Mosaic 33

IFEONA FULANI

EDUCATOR LESSON PLANS

DOWN THESE MEAN STREETS

L I T E R A R Y

SAINT MONKEY

M A G A Z I N E

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A new novella from award-winning author

Walter Mosley

Jack Strong doesn’t know who or what he is, but the souls in his head have plenty to say about it.

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Interviews Chinelo Okparanta by Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn ............................................. 8 Ifeona Fulani by Celesti Colds Fechter ......................................................... 22 Excerpt "On Ohaeto Street," Happiness, Like Water by Chinelo Okparanta .............. 16 Poems Where Are the Soldiers by Keisha-Gaye Anderson ...................................... 20 Blessed Dance by Keisha-Gaye Anderson .................................................... 21 Tidal Wave by Keisha-Gaye Anderson ......................................................... 28 Ancient (for Tish Benson) by Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie ................................ 32 Sovereign (for Gil Scott-Heron) by Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie ....................... 33 Review Saint Monkey by Jacinda Townsend ............................................................. 30 Around Town by photographer Marcia E. Wilson .............................................. 34 Mosaic Lesson Plans ......................................................................................... 42 Piri Thomas' Down These Mean Streets Lesson plan for high-school educators

by Brooke Allen Mosaic’s lesson plans give high-school educators ways to connect literature to history and social studies while also serving to increase the importance of books and reading.

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Editor & Publisher Ron Kavanaugh ron@mosaicmagazine.org Mosaic Literary Magazine (ISSN 1531-0388) is published by the Literary Freedom Project. Content copyright Š 2014. No portion of this magazine can be reprinted or reproduced in any form without prior permission from the publisher.

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From the author of the acclaimed Oprah’s Book Club pick River, Cross My Heart.

Dossie Bird escaped slavery for a new life in the North.

A new journey to freedom begins.

“She navigates the pain and joy in the transition from being enslaved to finding her power.”

—Essence (Patrik’s Pick)

© ANN E. CHAPMAN

P AR A A n me r Su m i ng d R e a t ion c S e le

ON SALE NOW in hardcover, e-book, and downloadable audio LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY Hachette Book Group

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Bestselling author Breena Clarke returns with this richly dramatic story of interracial harmony in the Civil War era— andMosaicMagazine.org of one woman’s 5 triumph in the crucible of history.

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contributors

Keisha-Gay Anderson is a Jamaican-born poet, author, and producer living in Brooklyn. She holds an M.F.A. in fiction from The City College, CUNY. In 2013, Keisha was chosen to participate in the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop. Her work has appeared in Captured by the City: Perspectives on Urban Culture (Cambridge Scholars Publishing), The Killens Review of Arts and Letters, Small Axe Salon, Renaissance Noire, The Mom Egg, Streetnotes: Cross Cultural Poetics, and Bet on Black: African American Women Celebrate Fatherhood in the Age of Barak Obama. Visit her on the web at www.keishagaye.com Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn received her MFA in fiction from Sarah Lawrence College. She is a writer who lives in Brooklyn, and teaches writing at CUNY and the College of New Rochelle. Her work has been awarded Honorable Mention for the Hurston Wright Award for College Writers. She is currently at work on her first novel, Run Free.

Danielle Jackson is a writer and multicultural marketing specialist living in Brooklyn, NY. Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie is the author of Karma's Footsteps, poetry editor of African Voices, widely published in anthologies and journals including North American Review, WSQ: Women’s Studies Quarterly, Specter Magazine, Bomb, Crab Orchard Review, Role Call, Listen Up! She is currently living a dream: traveling, giving readings, and recording poems with Ahi Baraka. www.ekeretallie.com Born in London, England; Marcia Wilson’s photography has documented many writers of the African Diaspora.

Her photos have appeared in Vibe, Publishers Weekly, Black Issues Book Review, LA Weekly, and QBR. She has exhibited at The National Black Writers Conference, Medgar Evers College, New Haven Public Library, New York Public Library (Flatbush branch), and Air Gallery.

She currently resides in Brooklyn. Visit www.WideVisionPhotography.com for additional information.

Celesti Colds Fechter, Founder & Executive Director, Education Success Services, LLC and Associate Professor of Psychology at The New School, is the moderator of Women Writers of the Diaspora, a long-running series that presents readings by women authors of African and African Diasporan descent.

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chinelo okparanta

by Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn

Some of my strongest memories of place today are still my memories of Nigeria. In my mind I can still see the road to my primary school, and I can tell you the placement of the headmistress’s office, and the patch of dusty earth where we stood for morning assemblies, or the lush green field on which we tumbled during breaks. I can tell you where the tamarind and ice cream vendors used to stand. I know that the bathrooms were at the ends of the classroom buildings, and I know that the louver windows were opaque and their glass panes, a light shade of green. I stopped by my primary school during my last visit to Nigeria, in 2010, and it’s a little startling how accurate my memory of the place. The only difference between reality and my memory of it was that everything appeared much smaller. In my memory everything was so big.

But I have grown; this, I think, is what has made the difference. I only know that Nigeria made such an impact on me as a child that I carried it with me.

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Chinelo Okparanta continues to prove her worthiness as a gifted storyteller whose work depicts pain, heartbreak, the social implications of poverty, post-colonial scars, and tradition juxtapose to the immigrant experience. The stories are deeply compassionate, unsentimental, and boldly intertwined to deliver the complexity in each tale.

The Nigerian-born writer has mesmerized readers with her stark yet lyrical prose in numerous literary journals including GRANTA, The Kenyon Review, Tin House, and The New Yorker among others. In Happiness Like Water (2013), Okparanta pulls us into the worlds of her characters—from Port Harcourt to Massachusetts—each one memorable with deeply moving and brutally honest stories that the reader cannot help but identify with. New York Times columnist, Ligaya Mishan, describes Chinelo’s writing as “delivered blandly, matter-of-factly, as if resisting the urge to dramatize were a kind of survival mechanism.”

The Penn State grad received an MA from Rutgers University, and an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she served as a Provost’s Postgraduate Visiting Writer. Chinelo was shortlisted for the 2013 Caine Prize for African Writing and nominated for a United States Artists Fellowship in Literature as well as long-listed for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award.

She was also a 2012-2013 Olive B. O’Connor Fellow in Fiction at Colgate University, and is currently Visiting Associate Professor of English and Creative Writing at Purdue University.

I was curious about Chinelo’s process of writing about home. Many of her stories are set in Nigeria where she left when she was 10 years old. We began the conver-

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sation in the Municipal Building in downtown Brooklyn amidst the buzz of Brooklyn Book Festival activities on a warm autumn Sunday, followed by email exchanges that lasted for six months.

Nicole Y. Dennis-Benn: While reading your book I felt I was given a personal tour into the people, places, culture and food. It was definitely a love affair—an equal serving of the beauty, juxtaposed with the ugliness of the subject matter—that inner turmoil that we as immigrant writers share. You touched on some very deep issues close to my heart, ranging from the protagonists’ struggles to find identity in a post-colonial Nigeria to what it’s like being an immigrant in the United States.

You write with such unflinching honesty and care that it is hard not to identify with each and every one of your characters. How had it been for you writing these stories? When did these stories and the characters first manifest?

Chinelo Okparanta: Every single one of those stories came from a personal space. Some of them I wrote in an attempt to understand a certain troublesome situation. I strove to create alternate realities in order to better visualize potential methods in which a problem could play itself out. Other stories I wrote to purge myself of some aspects of my past. These stories were not so much hard to write from a craft perspective as they were painful to write on a personal level. Which is to say that, while they are not all autobiographical, they all consist of thematic “truths,” so that it’s even a little bit of an understatement to say that each story contains a piece of my heart. I don’t think I have a favorite. “Runs Girl” is a touching story. “Grace” is a love story, written from a place of love. At the moment those are the two

that stick out in my mind.

NYDB: I love the way your stories shed light on certain issues that are hardly spoken about, and if so, are often on a perfunctory level. In "Fairness," you wrote about this concept of bleaching, though popular in Africa and the Caribbean, was masterfully explored in the story that highlighted the post-colonial scar both figuratively and literally. In "Runs Girl" you tackled the implications of poverty that forced one woman to compromise herself. In "Story Story!" you gave us a deeply tormented protagonist driven to kill for her opportunity to be a mother. And of course, in "Shelter" and "Tumours and Butterflies," you gave us heart-wrenching stories of domestic violence. Were there any that were closest to your truth?

CO: "Tumours and Butterflies" and "Shelter" are the most autobiographical stories in the collection. I grew up in a very turbulent, physical and verbal abuse-ridden home. But these stories are still fictional: it’s hard to paint the complete reality of any abusive situation within the parameters of a short story. Even if I tried, I’m sure readers would find the stories too sensationalistic or haunting or something to that effect.

"Story, Story!" is one of the very fictional stories. I know people who’ve gone to dibias for various reasons, but if I’ve ever met anyone who’s done what this character does, he or she has not yet confessed it to me. I think the truth of that story lies in the thematic elements more so than in the specific actions of the protagonist in the story.

i think our priorities as a nation are very misplaced. passing an anti-gay bill seems to me very irrelevant where matters of national development are concerned.

NYDB: Has your parents or any family members read

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your stories? What did they say?

CO: My mother and siblings have read my stories. They liked them and understood them perhaps more profoundly than any other audience has.

NYDB: There are times when your narrators have no gender or even race.

