A Playwright Speaks
for August Wilson
I’m the son of a white, not-there father
and a black, ever-present mother.
I could not have chosen either
as I could not be my father
after what I learned from Mother.
A poet is how I saw myself, as
my verse was good as any from Dylan Thomas,
but it was not me, it was not jazz
not because Thomas was white
but because I am black.
I stayed up night and day
to pen a truthful play,
to let my people have their say,
but could not find it in the literature
of those whose law made us illiterate.
Then one night, daylight breaking soon,
I heard Ma Rainey sing a tune
and wrote her verse till afternoon.
I learned that night in our forced, dark silence
my people never lost our song.
Last Words
from Amadou Diallo to Eric Garner
1. Trayvon Martin, 17
We climbed the Seven heavens
to move from Genesis to Malachi,
from the darkness over the surface of the deep
to Elijah’s turning hearts or destroying them,
recalling only selah
and the name of the prophet
who in Sanford, Florida, asked,
“What are you following me for?”
2. Kendrec McDade, 19
We opened the Seventh seal
to turn from Matthew to Revelation,
from the lineage of Jesus and the sign of Jonah
to John’s fiery lake of burning sulphur,
but disciples spitting blindness in our eyes,
saints shrieking deafness in our ears,
spoke in tongues from Pasadena, California:
“Why did you shoot me?”
3. Christian Taylor, 19
We committed the Seven deadly sins
to see the Declaration of Independence in a different light,
from all men being created equal plus Godly endowments
to pledge of life, fortune, and sacred Honor:
What we would not give to know the Law of Nature!
Whose right, whose duty to throw off such a government
designed to reduce humanity? From Arlington, Texas, he answers,
“I don’t want to die too young.”
4. Kimani Gray, 16
We drank the Seven seas and ate the Seven continents
to taste the United States Constitution,
from We the People forming a more perfect Union
to retroactive pay for Congress,
the fourth amendment disuniting the United of America from the States
the thirteenth through fifteenth still taking a while to catch on.
The other nation rose in Brooklyn, New York, crying,
“Please don’t let me die.”
5. John Crawford III, 22
We sang the seven modes of the diatonic scale,
angels tucked in books springing from our bookshelves,
flying circles round the eternal flame,
singing hosannas and hallelujahs,
but we close my eyes,
cover our ears,
yet hear his echo from Beavercreek, Ohio:
“It’s not real.”
6. Black Almanac
On the Seventh day, from everlasting rest
we rose, the books from God by men
strewn cross the floor, dusty from Lucifer’s wings,
damp from Gabriel’s tears,
a thousand angels skirmishing
in voting booths, stealing census stats,
eviscerating Uniform Crime Reporting data—
they turn in their hoods for shrouds.
Race Class
“A language comes into existence by means of brutal necessity, and the rules of the language are dictated by what the language must convey.” – James Baldwin
1. Before Class
Last semester’s syllabus already in their hands,
I announce I’ve added one more essay to the assigned readings:
James Baldwin’s “If Black English Isn’t a Language, Then Tell Me What It Is”
because Letitia, my only black student, should be represented.
I look around the room for a reaction, any sign that this would not work into
what they expected from a composition class.
Letitia quietly takes notes, I assume of the reading.
I think her cogent, concerned, considerate,
but hopefully, more vocal than she’s been.
2. During Class
I read from Baldwin then ask for the class to respond.
Only silence,
until Letitia bolts from her seat and shouts,
“YOU MOTHERFUCKIN WHITEYS ALWAYS GOT SOMETHING TO SAY
ABOUT AFRICAN AMERICANS, BUT THAT AIN’T THE WAY IT IS!
“But these are Baldwin’s words,” I say.
“I DON’T CARE WHAT THAT CRACKER SAYS!”
“Baldwin was black,” I say.
“I’M TALKING BOUT YOU. HE AIN’T BLACK NO MORE! NOT WHEN YOU SAY IT! THEY YOUR WORDS NOW, NOT HIS! YOU KNOW YOU STOLE THEM.”
And she storms from the room.
Then silence again until I said murmur,
“I suppose she didn’t get it.
“What’d you expect?” said one student sitting closest to me.
I want to tell him,
“Finally we get a response from you, |
you white prick; go back to sleep, asshole,
but choose to keep my job.
3. After Class
I never see Letitia again until five weeks later,
sitting alone in a campus cafeteria,
looking at a small mirror
I would have walked past her without a word
If she hadn’t said in her sweetest voice,
“Good day, Professor.”
I want to ask her why she is skipping class
while submitting every assignment on time
why she does not pick up her graded papers
with my praise plastered all over them,
why her Baldwin essay is as good as Baldwin’s,
why she persists in completing the work
despite failing the attendance requirement,
why the best writer in the class is forcing me
to give her a failing grade,
why she deprives the class of her profound insights,
why a woman who writes so well would talk so crudely,
but all I say is, “Good day” and walk on,
rushing to the class Letitia will skip and
leaving her to putting on her lipstick.
Philip Vassallo’s nonfiction, poems, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in Sewanee Review, Chaminade Literary Review, Southern Ocean Review, and other publications. He received a New Jersey State Council on the Arts Playwriting Fellowship, and his plays have been produced throughout the United States. He is the author of three books on work-related writing: The Art of On-the-Job Writing, The Art of Email Writing, and How to Write Fast Under Pressure.