So in that poem, I was not just searching for Kaufman,
but I was also searching for language.
In my poem "What Not to Do," an unfinished poem,
in content and theme and emotion it's the typical poem for me.
And I traced my exposes of police brutality and killings
to my witness encounter and intervention in an incident,
when I found a police officer nervously shaking a .357 Magnum
in the face of an unarmed black boy who
was even younger than me.
And this was only two blocks from my family home,
and just a few weeks following my graduation
from Woodrow Wilson High School in San Francisco,
at the age of 17.
But as common as a theme of police brutality and police
killings have become for me as a writer, the role
of poetic form, and the language that I
used in the poem "What Not To Do"
are very atypical in my writing.
It may be the least poetic of my poems in terms of language.
It is a serial poem that I've been updating
with the names of, especially, unarmed black boys
and men executed by the police.
The essay includes an excerpted version.
That is the essay that will appear on the blog.
But since I have enough time today,
I'm going to share a longer excerpt
than what appears on the essay.
So this is the poem, this serial poem, "What Not To Do"--
an unfinished poem.
"Breathe, Eric Garner.
Choked.
Sell (loosies).
Resist to death.
Stare, Lamont Hunt.
Shot, back of head.
Make: Akai Gurley, a jarring sound.
Shot accidentally.
"Stand, Amadou Diallo, in vestibule.
Carry.
Wallet.
Loiter while walking.
Look out of place.
Act suspicious.
41 fire.
19 bullets kill.
"Walk, Terence Crutcher, hands in air.
Appear intoxicated.
Have a very hollow look.
Shot in back.
"Drive, Samuel DuBose, without license plate.
Shot in head.
Drive, Walter Scott, with broken tail light.
Shot in back.
Move, Kendra James, into driver's seat after driver
arrested.
Shot in head.
"Sit, Jordan Edwards, unarmed, in car shot, with rifle.
Reverse, Diante Yarber, too suddenly.
30 bullets fired, 10 kill.
Park, Tanya Haggerthy, on side of road.
Talk on cell on side of road.
Shot on side of road.
"Drive, Philando Castile, with broken brake lights.
Carry legal firearm.
Announce you have a gun.
Shout, not reaching for gun.
Shot five bullets, two to heart.
"Crawl, Daniel Shaver, toward officers as instructed.
Pull loose gym shorts too suddenly, beg not to be shot.
Shot anyway.
"Approach, Oscar Grant, the police.
Beg not to shoot.
Kneel.
Shot anyway in back.
"Fail, Sandra Bland, to signal.
Act too uppity.
Found hanging in cell.
"Carry, Anthony Lamar Smith, planted weapon.
Shot, five [INAUDIBLE] bullets.
Carry, Tamir Rice, toy gun.
Shot with real bullets.
Carry, Cameron Tillman, BB gun, shot.
Carry, Rumain Brisbon, prescription bottle.
Shot, two bullets to torso.
"Carry, Laquan McDonald, knife in road.
Shot, 16 bullets.
Carry, Miles Hall, gardening tool.
Have schizoaffective disorder.
Shot.
Carry Stephen DeMarco Taylor, baseball bat at Walmart.
Have a manic episode.
Shot.
"Not carry, Keith Lamont Scott, a gun when told to drop it.
Shot.
Drop, Kajuan Raye, a gun found later.
Shot in back.
"Be, Natasha McKenna, schizophrenic.
Be superhuman, stunned while shackled,
50,000 volts to death.
Be, Tanisha Anderson, bipolar, head slammed to pavement.
Be, Michelle Shirley, bipolar, while driving.
30 bullets, 8 to chest, back, arms.
"Be Shereese Francis, off meds, four police bodies.
Suffocate.
Be Aaron Campbell, suicidal.
Be unarmed.
Shot.
"Be Yvette Smith, armed when not armed.
Shot on front porch.
Be Michael, large.
Be, Michael Brown, too large.
Be same height as shooter.
Shot, six bullets two to head.
"Be John Crawford, an imminent threat.
Shop for Walmart air rifle.
Carry Walmart air rifle at Walmart.
Talk on cell phone at Walmart.
Shot with real bullets at Walmart.
"Be, Terrance Franklin, a suspect,
shot five bullets to head.
Be, George Floyd, a suspect.
Be a 6'7 black man.
Be claustrophobic, asphyxiated, knee on neck while handcuffed.
"Be Tony McDade, trans.