CO: I think there are clues in each story to tell you of the gender and of the race. For example, the narrator in "On Ohaeto Street" mentions, at the end of the story, that Chinwe becomes his wife. The story is set in Nigeria, where the only form of marriage allowed is a heterosexual marriage. As for "Grace" there is a mention of eye color in the story, as well as other small hints that do give some clue into the general race of the narrator.

But I do think that, in general, categories like gender and race are relied on for meaning far more heavily than they should be.

NYDB: You delved deep into the taboo issue of samesex relationships in your collection, something that I truly admire and commend you for doing. Did you ever wonder how those stories—"America" and "Grace"— would be received by the Nigerian audience? I know that like my country, Jamaica, depending on where you are, there is a stigma attached to homosexuality. In fact, the president of Nigeria, President Goodluck Jonathan signed the Same Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Bill 2013 into law. Any thoughts?

CO: Similar bills banning gay marriage and stipulating punishment of 14 years have actually been circulating in Nigeria for some time now. Goodluck Jonathan simply brought the issue to the forefront by following through with the signing of it. Yes, Nigerians are very

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homophobic, but I think many are so simply out of fear of the unfamiliar. In my stories I attempt to open the discussion on the topic, so as to give a voice to all the Nigerians out there who have been forced to live in hiding. I did worry, after I had written the stories, about how they would be received in Nigeria. I’m not by nature a scandalous person, but I do believe that certain stories need to be told. Now when I look back on it, I’m glad that I wrote those stories, and I’m glad that I sent them off into the world, because, beyond being beautiful love stories, I do believe that they are also necessary stories of love.

NYDB: Religion and food are interspersed throughout the collection; but so are the very detailed descriptions of ailments and medical treatment, for example, the mother’s shoulder in "Run’s Girl," the father’s radiation treatment in "Tumours and Butterflies." In fact in "Wahala" there was the allusion to vulvodynia—a very sensitive and personal issue for some women, which causes them to experience painful intercourse. That was what I thought Ezinne was experiencing during intercourse with her husband, Chibuzo, who by the way was completely oblivious given his eagerness for her to conceive. (Am I correct?) How much of your work is research?

CO: I did have to research certain aspects of these ailments, but I also had access to people who had suffered some of the ailments. The story that took the most research for me was the story America. The oil wars in Nigeria are a very complex issue, and I felt I had to understand the issue relatively well in order to be able to write that story.

NYDB: I was first introduced to your writing through the story, "America." I believe it was in Granta. It’s a story that really resonated with me not only because it dealt with immigration and a love relationship between two women, but because of that familiar uncertainty we face of whether to leave or stay in the country that nurtured us. Surely it is hard for every immigrant to leave, and for the narrator it seemed to make perfect sense given her sexual orientation and the dangers of being found out. However, I found myself just as hesitant as your character. Being here in America and knowing what the narrator would later find out reminds me of something my wife often says when deciding between two things—“The Devil you know versus the Devil you don’t.” Would you consider this story as a form of activism for countries like ours to do more for the retention of their talented—perhaps first letting go of those antiquated structures that cripple growth and even ostracize us?

CO: Exactly that. I think our priorities as a nation are very misplaced. Passing an anti-gay bill seems to me very irrelevant where matters of national development are concerned. Of all the problems Nigeria has, Goodluck Jonathan, interestingly, picked a non-problem to focus on.

NYDB: On the other hand, there’s the story, "Designs," which captivated me too. A story that made me think of allegiance—and to whom or what it is given. Again, that emotional tug of war between here and there. In the narrator’s case, the choice between two women, one representing Nigeria and the other representing America. To me, it’s a story of seduction. The inevitability of becoming attached to a new way of life in a

Every single one of those stories came from a personal space. Some of them I wrote in an attempt to understand a certain troublesome situation. I strove to create alternate realities...

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new place while “home” becomes somewhat foreign though it holds a special place in our hearts. Do you really think we can’t have our cake and eat it too?

CO: I think it’s rare that we have our cake and eat it too. I imagine it could happen, and that it does, but more than anything it seems to me that maybe what we wind up with is the illusion of having our cake and eating it too.

NYDB: I fell in love with your work the way I fell in love with Edwidge Danticat’s Krik? Krak!, Jhumpa Lahiri’s Interpreter of Maladies, and Junot Diaz’s Drown—all of which depicted the immigrant experience with brutal honesty and the depth of longing for a place. Also, just the grace and compassion in which you write each character is reminiscent of those great writers. Who are the authors that you’re most inspired by?

CO: Actually, I’m inspired by all the authors you mention. I am also very much inspired by Chinua Achebe, Alice Munro, Marilynne Robinson, Kate O’Brien, Ian McEwan, Kazuo Ishiguro, Colm Toibin, Ha Jin, among many others.

NYDB: What is your writing process like? You mentioned that you’re working on a second book. How do you balance teaching with writing?

CO: My writing process has changed tremendously.

I used to have a sort of process. Now I simply write whenever I can. Gone are the days of schedules. Teaching comes with many responsibilities. It’s tough to balance the two, but somehow it all works out.

NYDB: Do other art forms inspire you as a writer?

CO: Music fuels my nostalgia for Nigeria, and for the

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continent as a whole. The music I love includes "Asa Mpete Special" by the Nkengas, "Vulindlela" by Brenda Fassi, "Ekwe" by Onyeka Onwenu, "Mma Anyi Egbuna Anyi" by Celestine Ukwu, and of course, everything Miriam Makeba.

I was recently introduced to the television show Jacob’s Cross. I think it’s a really great show. As far as the visual arts are concerned, I was also recently introduced to the works of Njideka Akunyili. I think she’s a wonderful artist.

NYDB: I’m a fan of Njideka’s work too. She went to school with my wife.

CO: Really? Small world!

NYDB: I know that you’re working on a novel, which do you find to be the most challenging, a short story collection or novel?

CO: The short stories came easily to me. There was an urgency to them, as if I needed to get them out in order to breathe. The novel has been much more challenging. There’s an urgency to it too, but it’s a longer piece of work. I used to be a sprinter, not a long-distance runner. Maybe that has something to do with it.

NYDB: With all the accolades you’ve received, do you feel any pressure with the second book?

CO: I don’t really feel outside pressure with the second book. I will write the best book I can. If it turns out to be just an average book, at least I will know I tried my best. If it fails in the eyes of the world, it will still be special to me.

NYDB: One last thing about Happiness…my favorite line in the book is “Happiness is like water…we’re always trying to grab onto it, but it’s always slipping between our fingers.” A powerful statement in what happens to be my favorite story, "Grace." I found this true for all your characters—that quest for happiness either by fulfilling dreams of upholding tradition, migrating for a better life, seeking love, or finding it within themselves. You held nothing back. And you promised no mercy or happy endings. I’m curious to know if there would be any sequels to any of them.

CO: First of all, many thanks for taking the time to interview me. You asked some really great questions. I don’t think I’ll be writing sequels to any of the stories, but I do think I’ll be addressing some familiar themes in my novel.

NYDB: Is your second book based in Nigeria?

CO: Yes. Very much so!

NYDB: Alright, I’ll surely look forward! ★

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excerpt "On Ohaeto Street" Happiness, Like Water

by Chinelo Okparanta Mariner Books

At the time of the robbery, Eze and Chinwe were living in the town of Elelenwo in Port Harcourt. They lived in Maewood Estates, which some of the neighbours called Ehoro’s Estate, because Ehoro was the surname of the owner.

Ehoro’s was a fairly large estate with about a dozen bungalows in it. The bungalows stood in clusters, separated only by gravel and grass, by the road connecting them, and by trees: orange trees, guava trees and plantain trees. There was a driveway in front of each bungalow, and each bungalow had a garage.

A cement wall rose high along the perimeter of the estate, and with it, two oversized metal gates, one at the entrance, the other at the exit. The top of the cement wall (and the tops of the adjoining gates) were lined with shards of glass – green glass, and clear glass, and brown glass – the way walls and gates in Port Harcourt are still lined today.

Outside the estate, along the main road leading up to its entrance, were small shops whose owners sold Nabisco wafers and Ribena juices, tinned tomatoes and sardines in a can.

In the evenings, vendors put up makeshift stands in the spaces between the shops. There, they sold roasted corn on the cob along with native pears, and roasted plantains sprinkled with palm oil, pepper and salt.

There was a police station not too far down the road.

Sometimes officers paraded back and forth in uniform.

Sometimes it was hard to tell if they were real police of-

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ficers or crooks in uniform – at least, so Chinwe tells me.

But it must have been true, because even as far back as then, Port Harcourt was known for its crooks.

It was her mama who encouraged them to live there, in Ehoro’s estate. The same way she had encouraged Chinwe to marry Eze. Chinwe had been living with her then, on Ohaeto Street, in the D/Line area of Port Harcourt. They lived in a small flat with yellow walls, inside and out. Chinwe was a teacher those days, home economics in St Catherine’s secondary school, right there on Ohaeto Street.

The first time Eze came to them, Chinwe had just returned from work at the school. She and her mama were sitting outside on the steps to the flat, and Chinwe was telling her mama how the students wore her out, with their not being able to follow simple instructions – the way they cut the wrong sewing patterns or mixed the wrong ingredients into something as easy as the crust of a meat pie. She was saying all this when Eze walked up to them, carrying a black briefcase and a couple of magazines in his hand.

He smiled brightly and told them that his name was Eze. That he came offering the good news of God’s Kingdom.

