Oh, OK.
I do poetry readings, and I can tell
when I'm tired because I start noticing things.
I notice-- somebody told me this,
that I write series of poems.
I had no idea.
But I do, in fact.
I write enough-- I write poems until I
can't write any more about it, then
I write in about [INAUDIBLE].
And I had done this series of-- this series of readings
in upstate New York.
And I was tired.
And when I'm tired, I start seeing with dual eyes.
Now one of the things I do when I read
is, I like to find out about places.
I want to know who lived here.
Where are the people?
The thing I do that's different I always
say I want to see where the Black people live
and I want to know about the history.
I'm very nosy.
And so this is-- this poem is called "in white america."
It's called that because oftentimes when I'm reading,
I am the only dark person in the room.
And when I'm tired, I notice that.
I have a friend who's a poet who's no longer living,
actually.
And she said to me something about Santa Cruz.
And Santa Cruz County's population is 0.8% Black.
And she said--
I said something about, oh, I miss Black people.
And she said, for heaven's sake, it
never occurred to me that you--
I said, I do.
What could I tell you?
I miss Black people.
Maybe I'm not ready.
I don't know.
Anyway, and so I always noticed funny stuff.
And this poem, let's just say that I was tired.
It's a composite, really.
"in white america."
And also the real story-- see, Lois and I are buddies,
we could tell each other real stories.
I wanted to write a poem, and later you'll
see that-- with a 7-Eleven in it.
Do you know what I mean?
No--
OK.
In white America, one.
I come to read them poems, a fancy trick
I do like juggling with balls of light.
I stand, a dark spinner, in the Grange Hall,
in the library, in the smaller conference room,
and toss and catch as if by magic.
My eyes bright, my mouth smiling, my singed hands
burning.
Two, the history.
I like to find out the history of places.
And this is a quote about the history
of this particular place.
This is a place that's on Cayuga Lake in North-- upstate New
York.
And according to history, during the early part
of this country's life, there was the Cayuga Nation.
Part of it lived near this lake.
And I think there were something like 50 warriors.
And the militia--
I never know what to call them, but the militia
heard about these Cayuga warriors.
And so they were going to go get them
because they don't like that.
And they were like 1,000 militia and 50 Cayuga warriors.
And the one thing Cayuga Warriors are is not crazy.
They left.
I mean, they heard and they went--
they went someplace else.
And so when the militia got there, they were mad.
Nobody to destroy.
What a drag.
So they did-- they killed-- they burned down the long houses,
they did all this stuff anyway.
My sense of humor is very quirky.
Anyway, the history.
1800s in this town, 14 long houses
were destroyed by not these people here.
Not these people.
Burned to the crops and chopped down all the peach trees.
Not these people.
These people preserve peaches, even now.
I just figured that was a little--
sometimes there's an extra step too much.
Chopping down the peach trees, you know what I mean?
That's cold.
And this is the tour.
This is also a direct quote from a woman.
A woman said this to me.
And she was showing me buildings.
The tour.
This was a female school.
My mother's mother graduated second in her class.
They were taught embroidery and chenille and filigree.
Ladies learning.
Yes, we have a liberal history here.
Smiling, she pats my darkie hand.
This is called, "the hall."
Now in one place I was reading in a church--
I have read in churches-- and the thing
that was interesting to me about this church
was that there was a time when I would not have been allowed
to worship in that church.
"The hall."
In this hall, dark women scrubbed the aisles
between the pews on their knees.
They could not rise to worship.
In this hall, dark women, my sisters and mothers,
though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels
and have not charity.
In this hall, dark women, my sisters and mothers, I stand.
And let the church say--
let the church say--
let the church say, Amen.
Five, the reading.
I look into none of my faces and do the best I can.
The human hair between us stretches but does not break.
I slide myself along it and love them, love them all.
Six.
It is late in white America.
I stand in the light of the 7-eleven looking out
toward the church.
And for a moment only, I feel the reverberation of myself
in white America.
A black cat in the belfry, hanging and ringing.
Now--
[APPLAUSE]