without fail everytime I faulted.
As I read each word, their echo would follow, the ringing of the rhythm of the piece drowning out my own voice,causing me to loose my place. Line after line I would reorient myself, holding on to a corner of a single e at the end of the line to ground my eyes
I found my eyes engaged in a game of jump rope, double dutch-
page, words, face, page, words, face, page.
When Jeffer's words came out clear, immediately, my eyes went searching to find the reaction in the audience's facial expressions- scanning for pain, anger, devestation- everytime I saw less than I wanted. I desired for them to share my rage, my tears when witnessing the retelling of this dark and sped up destruction.
Didn't they know Jeffer had put on a single page what had happened over long,orange warm hours? Did they not know that in a single afternoon two generations had been ripped from the wind, wings forever clipped and shoved to the ground?
I know those who I tried to read to, I know them well.
They are not vessels of horror or unkind in the least, yet I found that a great number of them could not feel the knives upon their own bellies, refused to place rough jewelry around their necks for fear of discomfort.
This made me consider- Jeffer's work drenched in blues calls for ears ready to listen, ready to discover history, just as she choose to embody her own. The songs she sings on these pages are reserved for those that enter with understanding that truth telling can leap on you with backhanded fierceness, leave a black and blue mark in the morning that will throb through the night long.
Jesi,
ReplyDeleteIt's always painful to know that those around you may not connect to the things that pierce you so deeply. The vulnerability that comes with writing also must be reciprocated by a vulnerable reader, one that is open to feeling what is on the page. Thank you for your vulnerability in this post as well as in class, I know I'm grateful to be reading these works with this class in particular.
xoxo,
Rai
there's a little trembling thing that we feel when we read these and so they become impossible to articulate. The blues, dirty south moon and more are that kind of internal flow. I get it
ReplyDeletee
I was trying to find a way to articulate this feeling of getting constantly tripped up in Jeffers text and you just said it perfectly. It felt very much like a game of jump rope and I seemed to keep getting caught in the rope. I wonder if that contributed to the way Jeffers pieces stick to you? I wonder if this game of jump rope was purposeful on her part? What kind of effect did she want it to serve.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for this response. I think you articulate really well how even the most kind or well meaning white can not understand these poems the way black folks do. "refused to place rough jewelry around their necks for fear of discomfort" is so striking, and says so much about the privilege of not having to have certain experiences or even having to imagine such experiences being white. Just really well said. Thank you.
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