Would they please invite him to tell them more?

At first Chinwe was quite annoyed by this – by the mere presence of Eze at their door, and by his request for an invitation. She frowned and shook her head, muttered to her mama to please send him away. But her mama saw some things in Eze that she liked: his crisply ironed trou-

sers and shirt, his spotless shoes. His teeth were crooked, but in a way that her mama must have found endearing.

Her mama stood up, wiped her hands on the wrapper that was tied around her waist, stretched out her hand and shook his hand. She invited him in.

Chinwe thinks that he stayed for about an hour, but it’s hard for her to know exactly how long, because after fifteen minutes of his flipping through the pages of the Awake! magazine, and the pages of the Watchtower, and the pages of his Bible (the New World Translation), she excused herself. Assignments to grade, she said, and went to her room. She fell asleep there and did not wake up until her mama came knocking at her door, asking just how long she intended to stay in her room, scolding her for being so rude to the nice young man who came to bring the good news of God’s Kingdom to them.

They burst out laughing then. Because, of course, the Jehovah’s Witnesses were always coming around in those days. And it was funny that they had actually invited one of them in.

‘Mama, you had no business wasting his time like that!’

Chinwe said.

‘I know, I know,’ her mama replied. And they both laughed some more.

He came back, a week or so later. They were again outside on the steps. There was the scent of beans boiling on the stove. Black-eyed peas. Even outside, in the open air, he could smell it, and he told them as much. He

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asked if they would eat it with soaked garri or with akamu. Chinwe frowned, because she suspected he would soon invite himself for dinner. Her mama smiled and did the inviting for him.

Her papa had been a carpenter who made chairs and tables and shelves in Port Harcourt. Her mama had told her this. Chinwe had not yet been born at the time, so she had not witnessed this for herself. In any case, he was a carpenter, then for some reason or the other, he decided to become a cobbler – he needed a change of scenery perhaps. Or, maybe carpentry was wearing him out. Whatever the case, he sold all his furniture and took down the wooden CARPENTER sign on the front of his shop. He painted over the sign, and announced the place a cobbler’s shop instead. He worked that way for some time – years, in fact – as a cobbler, until just before Chinwe was born.

He decided he would become a grammar-school teacher then. He had no training, but he again cleared out his shop and painted over the old sign. He made himself some chairs and desks. He found a blackboard, some chalk. He walked around town announcing the school to all the people he met. A private school, he said, for the very brightest three- to eleven-year-olds. And if they were not bright to begin with, he said, his school would make them bright.

It worked. People actually inquired. And afterwards, they actually began sending their children. Teaching was the job he stayed with until he died.

Years later, when Chinwe was old enough to care, her

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mama would tell Chinwe how seriously he took his teaching job, how he would come home each day with stories about the children. She told Chinwe about the way he took care to iron his trousers and his shirt, to comb his hair and pat it down, things he’d never done with either of his former jobs.

These teaching stories were mostly what her mama told Chinwe when she told the girl of her papa, and so, perhaps it was during his time working that grammarschool job that her mama loved her papa best.

He died the year Chinwe turned four, so she could barely remember him, could barely remember that grammar-school- teacher persona of his. Or rather, she remembered all of it, but only as a result of her mother’s telling.

That evening with Eze standing out there, talking about beans and garri and akamu, her mama remarked on the way that Eze’s shirt and trousers were always so perfectly ironed. That was the way Chinwe’s papa’s shirt and trousers also used to be, she said, those days he worked as a grammar-school teacher. It had a lot to do with why she was fond of Eze, she admitted. Eze laughed. Chinwe shook her head, irritated that it was such a small reason for her mama’s toleration of such a large inconvenience.

Little did Chinwe know that the inconvenience would grow even larger. For a while, anyway.

So, yes, her mama invited him to the beans and soaked garri dinner that night. First, he flipped through the pages of his Watchtower, and then through the pages of his Awake! In between, Chinwe observed the fancy

gold watch on his wrist. She observed his crisply ironed clothes, just as her mama had observed. She noticed that they were crisply tailored, too. They appeared expensive, not quickly stitched together – certainly not the handiwork of any of the travelling tailors who paraded the roads at the time.

It was only after the magazine and Bible study was complete that Eze accepted the dinner invitation. I imagine now that he must have been enthusiastic in his acceptance. Sometimes I imagine also that he must have had an impish smile on his face.

Well, he continued to come back, the little rascal. And Chinwe actually grew accustomed to him. Sometimes she even laughed at his jokes.

He was bright – had completed an engineering programme at the university. Civil engineering. This was why he did his evangelizing in the evenings, because during the day he worked in some division of Shell.

He had grown up a Jehovah’s Witness and saw no reason to change now. There was something to be said for routines, he said. And something to be said for the fact that, just by virtue of the parents that God gave him, he had been automatically given access to this good news of God’s Kingdom, which, as he said, would lead to everlasting life.

One evening, Chinwe’s mother asked him what his plans were for the future. He chuckled nervously then said, ‘Marriage and a family.’ And then he added that he wanted the right woman, not just any woman... ★

Starting• September• 27,•2014,• the•book• club•will• meet• online• and•in•the• Bronx,•NY.••• Location• TBD Join us for the first We Are Family Book Club!

With professional instruction from a teaching-artist the book club invites friends and families to join, read, and engage in a literary “call and response” with Piri Thomas’ gritty autobiography Down These Mean Streets.

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WHERE ARE THE SOLDIERS? Where are the soldiers?

Where are my brothers to brace me against these torrents of shattered glass that bury our past name this body according to its yielding and bend love backward into hate because the swarm cannot take the earth's heartbeat?

No electric embrace No battle hymn serenade No midnight map passed between perfumed breath No rest on this journey a road cleared only by machete tongue strong backs heart compass and three eyes We arrive each season scraping through the dark to quiet our screaming blood echoes of bodies broken in our making solely for the taking of this blue fire now damned to ditches where we consume ourselves push up plumes of liquor breath lotto tickets pills to silence every djembe drum ripple whispering to us from the edges of the rainbow

But we know that this frigid air circling our confusion flickering lights in rooms of seclusion are love letters from all the muted voices rattling this mind with pleas insistent and piercing like jagged bones in the abyss of the Atlantic And they become my eyes strangers’ eyes in every mirror making me long to know who speaks this mouth today who talks behind the curtain of sleep saying Remember Remember Remember But I only wade into slumber and wake to face the cold feed the mouths stay alive How long do I have to armor my heart walk both sides prop up my pride and give everybody everything that I am?

Where are the soldiers?

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BLESSED DANCE We travelers mark bends in this journey by new wrinkles more grey new mistakes and always the need to climb another mountain view another angle What a blessed dance this movement through awareness perfectly timed to stir the gypsie of my midnight drifting She can fly that me who recedes each morning leaving these words in her footprints Reassures me that home is always more idea than place and that smiles remain the same even under sagging skin Don't worry, she whispers, you never really lose them They go up to come down with new steps The dance continues

Keisha-Gaye Anderson

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Ifeona Fulani is a Jamaican-born, black British writer and scholar who received her B.A. in English Studies at the University of Nottingham, England. Fulani received an M.F.A. in Creative Writing, an M.A. in Comparative Literature, and a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature at New York University, where she is Faculty in the Liberal Studies Program.

Ifeona Fulani’s writing has been called “elegant, witty, sad and brave.” She has published numerous short stories and scholarly essays, and is the editor of Archipelagos of Sound: Transnational Caribbeanities, Women and Music (University of West Indies Press, 2012). Her novel, Seasons of Dust, was published by Harlem River Press in 1997, and her collection of short stories, Ten Days in Jamaica, was released by Peepal Tree Press first in the United Kingdom in 2012, and then here in the States in February 2013.

Ifeona Fulani: Thank you for doing this. I am really pleased to have this conversation.

Celesti Colds Fechter: Your first book, a novel, was Seasons of Dust, published back in 1997. Your second, a short story collection is Ten Days in Jamaica. That was released in the UK in 2012—is that correct? -- and released here in the States in March 2013.

IF: In February.

CCF: Oh, in February. Between the first book and the collection, you found time to edit Archipelagos of Sound: Transnational Caribbeanaties, Women and Music. I’d like to hear a little about that.

by Celesti Colds Fechter MosaicMagazine.org

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IF: The women and music book?

CCF: Yes, and also, is this kind of the Atlantic experience—Africa, the Caribbean, the United States? Also, I want to hear what else you’ve been doing in that time.

IF: Seasons of Dust was published in 1997, shortly after I arrived in New York to join the M.F.A. program at New York University. I’d written the novel before joining the M.F.A. program, and I think maybe that fact helped me get The New York Times Fellowship for the program. I did the two-year M.F.A. course, and one of my professors persuaded me to apply for a Ph.D. program at NYU, and the toss up was between English and Comparative Literature. He recommended Comparative Literature because he thought they had a greater respect for creative writers. So I applied and got a McCracken Fellowship, which was wonderful. It enabled me to study for five years with full funding. Seven years between 1996 and 2004 were taken up with study. I had one year in between—let me see, between ’96-’98 and ’98-2004— yes, that’s pretty much the trajectory. I did very little creative writing during that time. I had put together a creative thesis for my M.F.A. and I think I added four stories to the thesis, and that is what is published as Ten Days in Jamaica. It was published in England in 2012, and here in the States in 2013.

CCF: So those two books, Seasons of Dust and Ten Days in Jamaica, are kind of bookends for you M.F.A. training.

