I wrote recently-- I have a book coming out in the spring,
which Random House is calling a nonfiction novel.
I will not be responsible for what Random House calls things.
I'm only responsible for what I call things.
But anyway, it's about my father's family.
I wrote a lot about my father, who was an extraordinary man.
And one of the things that he used to do--
do you know a lot of people will tell us
stories about-- older people will tell us stories
that we don't listen to.
Sometimes we remember to listen too late.
Do you know what I mean?
Well, I remembered to listen in time.
And he told me about the ancestor
who was, in his words, the first Black woman
legally hung in the state of Virginia.
And I was very proud of that, because her name was Lucille.
I have several poems about that.
I'd like to read a couple of them.
One is a poem about a lot of my friends who took African names,
and they used to always ask me why I didn't take--
change my name.
And though, I assure you, I don't think
Lucille is such a hot name.
I mean, it's not my favorite, but I still keep it proudly.
Lucille in French, I believe, means light.
"Light on my mother's tongue breaks
through her soft extravagant hip into life.
Lucille, she calls the light, which
was the name of the grandmother who waited by the crossroads
in Virginia and shot the white man off his horse,
killing the killer of sons.
Light breaks from her life to her lives.
Mine already is an African name."
[APPLAUSE]