I've been thinking.
I'm going to read one more poem.
But I've been thinking about my role
in this conversation as a Black woman,
and now as a Black mother, and as a figure that has been,
for the majority of our tradition
of environmental writing, essentially invisible.
Right?
Like, the voices of people of color
in general, and the voices of women,
and the concerns that women have has not
been part of the canon of environmental literature.
This is changing, I will say.
There is some really fantastic work out there now.
Lauret Savoy, who I mentioned in the beginning,
has this wonderful new book of essays
called "Trace," among the other books that are out there.
But it's changing, like, in the last five to 10 years changing.
Like, this is how recent it is.
And so I think one of the things that happens in my writing,
like even in this talk where I was like,
let's talk about Micronesia, let's talk about this community
in Louisiana of Creole and Cajun people,
and Indigenous community.
Right?
Like, let's talk about other people.
Of those people who are affected in the low lying
coastal regions, who gets government relief?
Who doesn't?
Whose lives get changed and devastated?
I think this is part of why I get so choked up
when I'm thinking about this younger generation who's
going to have to deal with this giant mess.
And I'm honestly kind of surprised by myself.
Like, I am apparently not aligning with the younger
generation anymore.
When did that happen?
Can I still be on your generation?
Yeah.
I just feel like the more the stories,
the more that the narratives are conveyed,
the more that the poems are spoken,
the more that the stories are told,
the more that the essays are written that write
about a diversified response to the world that we live in,
and the changes that are made in the world that we live in,
the different ways we love and live in this world,
those conversations need to be out there, and a lot of them.
Right?
Because if we do not see the people who
are affected by these changes, and the different ways that we
are affected by these changes, we don't see.
We're blind.
And when we're blind, we can't do anything to change.
So this last poem, it's my bee poem.
I'm allergic to bees.
I can't afford epipens anymore.
I am still pulling up all that landscape fabric and rock
and planting native flowers in my yard.
So if something happens to me, you all
were here to know that I gave myself to the bees.
Frequently asked question number six.
Do you have big plans for her first birthday?
Tomorrow this will all be over.
She will take a step, and the tide that fills the tide pools
will come in.
The last crop of almonds in the world
must begin as nothing but 1,000, 1,000 minuscule blossoms.
I have loved every cell of her body,
from the time I could count them until now.
Why hurry her progress when each day is as gorgeous as the last?
She will take a step, and the beekeeper will plant his hives
in the orchard.
Walk away.
That's just my dream, that there's still orchards,
there's still hives, and there's still those crazy men and women
who keep the bees.
It's dangerous, odd work, and we need it.
It's what we all got to be doing.
We've all just got to be doing this dangerous, odd work.
Those are my poems.
I'm supposed to answer questions now.