IF: For my graduate training, yes, definitely. I finished my Ph.D. studies and wanted to go straight on to turn my dissertation into a book, but felt it needed more work more research. I had gone more or less straight into a teaching job, so the time to do that research didn’t pres-

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ent itself. I wanted to do something to make it clear to my field that I am a serious scholar in the field. I also wanted to do something towards advancing my career, and usually publishing a book is the thing you do.

I didn’t think about it as rationally as I am explaining it, but I had put together a panel for a conference on women in music. I put the panel together because I wanted to present a paper myself on Grace Jones. Starting from that impulse, I gathered together four other women who were writing about women musicians and popular culture in the Caribbean. We presented this panel at the Caribbean Studies Association Conference in Salvador, Bahia, and the room was packed. There were literally people standing on people’s shoulders in the doorway.

I am not exaggerating. It was so packed that I thought, wow, people are interested in this. After the panel, which went very well, two people came to me and said, “you should do a book.” One person said “you should do a book with me,” and the other person just said “you should do a book.” I decided I would just do a book and started to gather together work that I thought would fit in an edited volume. It was a relatively easy process.

I didn’t put out a call for papers because I didn’t want to be flooded with submissions. I put out the word and between people hearing about the book and making submissions and me actually soliciting people I put together a collection of thirteen essays.

CCF: Oh that’s wonderful!

IF: Yes, not too shabby!

CCF: Not shabby at all! But you know, you mentioned

something very interesting. You are a writer, but you are not merely a writer—you are a writer who is a serious scholar. That’s a wonderful combination. You see scholars who do scholarly writing but who are not good writers and writers who are not scholars but somehow have a gift for writing. Combining the two is really special.

When did you know that this was the way you for to go? Have you always seen yourself as both a writer and a scholar, or has that been divided and come together?

IF: I didn’t see myself in any particular way. I just did what I wanted to do and eventually it emerged that I wanted to do these two things. You know, I came late to graduate study. I’d already had a career in public administration.

CCF: Oh really?

IF: Yes. I’d taken some time off to write the novel, and I was living in Jamaica. While I was there, someone said, “Oh, there’s a creative writing workshop for Caribbean people in Miami. Why don’t you apply for that?” So I applied, I was accepted, and I met this group of Caribbean writers. But the workshop also involved scholars.

CCF: I see.

IF: This was the Michener workshop. James Michener provided funding for an annual six-week workshop at the University of Miami. It doesn’t run anymore—the funding expired —but for six years or so (I think it was about six years) it convened this astonishing group of writers, scholars, and people who are now leaders in both areas.

It was there that I had the idea of following a creative writing program. I realized that I could teach writing and so I got to NYU and was taking classes with wonderful people like Edwidge Danticat, Paule Marshall, Edna

so, there is this strange negotiation that goes on between black people and it is about positioning. and it is about wanting to measure yourself socially and economically against a group that looks like you.

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O’Brien, but I was also talking courses in literature and literary theory and liking that too. That led to taking the Ph.D. program in Comparative Literature and so it just emerged that I was both a creative writer and a scholar.

It didn’t come out of any sense of being called to either.

CCF: It was something that was in you that just came out? How fortunate for us. Now I want to ask you a little bit about migration. You deal with migration in your stories in Ten Days and of course in Seasons. This is really a strong thread throughout your writing. Is this life imitating art, art imitating life, or is this another case of “it” (the writing) taking you where “it” wants to go?

IF: Well, one of the old chestnuts of creative writing is that you should write what you know, and I know about this. My parents migrated from Jamaica to London when I was an infant and I went to join them subsequently when I was four years old. I lived without my parents, without my father, for three years and without my mother for two years. When I was reunited with them I didn’t know that these people were my parents.

CCF: I see.

IF: So that was the first recognition of loss, though I didn’t process it as that when I was four year old. My father never got over coming to meet me at the airport. I had traveled over with an aunt and he came to pick me up. I wouldn’t go to him because I didn’t know him. In a way that episode became symbolic for me of the damage that migration does. It ruptures families. It destroys bonds.

The quest for a better life may produce a better material life, but it does damage to the family that is hard to repair. That has been a recurrent theme in my work because that has been a recurrent theme in my experience.

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Seasons of Dust came out of my observations of families within my community, within the Jamaican community, that have similar patterns to the pattern of my family.

Families with similar rifts and ruptures—and then the stories pick up on some tangential aspect of migration.

Children are left behind in the Caribbean with grannies and aunties, who never feel like whole people because they feel abandoned; I think this is not every Caribbean person’s experience, but it is such a frequent experience.

There is no family, I think, in the Caribbean that has not been touched by this phenomenon and people have been writing about it for as long as Caribbean people have been writing, and I think they’ll be writing about it for some time to come.

CCF: You can’t talk about migration without talking about family and that’s the other leg of your writing—relationships within families.

IF: But you know, Flannery O’Connor says everyone has something to write about, everyone comes from a family.

CCF: Absolutely. OK, speaking again of migration, probably because of your experience, you create a sense of place, whether New York or London or Calcutta, that is really vivid and immediate—that is really present. It is so present—are you there, wherever there is, as you are writing? How do you do that? Is it something that you bring into presence, or does it just flow—you’re there as you’re writing?

IF: I don’t have a ready answer. I can only suggest that I am a well-trained writer and I know that place and setting are important. But I am also a traveler, and I love just the sensory stimulation of being in a place that is unContinued on page 36

Mosaic Literary Conference 2014 The Mosaic Literary Conference, now in its eighth year, is a great opportunity for teachers, students, program administrators, and parents to learn ways to blend books and reading into the lives of teenagers. MLC offers a mix of informative programs and creative workshops to engage young people, strengthen literacy, and mlc2014 ad develop education strategies.

This fall’s conference will focus on Piri Thomas’ 1967 classic “Down These Mean Streets.” The Nation says “Piri Thomas describes the passionate, painful search to validate his manhood…He has done it all in Harlem’s mean streets and gone on from machismo to manhood, acquiring during the journey an understanding of man.”

MLC2014 will include film screenings, panels, & workshops.

SAVE THE DATE Saturday, November 15, 2014 at the Bronx Museum of the Arts 1040 Grand Concourse, Bronx NY 10456 www.mosaicmagazine.org 347.454.2161

MosaicMagazine.org Mosaic is published by the Literary Freedom Project, a 501(c)3 tax-exempt not-for-pro•t arts organiza•on that supports the literary arts through educa•on, crea•ve thinking, and new media.

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TIDAL WAVE Each restless body treading this lake of time roaming this amnezia looking to own the place where clay was spoken into arms and legs and these encrusted hearts creates a tidal wave of noise and neon smoke and sewage violation and rationalization that spins us 'round a creaking wheel perpetual and tiny as a peephole It must stop.

Do not keep trickling into the box of breath and motion just to desire and acquire and then leave the same way that you came every time

Open the door call her name she who laughs tides into motion blinks mountains skyward to touch billowy skirts blows kisses into babies' giggles and makes senses savor every last herb in the pot She is the voice waking in your dreams promising you that the face in mirror is not real that you are not really here that you can come home anytime if you want if you're ready to hold on to each other each and every one and swim to the very bottom deep into the dark let every acessory float away and remember that only you can find your true name

Keisha-Gaye Anderson

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review

Saint Monkey

by Jacinda Townsend WW Norton and Company Reviewed by Danielle A. Jackson

poor. Audrey is unattractive also and, though a little better off financially, she’s socially awkward and obsessively bookish. Circumstances collude and both young women lose their mothers.

In an interview with Fiction Writers’ Review (www.fictionwritersreview.com), Jacinda Townsend shares that she tackled the writing of her novel in spurts, between her daughter’s naps. Toni Morrison wrote her first novel, The Bluest Eye, like this, too, in between her full time teaching job and parenting her sons alone. The comparison of Townsend to Morrison is appropriate; like The Bluest Eye, Saint Monkey, Jacinda’s debut novel, is a mature, coherent and well-articulated work of art that announces the arrival of an important voice in contemporary literature that isn’t timid about creating a nuanced portrait of black America or centralizing the stories of women.

The young women are also ambitious in an even-keeled way about both love and professional fulfillment. One would be remiss, I think, to characterize their dreaming as “romantic.” This shared, steely ambition is another of Townsend’s artistic choices that keeps the story authentic. The two young women dare to expect happiness in spite of the calculus of their misfortune. Caroline dreams of escaping to Hollywood. Bookish Audrey is a precocious and mathematical pianist, an obvious talent that helps to break her out of her humdrum existence.

While stirring her congregation during a funeral service, a talent scout hears her playing and offers her a job in New York, which she accepts with the begrudging blessing of her family. Caroline stays behind in their small town, leaping from man to man, struggling to make ends meet to care for her grandmother and little sister.

Two black teenaged girls, Audrey and Caroline, are the protagonists of Saint Monkey and the story is told in alternating points of view as they grow up in Eastern Kentucky during the 1950s. The fifties, with all of its layered, complicated beauty, is a fascinating time in the history of black America to mine--the wealth of the post-war era has started to trickle down and Jim Crow is on its way out, courtesy of the black institutions that have been growing in influence since emancipation.

