great. I had been writing for years and it helped me identify with them. It was like finding a little piece of myself.

Untitled by Asya Gipson 4/22/16

Shoes left on shore, gun belts torn, soaked from head to toe.

Saving a life or sacrificing your clothes.

I’m thirteen years old and I know I will never be perfect. I’m sorry that today you had to chase me, I’m sorry that today I made a couple of mistakes.

Dominique Battle, Ashaunti Butler, and Laniya Miller; I’m sorry.

Because sometimes, no matter how hard you scream, the people standing right in front of you won’t listen.

Falsifying records and creating imaginary reports, twisting yourselves into the heroes you could have been.

Yet you stand there without a drop of sweat, guilt long worn from your faces, waiting until your claims of them “being done” became true.

And somehow you’re still here, because the ones who stole a car are the criminals right?

Question: What impact do you think growing up in a single parent household has had on your writing?

Asya Gipson (daughter): ...I don’t know? [laughs] I can guess. I mean, I’ve only ever grown up with you. That’s all I’ve known so it’s hard for me to be like, oh growing up in a single-parent household has done this to my writing when I don’t know the alternative. Can anyone ever fully know all the ways their parents’ and guardians’ presence or absence have influenced them? Is that too philosophical? It isn’t meant to be a diversion, I swear. I just write, and I don’t know how different that would be even if I were raised in a two-parent household.

Toya Brown (mother): There is definitely some intersectionality growing up as a female, black, ’80s baby in Long Beach, CA. Right as I stepped foot into the age where children really make memories I came face to face with the height of the crackcocaine epidemic in America. I was born to high school sweethearts who managed to stay together for about twenty years. My parents both worked and they had two children, two cars, two dogs, and we always lived in a safer neighborhood. I felt loved as a child, but that life was bulldozed to the ground when crack-cocaine tore through my family. I think the worst part of addiction is that it isn’t just a battle for the addict; it haunts anyone they love. The stark difference in my lifestyle before the crack epidemic and after definitely brought a duality to my life. I think that duality is reflected in everything I write. For me art is where the beauty of language meets the ugliness of life. Asya Gipson (daughter): Performing poetry live has been an amazing privilege that I think really served me and my confidence as a writer...and I think it did that through forcing me to take my own work—and consequently myself—seriously. To have only really written for myself and then suddenly have upwards of 20 people listening to what I had to say...I felt powerful. And then on top of that, to have people walk up to me, including people who are way older than me, and be like, “Wow that was beautiful,” or anything at all; to have someone listen, and understand, and relate to my work, to find it beautiful... yeah, it’s an amazing feeling. To share with others, I think, that’s what’s amazing.

Toya Brown (mother): When I began to perform poetry for audiences I began to see people living freely for the first time and it was mind-boggling to me that the person who showed up on the stage was the same person they were offstage, at work, and with friends. I didn’t feel that level of consistency in regards to who I was. I definitely wasn’t being my authentic self in all areas. I had to follow the trace evidence to understand that I didn’t feel accepted in this world as a black woman. Black faces in media were extremely processed. For black women our hair had to be straight, you didn’t really see curvy black women unless it was an older grandmotherly woman, black skin was often edited and lightened. You can actually see this emotion and struggle with image spill out into my writing. I have a piece called “Mirror, Mirror” [below] and it says: ...to be a cover girl I had to cover the visible scars on my cheeks....my skin could only be tough if I slapped on a concrete foundation...contour my pain cause I could never catch anyone letting it all hang out.

I’m really thankful for the page bearing some of that emotional weight that comes with living. We can’t heal from the things we refuse to acknowledge, so this piece is monumental for me to start down a path of recognizing selfcriticism and understanding that of all the people in the world; I am with myself most often. If I can’t love myself and be nice to me, how can I ever truly accept these things from others?

Question: How has performing poetry live impacted you?

Mirror, Mirror by Toya Brown

She said, to be a covergirl I had to cover the visible scars on my cheeks I didn’t need to face my problems, but to fess up to the reality that my face wasn’t enough That my skin could only be tough if I slapped on a concrete foundation I had to contour my pain in where no one could see it Cause I could never catch anyone letting it all hang out She said you could never be enough, but maybe you could appear to be Maybe you could erase those under eye bags that have stuffed things like sacrifice, self neglect, insecurity, compartmentalized three jobs, higher education and failure, neatly concealing every sleep deprived late night with a single swipe of a brush You can apply lips that are lush You can apply cheeks freshly blushed You can deny the ugly voice inside of you the whispers from the girl in the mirror who says, who could love a face like you

Tell me. What do you see when you gaze at my black body? Is it flesh? Or smoke? Am I small? A faint breath of light, air, and color? Do I look like paper? Thin and frail, anticipating your fingers to skim my edges I can feel your trained eyes trace every line of my body Like you want to mark me, name me White ink on black pages You want to tear me at the s e a m s , don’t you? Rip me apart But gently, Slowly, Stamp me. Lick my lip shut then shut me up Where would you send me? Or would I only be used once? Just for you Unravel me Take everything inside and chew on it I’m pliable So you can blow me-bubbles Have fun Spit me out when you’ve tasted enough Was I what you expected? Am I sweet? You could always wrap me back up, pocket me for when you start craving my novel pieces Or maybe you show me real mercy Have your practiced bullets fly through my center Enter me Exit me How many times will be enough? How many holes until I am empty? Will you watch my crumpled body Fold and wrinkle Our favorite lines and marked spaces pooled into a ball of flesh and color Burn me. Light up at my recycled pain Till I am as black and back as you first saw me As ash as shadow and air and light and smoke Tell me. How are you still afraid of papercuts?