Move consistent with using a firearm.
Shot.
Pose as though for an imminent threat.
Shot while schizophrenic.
"Display, Manuel Loggins Junior, a 'mean expression.'
Shot in front of daughters.
Call, Charleena Lyles, police while mentally ill.
Shot, seven bullets.
"Fit, Jordan Baker, the description.
Shot.
Flee, Freddie Gray, unprovoked, spine severed in custody.
Run, Stephon Clark, through grandmother's yard.
Carry cell phone.
Shot, 20 bullets fired, eight hit, primarily in back.
"Run, Chinedu Okobi, unarmed in traffic.
Tased to death.
Run, Walter Scott.
Shot in back.
Jog, Ahmaud Arbery.
Shot, two bullets.
Killed while hunted.
"Play, Atatiana Jefferson, Call of Duty in bedroom,
little Zion watching.
Shot.
Sleep, Alyana Jones, on couch.
Shot, one bullet to seven-year-old head.
"Sleep, Breonna Taylor, in bed.
Shot, eight bullets.
Kill.
Sleep, Rayshard Brooks, at Wendy's.
Flee for daughter's birthday.
Point dead taser over shoulder.
Shot, two bullets in back.
"Walk, Elijah McClain, home.
Look sketchy.
Play music.
Wave hands.
Wear ski mask.
Shop for iced tea.
Carry iced tea.
"Resist contact.
Act crazy.
Explain can't breathe.
Beg to go home.
Be superhuman.
"Be anemic.
Be an introvert.
Be suspicious.
Be agitated.
Be tense.
"Be on something.
Be medicated.
Be undetermined.
Choked to death.
Breathe."
So the starkness, the cold, autopsy-like cataloging,
the focus on the victims' names, the exaggerated punctuation,
the painfully plain language are purposeful.
My intention is to honor the victims,
to make the unaware aware, and expose both the perpetrators
and the mundaneness of the incidents
precipitating the killings.
Typically, poetic form is less important to me
than the music, the rhythm, and the message of the poem.
In "What Not to Do" the form is critical and so necessary
that I had to create a structure to maintain creative continuity
in a poem that I would be revising with morbid regularity
as the killings continue.
So I have to kind of discipline myself
to resist turning each despicable incident
into a separate poem, because each one of these
could be a poem in themselves.
I had to restrain my journalistic instinct
to add more detail and background
while writing and editing the poem.
I was concerned less with whether or not
it was poetic, and more concerned with creatively
conveying its content, its truth.
While the questions of form and language
are a major part of the essay that I've contributed
to the University of Arizona Poetry Center blog,
the other point that I attempt to drive home in the essay
is that when I'm moving as a poet
from observation, commentary, cataloging, and searching,
to a mode where I'm writing with the hope of transforming minds
and conditions, I'm conscious of that shift.
And when I write with the intention of transformation,
I struggle with my belief that language is not enough.
And based on the intent and the purpose of the poems
that I started with, not even as "San Joaquin" and "Searching
for Bob Kaufman," I find that language
is enough for the purpose of those poems.
For the intended purpose of "What No To Do,"
an unfinished poem, I find that language is not enough.
I feel the need to connect that poem and its language
to social movements, to organizations, to distribution
platforms and to the public.
And I feel the same way about belonging.
I identify with the words of John A. Powell and Stephen
Menedian in The Problem of Othering: Toward Inclusiveness
and Belonging.
Quote-- "Belongingness must be more than expressive.
It must be institutionalized as well.
To counteract othering, we must focus on providing access
to resources and critical institutions
to disadvantaged groups."
In "Teaching to Transgress," bell hooks
responded brilliantly to Adrienne Rich's line,
"this is the oppressors' language,
yet I need it to talk to you."
And hooks writes, quote, "Reflecting on Adrienne Rich's
words, I know that it is not the English language that hurts me,
but what the oppressors do with it;
how they shape it to become a territory that
limits and defines; how they make
it a weapon that can shame, humiliate, and colonize."
End of quote.
So what will we do with it?
There is much to do.
I suggest we include the act as seizing belongingness
with both the language of liberation
and the instruments of social transformation.
Thank you.
Thank you, Michael.
I just want to--
I'm just still thinking about that poem,
and I'm thinking about all the things that you said.
And I'm looking forward to seeing that on the page,
and how that lays on the page--
especially based on what you talked about.
[INTERPOSING VOICES]
Thank you.