Audrey and Caroline are neighbors in a multi-class yet insular African-American community and Townsend is more than convincing at creating this world. The girls develop an uneasy friendship based on their common misfortune. Caroline is unattractive and dreadfully

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As each heroine’s life twists and turns, the reader is encouraged to decide who is better off. It’s thrilling to consider and a surprisingly difficult judgment to make. Of course, Audrey, whose fast-moving, glamorous musician’s life of gigs and casual interactions with Thelonious Monk and Ella Fitzgerald would appear to be obvious choice. But Townsend is much too skilled a storyteller to adhere to the clichés of small-town black pathology. Sure, Audrey is swept up into the current of Harlem at the height of jazz’s popularity and inven-

tiveness and experiences a whirlwind romance, but does she possess the footing and fortitude to sustain this? Does she have the resources, internal or external, to overcome obstacles and make something lasting of her chance? Caroline is shamed by her decision to stay home in Kentucky and meets her share of hard luck, but she possesses an earthy, practical wit that grounds her. (“Being crazy,” Caroline muses, “just did not seem practical.”) When she gets an opportunity to sell cosmetics by a national retailer, Caroline emerges as a natural businesswoman and begins to create an image of herself of which she can be proud.

Like many lifelong relationships, Audrey and Caroline’s friendship is a complicated one with hard edges made even tougher by the widening gulf between their paths. Audrey attempts to keep up with Caroline by writing her detailed letters of life in New York that are full of the names and places and sights that enthrall her, but sound like little more than bragging. For her part, Caroline is envious of Audrey and is often quite mean about it. She ignores letters and is condescendingly cutting when they speak. She can never get past the fact that simple Audrey, whom she nicknamed “Poindexter” because of her thick glasses and nerdy ways, has created a new life for herself in dynamic New York City.

But we all know that New York is never what it seems.

Audrey’s love interest August reminds me of Zora Neale Hurston’s Teacake--a life-altering, earth-moving avalanche of brilliance and charm. In a stunning moment of clarity about their affair (which involves a vicious dog--I interpret this as a nod to Hurston), Audrey returns home to Kentucky. She is lucky, really, to escape with her life.

The novel is occasionally affected by slow pacing, particularly in the first half when the girls are languishing in their home towns. The story picks up immediately when Audrey moves to Harlem. Nevertheless, Saint Monkey is an accomplishment for Jacinda Townsend, as she has created a cast of believable and textured characters who speak a language that is natural, rhythmic, and beautiful, especially Caroline’s folksy, hardscrabble mother wit. Eastern Kentucky in the 1950s feels alive and quaint as it pulls on the characters even from afar, living in their dreams and mistakes. Saint Monkey is a beautiful testimony that gives us insight into a critical era of the African American past that many of us reading and thinking about blackness did not live through. ★

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Ancient (for Tish Benson) Rainbow draped in brown, arched across time, field hollers, ocean & broken shackles collide in your voice, ancient seed, sprouting the language of hurricanes, carrying medicine pouches called poems. Buffalos charge across your tongue.

Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie

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Sovereign (for Gil Scott-Heron)

1.

Fraying silk of voice a flag flying over broken hoping territory of us.

2.

Why couldn’t he greet tomorrow? Rest in the home of our eyes?

3.

What pain settled, occupied the land of his vast heart?

Who colonized his joy?

How did he battle to keep his tongue?

Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie

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around town Freelance photographer Marcia E. Wilson gallivants around NYC looking for literary events to spotlight on the "Around Town" page. She may be at a reading near you.

For more visit MosaicMagazine.org.

On May 8, McNally Jackson Books hosted Mitchell S. Jackson, The Residue Years and Kiese Laymon, Long Division as they discussed how they navigated issues of race and class in their youth, and how they navigate them now as published writers. Lisa Lucas, publisher of Guernica magazine moderated the discussion.

Jackson showed his commitment to reading when, on May 18, he set up a table on 125th St. in Harlem, NY and gave away 125 copies of his book. It's all part of the Portland native's effort to encourage reading in marginalized communities.

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Jackson's first novel is an autobiographical look at limited opportunities and a disjointed family trying to reclaim the only home they've ever shared. The Residue Years was a finalist for the PEN/Hemingway Award for Debut Fiction, the Flaherty-Dunnan First Novel Prize, and nominated for the Hurston/Wright Legacy Award.

April 2, 2014 - Willie Perdomo held court at Greenlight Bookstore in Brooklyn for his new collection of poetry, The Essential Hits of Shorty Bon Bon, He was joined by author Jessica Hagedorn, who led a post-reading conversation.

"Through dream song and elegy, alternate takes and tempos, prizewinning poet Willie Perdomo’s third collection crackles with vitality and dynamism as it imagines the life of a percussionist, rebuilding the landscape of his apprenticeship, love, diaspora, and death." --The Essential Hits of Shorty Bon Bon

Literary icons Ishmael Reed, Askia Toure, Steve Cannon, and David Henderson participated in a heated conversation on "Maintaining Cultural Legacies: The Black Arts and Umbra Movements." Tonya Foster moderated. It was one of many readings, panels, and discussions that highlighted the Twelfth National Black Writers Conference sponsored by the Center for Black Literature at Medgar Evers College, Brooklyn, NY. March 27 to March 30, 2014.

The conference provided writers, scholars, literary professionals, students, and the general public with forums for engaging in dynamic and spirited conversations, panel discussions, readings, workshops, and performances on themes related to Reconstructing the Master Narrative.

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familiar. I notice details, I notice smells, I notice sounds, things around me, and I guess I reproduce them in my writing, or try to reproduce them in my writing.

CCF: You reproduce them well. Not every writer can actually ‘take you there’ in the same way. You do that very effectively and you mention that you’re a well-trained writer.

IF: That’s giving props to NYU’s Creative Writing Program.

CCF: Well, props to NYU are due, but props to you also because, again, not every writer takes you there. You can read and have the experience of looking on, or you can read and have the experience, and this is a kind of having the experience. This has an immediacy which I suspect is more than just some sort of technical trick. So, props to you!

Now I want to ask you about something else that seems to me very common. Over the years of moderating Women Writers of the Diaspora, I’ve been struck by how many black women, whether Afro-Caribbean, African-American, Afro-Latina, have this memory, this shared memory, of sitting between their mammas’ or grand mammas’ legs getting their hair done. Recently, black women’s hair was the subject of a discussion on MSNBC on Melissa Harris-Perry’s show, and there were recent programs on black women’s hair at the University of Pennsylvania and at Iona College (in New Rochelle).

Your first story in Ten Days is ‘Precious and Her Hair’ and I immediately connected with this because this topic of hair, what we do with it is so ever-present. What was your reason for writing this particular story?

IF: This story was inspired by the young women in my apartment building. I would see all the hair changes they went through. These were young girls, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. One day they’d have extensions, the next day they’d be wrapping their hair in that sort of flat style with pins to make it lay straight …

CCF: Right! What was a mechanism for making the hair

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straight actually became a hairstyle in itself.

IF: Yes, yes, they were so cute in their experiments and I guess I pinned that to a deeper and more troubling aspect of black women’s subjectivity—a lack in many of us in confidence of our beauty. And that, I think, is an inheritance from colonial conditioning—we were always the lesser women compared to our white sister, our white mistress.

CCF: Who might actually be our white sister!

IF: Yes. The reality of young girls trying to make themselves beautiful and the understanding of our inheritance came together in that story where Precious wants the guy and she is doing everything she can to get him.

CCF: And getting the guy somehow is tied up with the ideal of whiteness, or what accompanies whiteness.

IF: Well, she doesn’t process it that way. She thinks that if she has long flowing hair she will be more attractive to him because she sees girls with long flowing hair attracting guys like him. I think that’s how it works in real life.

You know, girls are very serious about their crushes and they take their models from what’s around them.

CCF: Yes, what’s in popular culture. I agree with you that this is a legacy of colonialism and I think, by extension, of slavery. We learn what is valued, or what is more valued, and it is interesting that the hair aspect is so symbolic of all kinds of things, not necessarily directly related to skin color, but definitely tangentially related.

IF: It is tangentially related.

CCF: Yes, and it is a thing that we have more control over [than skin color].

IF: Yes, yes we do.

CCF: Being a writer is part of your identity, and being a scholar is part of your identity. When did they become part of your identity? You were not a writer and a scholar when you were ten—or were you?

IF: Very recently they became part of my identity. Once you’ve written a novel, you know you are a writer. I

may not have walked through the world pretending I’m a writer, but I know I’m a writer, and once you get a Ph.D. you know you are a scholar. It’s a very affirming thing. When students come to me and say “Is it worth it? Will I get a job? What good will it do me?” I tell them “A great deal depends on what kind of job you want to do. If you want to study literature at that level, it fits you to teach, but not an awful lot else. It is valuable in and of itself. If you feel you want to develop your analytical scholarly ability to that degree it is worth doing, as long as you don’t want to be an engineer.” Probably I had the greatest feeling of accomplishment after receiving my diploma, my Ph.D. CCF: I’m sure.

IF: Almost more so than finishing the novel. Finishing the novel was a big high. I was high on that for weeks, but the Ph.D. just did something for me. I still didn’t go through the world pretending I’m a scholar, but the publication of Ten Days in Jamaica and Archipelagos of Sound at one time, more or less, helped to consolidate my confidence in both fields.

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CCF: Going back to Archipelagos, in that you were dealing specifically with women.

IF: Yes

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CCF: Music made by Caribbean women. Why women as opposed to broader Caribbean music makers?

IF: Because there was a lot of scholarly work on Caribbean music and it was nearly all focused on men.