Question: Is it hard to continue to write for pleasure as you get older?

Asya Gipson (daughter): Yes. Yeah, it is harder as I get older to write for myself. It’s easy to just get caught up in life and let it carry you away. I have classes and homework and extracurriculars and blah blah blah it can feel endless. Sometime last year, I think it was, I actually noticed I was writing outside of school a lot less. And I decided that I wanted to start writing again. I joined a weekly writing group with my friends and I started journaling. The goal was every day, and that doesn’t happen, but I try, and I’m doing a lot better and writing a lot more than I have in a long time. I actually learned an important lesson in the process, which is that writing isn’t passive, it’s not a passive act. Oftentimes I used to think that I could only write when something happened and I was moved to write. But when I only wrote poetry when I was moved to... I only wrote maybe three poems a year. The best way to grow in something is to do it constantly. Write constantly. And not just spoken word, which is my niche, but everything. With journaling, I’ve felt so much more in touch with myself and my thoughts. With my writing group I get to not only experiment which is really fun, but then I also get to listen to my group’s writing styles and stories and experience that sense of enrichment from hearing new voices. So while on one hand I do think writing has been harder as I’ve gotten older, it’s not impossible to continue and when Toya Brown (mother): I’m not I consciously dug into it, I trying to cop out on this answer, got so much more from it but honestly “yes and no.” then when I was just waiting Yes, because life, right? for something to happen. How is it that life always seems You know... sometimes you to get in the way of living? That is, just have to schedule things all the things it takes to perpetuinto your life to make them ate and further our lifecycle seem possible. to further delay the things we love the most about being alive. So yes, clean clothes definitely have a way of trumping prose, but also writing fuels me. Sometimes I just can’t move forward with the things I need to do until I sit down and

All the things confess to my page. In that way it takes to writing is very much something that I will have to do. As I get older perpetuate and I realize it is a significant enough part of me that I have to engage further our with it regularly to really feel that I am considering my needs in addilifecycle seem to tion to all the needs I fill for others. further delay the things we love the most about being alive

Question: Let’s talk about a very controversial subject.... Do you think music can be poetry?

Asya Gipson (daughter): Absolutely, yes. As an example, rap is poetry in its own way. [laughs] That’s why I started a poetry rap club at my school. Both carry messages and rhythm, they can rhyme but don’t have to. They use a lot of the same literary devices. It’s not all the same, but you definitely can’t deny their similarities. Some artists start their songs with a tune and others start by writing actual poems. Yes, I do think music can be poetry, even with a backtrack.

Toya Brown (mother): I agree rap can be poetry, I think people often make the comparison of rap and poetry, but personally I think any genre of music can be poetry. Poetry as I know it is written work that encompasses writing styles and expresses thoughts and emotions. I don’t know how you can read the lyrics to music like “Hey Jude” by the Beatles...

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, Don’t carry the world upon your shoulders. For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool By making his world a little colder.

...or, “The Man in the Mirror” by Michael Jackson...

A willow deeply scarred, somebody’s broken heart And a washed-out dream They follow the pattern of the wind ya’ see ‘Cause they got no place to be

... and not agree that music is poetry designed to a beat. It’s just how I feel. Sometimes I get more from reading lyrics than from the beautiful bravado and staccato of the song.

Live Another Day by Toya Brown

Body found hanging like the dangling legs of Negros dancing to heaven after being strung up from willow trees These weeping leaves of children Withered like fall was tethered around their sleeves Bruised knees from praying for acceptance

Sticks and stones Words don’t break bones they do irrefutable damage like bullet holes to the spine Leaving kids crippled like suicidal thoughts rolling in wheelchairs through minds

Not thinking anyone could relate Tired of parental banter used to placate a feeling This is behind cover -ups and

Band-Aid promises of healing

The sus-burbs may seem docile and friendly But they got weapons of moral destruction Verbal assault rifles, hand grenade made from a single page of your diary School kids ready for full on war within The concrete fabric of these streets Sewing discourse Children who loom hate like it was the patchwork that stitched up broken fragments of our heart Tearing pieces of one another Like this quilted world is only meant for one print One uniform mold we all are forced in THESE ARE THE THREADS OF

OUR LIVES

Strings unraveled from the broken Until they are no more than a pile of memories 15 years reduced to one moment Too afraid to breathe

Phoebe Nora Mary Prince I pray for all those bullied just like me For all those Treated Just like you Learn to knock the hate from the bottom of your shoes Cause Everyday you inhale is a battle we win So please, please choose life And just breathe, breathe again

Question: Does culture influence writing or does writing influence culture?

Asya Gipson (daughter): Yes. [smiles] Uh-huh. My answer is yes. It’s the same as does the chicken come first or the egg, isn’t it? It’s a paradox. But both occur. Writing influences culture influences writing. It doesn’t flow one way or the other, and I don’t think it ever will.

Toya Brown (mother): Let me ask you this, does art imitate life or does life imitate art?

I think art often comes from life and the masses imitate art; which reflects life... it’s pretty easy to get caught in exactly what you were saying... which came first the chicken or the egg, but I stand behind my thoughts. Art is life and culture chopped into pieces on display for others... or not. The emotion that art transposes onto others is often simulated in culture. ■