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CCF: So it was time.

IF: Yes. This was a collection waiting to be pulled together. What I discovered when I was soliciting work was that there’s not a lot of work actually done on women and yet there are so many really popular musicians, not only contemporary, but historically. There are two essays about Celia Cruz in the volume because she is so important and people don’t recognize that she was a global superstar. We Anglophones are so language-centered we don’t recognize the span of the Spanish-speaking world

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and this woman had a presence across the Spanish-speaking world. I discovered people I’d never heard of like a Mexican singer called Toña La Negra who was very popular in the early 20th century, and again, transnationally. Born in Cuba, settled in Mexico, she became a symbol of Mexican identity which is interesting for many reasons. She was Afro-Cuban and Mexico has historically had a problem in claiming its African heritage. But her popularity was such that they wanted to claim ownership of her so, paradoxically, she became a symbol of Mexicanity. There’s a really wonderful essay about her in the volume. At the other extreme, there is an essay about Sinead O’Connor and her reggae album. I was always fascinated by Sinead O’Connor.

I loved her music and I was fascinated by her politics and her recognition of Rastafari as a revolutionary movement, a revolutionary anti-colonial movement, and the fact that she identified Ireland’s colonial struggles with anti-colonial Caribbean and African struggles. There’s a really terrific essay in the volume.

CCF: That is really fascinating. I think of someone like Sinead O’Connor being Irish and I am reminded that St. Patrick is Patron Saint of both Ireland and Nigeria (and also Montserrat), and I wonder when there will be enough Nigerians in New York to join in and march in the parade. Interesting to think about IF: It is very interesting to think about.

CCF:Speaking of the [anti-colonial] struggle, I suppose being of Jamaican heritage, raised in London, and coming to the United States, much of your writing has an underlay of the colonial experience.

IF: Also, the trans-Atlantic triangle.

CCF: Yes. I’m just wondering what’s different about that in the U.K. and the U.S. In the U.K. living in the land of the colonizer, in the U.S. living in the land of colonizer once removed, so to speak. How does that work?

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IF: Well, it’s hard to ignore the fact that the United States is an imperial power.

I lived and grew up in a country that once was an imperial power but is no longer, and I now live in a country that is currently an imperial power seeking to spread its power. They’re very radically different experiences. It is hard to speak about growing up in England and not filter that experience through what I now understand about history. But even given that, I think we had better history classes in England than American students have here, so I was raised with an understanding of Britain’s empire and the fact that Britain had these colonies. In school we had atlases that showed the world and British territories in pink. Jamaica Kincaid has written about this. She thought part of the world was pink, and the rest wasn’t, and that we were special, and the rest wasn’t.

So the terms colony, colonizer, colonized weren’t foreign terms to me but I think they would be to many Americans because they haven’t had an education that encourages them to think in those terms. So, when a student recently asked me what it was like growing up in England, and I said I grew up in London and I really like London and he said England is somewhere I wouldn’t want to go because they have a class structure and they used to have all those colonies. I said, isn’t there a class structure here? Isn’t the United States a power in the world? He kind of looked at me and said “not like that” and I said “not like that, but still, you really need to think about the fact that you’re living in an imperialistic country.”

CCF: Precisely. We in the United States are living in denial. We don’t want to admit that we have a class structure because certainly immigrants who came here were not at the top of their class where they came from, so on the one hand we are invested in this completely false notion that we’re this egalitarian country, while on the other hand no one worships the British monarchy like

Americans.

IF: Ironic. It’s hilarious.

CCF: It’s incredible. Absolutely incredible.

IF: That’s a longing for history, I think. A longing for antiquity. When you feel that you began with Christopher Columbus, when you compare yourself to European countries, that makes you feel like you’re an adolescent.

You’re not really, culturally speaking, in the big leagues.

CCF: Yes, we look to Europe for culture and we don’t validate anything of our own as culture until it is validated by Europe. Take jazz in Germany, for example.

IF: And the United States of America is shaped by European culture and African culture and African culture is ancient, predating European culture it would seem.

It would be really enriching to the consciousness of the nation to be educated to understand and appreciate the African inheritance.

CCF: Yes, it’s a very sad thing. I forget who it was—some European—who observed that American speech is basically African speech.

IF: Well there are a lot of African words that are in everyday speech.

CCF: And this is a country that is indelibly marked by Africans and we take pains not to recognize that. Very unfortunate. But, that leads me to another thought. This is a country where people of African descent from all over the world have come, and on the one hand we rub up against each other, sometimes very abrasively, but on the other hand, we connect.

IF: Well, I’m aware, and reminded periodically, that West Indians enjoy sort of a privileged status as the industrious immigrant or industrious black people. But I’m also aware that this status, this privilege erodes over generations as West Indians become assimilated into American-ness, and African-American history in New York is evidence of that assimilation—from Malcolm X, Kwame Ture, even going back to Marcus Garvey. So, there have been frictions and there have also been collaborations

and eventual merging.

CCF: And I think actually from the time before this [America] was even an English colony, in the time of the Dutch colonization, with some of the early Dutch slaves.

They were constantly going back and forth among New Netherlands, and Barbados, and Brazil, etc. When you look at New Netherlands, slaves were being sent to Jamaica or Barbados, or imported from Curacao or Barbados. This mixture all the time, that became northern blacks. It seems to work a little bit in reverse for American Blacks emigrating abroad. I’m thinking of Janet McDonald’s book, Project Girl, in which she takes pains not to lose her American accent so as not to lose the privileged status of being a black American immigrant to France, and not be mistaken for, and treated like, one of France’s own black [colonial] immigrants.

IF: I have a little bit of frustration personally with the fact that African Americans often question my accent.

CCF: Really?

IF: Whereas white Americans will say “You’re from England” or ask “Are you from England?” African Americans will say “What’s that accent?” Somebody said to me the other day, “Isn’t there a dialect underneath that accent?”

And I said, “Well yes, London dialect” and she looked sort of nonplused. So, there is this strange negotiation that goes on between black people and it is about positioning. And it is about wanting to measure yourself socially and economically against a group that looks like you. And maybe anxiety that you may be looked down on, either way, both ways.

CCF: Absolutely IF: It’s not always easy.

CCF: Another observation about not seeing you as being English. In a way, this is sort of a corollary of the image of Americans as being white. So that people don’t see Black Americans as being “American” in the same way they don’t see black Brits as being “Brits.” So that I think there is that same kind of thing. I think it is so unfortunate that

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people to whom that is done here do that to you.

IF: I was at a party a couple of weeks ago and somebody asked me the dialect question. I said “that’s really a horrible question” and she was quite thrown that I put that back at her. She said “it’s a normal question” and I said “no, do I really need to give you my ancestry to introduce myself to you?”

CCF: So, you’ve been teaching for over a decade now.

IF: Well, I taught all the way through graduate school.

In those days it was still possible, and I taught literature classes, and writing classes, including literature classes at The New School, which was really a great experience for me.

CCF: That was going to be my next question—the experience of teaching. How is that for you?

IF: I love to teach. I like young people. I like their curiosity and openness, and willingness to learn—when it’s operating. Teaching at NYU has been a privilege in a way because we have excellent students and teaching at The New School, similarly excellent students. So, I’ve had good fortune in terms of my students. The end of the academic year is approaching and I’m thinking of students who will leave me and there’s a sense this year, as with every year, that I’ve worked with some remarkable young minds. It is really rewarding.

CCF: So you see your future in the academy?

IF: As far as I know, at present.

CCF: Is it hard to teach?

IF: It gets easier. Was it hard to teach? Yes. It took me about five years before I felt absolutely confident going into a classroom that I would know how to manage whatever might arise. Every session is a new experience and each academic year is a new cycle of experience, each semester is a new set of encounters. There are not

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many jobs that are like that, where you have to renew yourself, renew your ability, and renew your confidence so frequently. But that daily opportunity is also a good thing. So you have a bad class—there’ll be another class that could go better. That happens. Students don’t do their work, somebody asks ridiculous questions, or good questions that make others feel uncomfortable—it happens. But I have learned to manage it better over time.

CCF: Two part question: Who are your favorite authors, or what were your favorite pieces of writing when you were a child? And then the same question about favorite authors now.

IF: When I was a child I was a voracious reader. I read far ahead of my years. I had a public library at the end of my street and it was the only place my parents would let me go alone. I was there a lot. My very first recollection of loving a book and reading it over and over again was Babar the Elephant. It was a picture book, but I still love the memory of that book, even though when I looked at it recently—I went to buy it for a young niece—it is so infused with colonial ideology that I couldn’t buy it, but I loved it and I still love elephants. So, that’s the first love.

The very first book I read by a black female author— and it will never leave me—is Paule Marshall’s Brown Girl, Brown Stone. That book spoke to me like nothing I’d read before because there was an immigrant family, there was a young girl trying to develop against the traditions of her family in a new context. Here was a book written by a black woman. It was miraculous to me, and the fact that she lived in America didn’t lessen the sense of relevance to my situation, my circumstances. I was older than she—the protagonist Selena—was, I was in my early twenties when I read it. But it was really inspiring.

Now—well if you’d asked me this question ten years

ago I would have said without hesitation Toni Morrison, and she’s definitely there in my top five. But I love the work of Michael Ondaatje. He is more experimental with form and character and I find that helpful in my own experiments, and he is of a wider world than Morrison. Morrison is still very firmly rooted in the AfricanAmerican experience. So, I can love it, but it is not my muse, while Ondaatje has more of a post-colonial, more of a worldly view in general.

CCF: Final question. What are you working on now?

IF: I am working on a piece for a magazine about returning home and what I do when I get back home. Home in this instance is Jamaica because it is for a Trinidadian magazine. They are asking Caribbean writers to produce these little documents of return. I am enjoying writing that, but it’s a short journalistic piece. I have a novel cooking, but I’m waiting for the summer to start writing. I’m excited to start writing. Publishing and getting feedback—positive feedback—on new work is very motivating. It encourages me to get on with the next novel.

CCF: Terrific! Thank you so much. I really enjoy talking to you—always. ★

Spring 2014 Non-Fiction 1. Across That Bridge by John Lewis 2. Forgiveness: 21 Days to Forgive Everyone for Everything by Iyanla Vanzant 3. Shred: The Revolutionary Diet: 6 Weeks 4 Inches 2 Sizes by Ian K. Smith 4. Life In Motion by Misty Copeland 5. The Butler: A Witness to History

by Wil Haygood 6. Undisputed Truth by Mike Tyson 7. Mo’ Meta Blues: The World According to Questlove by Ahmir Thompson 8. It Worked for Me: In Life and Leadership by Colin Powell 9. Bartlett’s Familiar Black Quotations

by Retha Powers 10.

Men We Reaped by Jesmyn Ward MosaicMagazine.org

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L ITERARY

MAGAZINE

Summer 2014 MosaicMagazine.org Mosaic’s lesson plans give high-school educators ways to connect literature to history and social studies while also serving to increase the importance of books and reading.

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Lesson Plan

DOWN THESE MEAN STREETS PIRI THOMAS Years after its original publication, Piri Thomas’s Down These Mean Streets remains as powerful, immediate, and shocking as it was when it first stunned readers. In this classic confessional autobiography, firmly in the tradition of Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul on Ice and The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Piri Thomas describes the experience of growing up in the barrio of Spanish Harlem, a labyrinth of lawlessness, drugs, gangs, and crime. The teenaged Piri seeks a place for himself in barrio society by becoming a gang leader, and as he grows up his life spirals into a self-destructive cycle of drug addiction and violence, the same cycle that he sees all around him and hardly knows how to break. Piri is also troubled by a very personal problem: much darker than his brothers and sisters, he decides that he, unlike his siblings, is black, and that he must come to terms with life as a black American. Eventually arrested for shooting two men in an armed robbery, Piri spends six years in Sing Sing and Comstock prisons.

With insight and poetry he describes his time in prison, the dreams and emotions

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that prompted him finally to start life again as a writer, street poet, and performer, and how he became an activist with a passionate commitment to reaching and helping today’s youth.

One of the most striking features of Down These Mean Streets is its language. “It is a linguistic event,” said The New York Times Book Review. “Gutter language, Spanish imagery and personal poetics…mingle into a kind of individual statement that has very much its own sound.”

Piri Thomas’s brilliant way with words, his ability to make language come alive on the page, should prove attractive to young people and inspire them to look at writing and literature in fresh new ways.

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of literature. Ask them to examine the language Thomas uses, his choice of words, the “flow” of the story. How does he create his informal tone, his sense of immediacy? This work might help change your students’ ideas about the “right” way to write, and inspire them to try to find their own individual voices.

DISCUSSION AND WRITING Understanding the Story Part One: Harlem 1) Why does Poppa hit Piri with his belt? Do you think that Poppa’s way of relating to Piri is good or destructive?

How does he show his affection for Piri?

TEACHING IDEAS

2) What is a tapita [p. 5], and what are the junkies doing?

Preparing to Read The questions, assignments, and discussion topics that follow are designed to guide your students as they approach the many issues raised in Down These Mean Streets. The questions of race and culture, of drugs, and of crime and punishment are all treated in the book, and should provide jumping-off points for many fruitful discussions. Another important element of the book is its vivid description of the youth culture of the barrio. Ask your students not only to pay special attention to that culture, but also to compare it with their own, and to look for similarities even when similarities might not be immediately evident. Piri Thomas gained the distance and objectivity to observe his world without prejudice or self-deception; your students should try to do the same.

Finally, the students should be encouraged to look at the book not only as a cultural document, but also as a work

3) “A twelve-year-old kid walking the streets at 3 a.m. was a nothing sight in Harlem.” [p. 6] Why doesn’t the policeman stop Piri when he sees him alone in the streets? Would this happen in other cities or neighborhoods? Would it differ today?

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4) What is the W.P.A.? What was its role during the Great Depression? What is Poppa’s attitude toward the W.P.A.?

5) Moms is homesick for Puerto Rico and feels that life was better there. Do you think she is being realistic, or merely nostalgic? How is community life in a village society different from community life in a big city?

6) What happened after the bombing of Pearl Harbor? [p. 13] How did life change for the Thomas family after that event?

7) “Getting yourself a chick was a rep builder.” [p. 15] What does Piri mean by this?

8) What does it mean to Piri and his friends to become “hombre”? [p. 15] 9) Who are Whiplash and Scarface? Why does Piri make them his role models? What have these characters to do with the kind of life Piri lives in Harlem?

10) “Carlito was gonna be a junkie, like most of us would be—but that was in the future.” [p. 17] Why do so many of these young people turn to drugs? Has this situation changed much in the fifty years since Piri was a teenager?

11) On page 18, Piri says how hard it was to hustle up twelve dollars: “Every damn bottle we could steal from one grocery store to sell to another…. And all the change we could beat out of our girl-debs.” Does Piri imply here that stealing and beating girls are natural and accepted activities among his friends?

12) Piri feels that Poppa doesn’t love him as much as the others. Do you think that Poppa really is harder on Piri because he is darker? Or perhaps because parents are often strictest with the oldest child? How does Piri’s perception of his father’s attitude affect his self-image and, eventually, his life?

13) Why are the Italians and Latinos in Piri’s new neighborhood so hostile to one another? Is it because of a real cultural clash, or is this kind of conflict just part of human nature?

14) Why does Rocky’s attitude to Piri change after Rocky and his gang attack Piri and hurt his eyes?

How does Piri now feel about Rocky?

15) Listening to the woman next to him at the Home Relief Agency[p.

43], Piri observes that “Her pleading was too close to my people’s: taking with outstretched hands and resenting it in the same breath.” What does he mean by this, and why does he turn away from her?

Why does he feel ashamed when his mother lists all the things they need to the investigator, but then add his own item to the list, gloves? [p. 45] 16) “I wonder if Poppa didn’t like Jews the way I didn’t like Italians.” [p. 46] Which characters in Down These Mean Streets stereotype others by race, and why?

17) What does it mean to have corazon, “heart”? How does the fight on page 50 illustrate the rules and principles by which the teenage gangs live?

18) How does Piri feel about the transvestites whose apartment he visits? [pp. 55–62] Do his attitudes change during the visit? Why does he accompany his friends there in the first place?

19) “School stunk…. Only chumps worked and stud-

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ied,” Piri says early in the book. [p. 64] Yet as he grows older, he begins to take a real interest in his studying, and eventually becomes a writer. Why does he feel, as a teenager, that school is a place for chumps? Does this attitude reflect the attitude of those around him, or teenagers as a whole?

Part Two: Suburbia 1) What are paddies?

2) How does Piri feel initially about the white kids at his new school? Does he keep an open mind? What effect do Marcia’s words have upon the way he feels about Babylon? Do you think that he is right to turn against whites after hearing Marcia’s cruel statements?

3) While he is together with Betty, Piri says to himself, “Damn it, I hate you—no, not you, just your damn color.” [p. 90] Why do Piri’s experiences in Babylon make him hate white people as he never did in Harlem?

Part Three: Harlem 1) When Piri and Louie apply for sales jobs, they discover that white applicants are getting the jobs and black ones are being told to wait until they are contacted. Do you think that this sort of practice still occurs? Can society combat this kind of discrimination?

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of treatment and why?

4) “What a world! Whether you’re right or wrong, as long as you’re strong, you’re right.” [p. 118] Is this a fair description of the world Piri lives in? Does it apply to other communities and societies? Does it still apply today?

5)What sort of relationship do Piri and Brew have when we first see them together? What does Brew tell Piri about race relations? Who turns out to be right, Piri or Brew?

6)Why does Piri want to go south?

Part Four: Suburbia 1) After his encounter with the white woman in the subway car, Piri imagines her talking to her friends about it.

“It was with a colored boy…. In that one second, I was never so ashamed of myself.” [p. 141] Why does he believe this? Do you think his imaginings might be accurate?

2) Why do Piri and José fight each other? [p. 146] Why does Piri refer to it as a “Cain and Abel scene”? [p. 147] Why does Piri say that José made a choice between a brother and a color? [p. 149]

2) When, and why, does Piri begin to use drugs regularly? How much does peer pressure have to do with his decision to take cocaine?

3) Why does Poppa decide to be Puerto Rican rather than black? Is it necessary for him to make a choice?

What impact could it have on their lives?

3) How do you feel about the way Piri treats Trina at the party? [pp. 111–13] What is Trina’s response to this kind

Part Five: Down South 1) How do Alayce’s thoughts about race differ from

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Brew’s? Piri thinks that Alayce sounds “just like José” [p.

159]—do you agree?

campaigns? If not, what would be effective?

2) How does the South, as Brew and Piri describe it, differ from the North in treatment of African Americans?

3) “You’re prejudiced, too, Piri,” Brew says [p. 167], and goes on to imply that every person, and every culture, has its own prejudices. Do you agree with this point of view? What is Piri’s reaction to it?

2) After beating up the car salesman, Piri says, “Outside I was cara palo, but inside I heard Momma’s voice saying, ‘Mi negrito, mi negrito, what have you done?’” [p. 221] What does this tell us about Piri’s state of mind?

4) How does Gerald West define himself racially, and why has he chosen this definition? What are the reactions of Brew and Piri to Gerald’s opinions? Does Piri, finally, come to have respect for Gerald? “I ask you,” Gerald says, “if a white man can be a Negro if he has some Negro blood in him, why can’t a Negro be a white man if he has white blood in him?” Can you answer his question?

5) Do you think that Piri’s method of dealing with the officer who called him “boy” is a good one?

6) What does Piri’s encounter with the white prostitute in Texas tell us about racial attitudes in Texas, and about Piri’s own state of mind?

7) On page 191, Isaac and Piri talk about the possibility of killing a white person. What does Piri conclude during this conversation? What is his real attitude toward killing?

Part Six: Harlem 1) Piri gets hooked on heroin, though he sees what it has done to his friends. Why? Do you think education is effective in combating drug use? What about “just say no”

3) “It’s sure tough to be a broad,” Piri thinks after Dulcien has her baby, “but that’s life.” [p. 226] Does Piri’s attitude to Dulcien shock you, or do you think it is natural and sensible? What does he mean when he says, “I didn’t know what that meant—want, take, love, sex, belong, have—I just didn’t know”? [p. 226] 4) Does Piri’s decision to shoot the two men spring from racial hatred, or would it have happened even if they were not white? “I never thought paddies could waste other paddies like that,” he thinks [p. 237]: Do you find it odd that he puts even this situation in racial terms, rather than in terms of criminal and victim?

Part Seven: Prison 1) To what extent is Harlem’s communal code of pride, masculinity, and “rep” re-created in prison life? How does life inside prison resemble life outside?

2) “The reasoning that my punishment was deserved was

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absent. As prison blocks off your body, so it suffocates your mind.” [pp. 255–56] Does this indicate to you an essential fault in the prison system?

him proud, what makes him ashamed? Is he a good or bad father, a good or bad husband? Do you find him sympathetic?

3) Do you think that the advice Piri gives Tico about how to deal with Rube is good?

3) Trina: Piri sees Trina as nearly perfect. How would you describe her? Do you think that she behaves passively toward Piri, or does she demonstrate spirit of her own?

What do you think of her response to Dulcien’s baby?

4) Is prison a purely negative experience for Piri, or are there good things about it? Which of the people he meets while in prison enrich and improve his life?

5) Does Piri decide not to join the rioters, or is the decision essentially made for him by the hacks?

6) Why does Chaplin/Muhammed believe that Christianity is the white man’s religion, Islam the black man’s? Do outside or societal factors play a role in Chaplin/ Muhammed’s choice of religions?

7) As he leaves prison, Piri says, “I ain’t ever gonna be the same. I’m changed all right.” [p. 306] In what ways has Piri changed, and what has changed him? Which of his ideas have been altered by his time in prison?

Part Eight: New York Town 1)Why do you think Thomas chooses to end the book where he does, with his encounter with Carlito? What does he imply about his own future?

The characters of Down These Mean Streets 1) Piri: Piri presents himself as a product of his race, culture, and community, but many of his traits are purely his own. How would you describe Piri’s personality?

2) Poppa: What kind of a person is Poppa? What makes

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4) Brew: How would you describe Brew’s character?

What has given him his outlook on life, and how does it differ from Alayce’s? How does he perceive Piri? Why does he agree to go south with Piri?

5) Chaplin/Muhammed: What has made Muhammed hate Christianity? What does Islam mean to him?

In-depth discussion 1) How would you describe the youth culture in Spanish Harlem, of which Piri is a part? What do these young people consider important? How do they define themselves and measure themselves against others? Why do they fight? Is the fighting really about hatred or hostility, or does it mean something else? Why are the boys so territorial? Why is school, and learning, scorned by these young people?

2) “In Harlem stealing was like natural.” [p. 72] In Piri’s world, crime is a fact of life, and there is very little discussion of crime on a moral level. What is your reaction when Piri talks about holding up a store, or stealing ten dollars from the Puerto Rican girl who befriended him?

Do you think that Piri feels guilty about shooting the men he has wounded? And if not, why?

3) How are women portrayed in Down These Mean Streets? How would you describe the way women are perceived and treated? How much independence, how much leeway for making personal decisions and choices does a young woman like Trina have? Does this reflect American culture or the time period in which the book is set, or both?

4) How does the relationship between Piri and Brew change during the course of the book, and what do those changes say about Piri’s perception of himself and his understanding of his own place in American society?

When we first see Piri and Brew together, Piri asks himself, “Was I trying to tell Brew that I’m better than he is ’cause he’s only black and I’m a Puerto Rican dark-skin?” [p. 122] How does Piri feel about Brew by the end of the book, and how does the trip south contribute to changing his feelings? At what point in his life does Piri start to think of himself as black?

5) Piri describes his life in prison in some detail. Do you feel that the system he describes is designed to rehabilitate or to punish criminals? Is it effective? How many of them will continue in a life of crime?

6) Brew accuses Piri of being prejudiced. Do you find that to be true? Against what group or groups is Piri prejudiced? Which of his prejudices are cultural, and which has he acquired from his own experiences?

7) Piri has intermittent, but searching, thoughts about religion. As a teenager, religion means little to Piri; he “sat down to dinner and listened to Momma talk about

Christian living without really hearing her.” [p.

27] In prison, he is impressed by the character of the chaplain, and listens to what he has to say.

He also carefully considers the words of Chaplin/ Muhammed on Islam.

Why does Piri decide not to become a Muslim? What are his feelings about God by the end of the book?

8) Perhaps the most important relationship in this book is the relationship between Piri and his father. How did his father affect Piri’s life and help to make him, for better or worse, what he was?

BEYOND THE BOOK 1) Piri Thomas uses a number of pungent expressions, both in Spanish and English. How does the language he uses express his character and his world? Write a twopage essay describing one day in your life. Use your own style of talking, and try to be as colloquial as possible.

What might your essay tell the reader about you, your friends, and your world?

2) The youth culture in Spanish Harlem to which Piri and his friends belong has certain firm, if unwritten, rules.

Would you say the same is true of your own school or neighborhood? What are the rules that govern the behavior of young people you know? What do you feel

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you have to do to be “cool,” to be accepted, to belong?

Write a short essay describing the social rules your own friends follow.

3) Piri is describing a specific period in time: the 1940s.

Do you find that the life a family like the Thomases lived has changed much since that time? Make a list of the things that have changed for teenagers like Piri, and of the things that have stayed the same.

4) Down These Mean Streets is written very much from a male point of view. Try to look at the story from a different angle. Pretend that you are Trina, Moms, or Dulcien.

Write a short essay from the point of view of one of these women. Tell what your life is like, how you feel about Piri and the other men in your life, what your responsibilities, wishes, and dreams might be.

5) Much of Down These Mean Streets deals with violent crime. Has violent crime had an impact on your own life?

Do you believe that our current criminal justice system is the most effective way of dealing with it? Can you think of any good ways to improve the system?

6) During the period Piri Thomas describes, the South enforced strict segregation laws, called “Jim Crow” laws, that were not in effect in the North. Research the history of these laws. What was allowed for African Americans, and what was not allowed? How long did these laws remain in effect, and when and why did they end?

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OTHER TITLES OF INTEREST Harold Autenbaum and Ilan Stevens, eds., Growing Up Latino: Memoirs and Stories; James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time, Nobody Knows My Name; Claude Brown, Manchild in the Promised Land; Lorene Cary, Black Ice; Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street; Eldridge Cleaver, Soul on Ice; Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man; Lorraine Hansberry, A Raisin in the Sun, To Be Young, Gifted and Black; Martin Luther King, Jr., Stride Toward Freedom, Why We Can’t Wait; Edward Rivera, Family Installments: Memories of Growing Up Hispanic; Luis J. Rodriguez, Always Running: La Vida Loca: Gang Days in L.A.; Esmeralda Santiago, When I Was Puerto Rican; Earl Shorris, Latinos: A Biography of the People; Cornel West, Race Matters; C. Vann Woodward, The Strange Career of Jim Crow; Richard Wright, Native Son; Malcolm X, The Autobiography of Malcolm X. ABOUT THIS GUIDE This teacher’s guide was written by Brooke Allen. Brooke Allen has a Ph.D. in literature from Columbia University, and has spent several years in France as a teacher and a journalist. She writes regularly on books for The New Criterion, The Wall Street Journal, and other publications. ★

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A Model for Dialogue and a Guide for Self-Examination and Collaboration for Churches The Future of the African American Church: An Invitation to Dialogue

By Rev. Dr. Ralph Basui Watkins and Justin G. West

How does the church serve the present age?

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Order online and receive a 20% discount off of retail prices. JudsonPress.com 800-458-3766

“West and Watkins build important bridges with this book—between older and younger generations, between traditional and contemporary cultural expressions, and between prophetic and praise-based church traditions. In so doing they help to expand our imagination about what the black church really is and what the future of the church may be.” —Matthew Wesley Williams, Director of Strategic Partnerships, Fund for Theological Education (FTE)