Climbing Bryan’s Mountain, 2012

This post is part of a series consisting of excerpts from a journal I keep reflecting on loss, healing, change, and other adventures, usually during the few summer weeks I spend in Sedona, AZ.  Links to the LEAD POST and to Emmanuel House—an organization started by Rick and Desiree Guzman as a living memorial to Bryan Emmanuel Guzman (1985-2006)—are at the bottom of this page.  In 2016 Emmanuel House was named one of the “Top 100 Most Innovative” social change organizations in the world.

 

August 1:  Everytime North Central College says I can have an anniversary gift for working there so long, I seem to need a bike, and so this morning I put together my third gift bike, which I had the college ship to Sedona, and, after a stop at Absolute Bikes and the Village Ace to buy a helmet and a lock and chain, pedaled to Bell Rock, a place our family refers to as Bryan’s mountain.

my-bike-2This past February my Mazda Protege was blown to bits by a Dodge Ram truck.  The driver didn’t see me and another car stopped at a red light and, as the police said there was no visible sign of breaking, she probably hit me going around 40 mph.  It’s taken five months and eight days to finish this first phase of rehab, and as I write this my back and left shoulder still feel a nagging, sometimes stabbing pain.  No more car, so I flew to Sedona.  That’s why, for the first time, I had to bike to Bryan’s Mountain.

I guess I’d dimly noticed that you drove there on some kind of upward incline.  The bike ride made that incline real for the first time.  Even the lowest gear had me struggling, so I actually just walked a half mile of it, arriving hot and exhausted with a trek up the mountain ahead.  I was so tired it took me until about half way up to realize my head was down, eyes scanning only a few feet ahead.  I looked up then, realizing I was walking through one of the earth’s most beautiful landscapes.

I slowed down, opened up to this land that always seems new, and thought about seeing Bryan’s tree again for the first time in a year, as I had seen it five first times since we’d spread ashes under it.  After we spread them I remember breaking down in the car, sobbing to Linda that at least we could put some of his ashes here, where it was so beautiful.  I was also starting to remember what I had felt some of those other five first times, but suddenly, after the steepest part of the climb, there it was off to the right about twenty yards away.

Seeing the tree again was as different this time as the five first times before, but for a reason so surprising I started almost shouting to myself words like, “Wow! Wow!” “Bry, look at that!” “What do you know! What do you know!”—this last, I thought in the moment, making me sound like Jimmy Stewart gushing over something in It’s A Wonderful Life.

One of the agave plants surrounding the tree had blossomed.

Bryan's tree on Bell Rock in Sedona, Arizona, with blooming agaveAgaves are sometimes called Century Plants because they supposedly blossom every 100 years.  It’s more like every 25 to 40 years, actually, and when they do they throw a thick stalk 10, 20, even 30 feet up in the air…in days.  The stalks, topped with hard yellowish pod flowers, have been known to grow as much as an inch an hour, so the sight isn’t just rare and auspicious, but also wildly surreal.  This stalk at Bryan’s tree is shooting up from a plant no more than four feet in diameter, but it’s already at least 12 feet tall.  Give it, say, three-four days, and it’ll probably top out at 15-18 feet.

The plant blooms once, then dies, so the event is tinged with sadness, even though this blooming will produce many offshoots.  I kept hearing George Harrison’s “All Things Must Pass” even as I kept whistling in my head, happy in wonder.

In Arizona it’s illegal to cut down a blooming agave.  And while many will never see a bloom (even some who grow agaves), this is the second I’ve seen.  A couple of years ago one went off just a few yards east of Bryan’s tree.  The ten-inch round stalk I measured after a high desert wind had blown it over had almost gotten to 20 feet.  I cut off a few of its pods then, which now sit in a pottery jar in our Sedona living room.

NOTE (originally written 9/29/12): “It was an extraordinary year for century plants on Bryan’s Mountain. I counted six more blooms, two lower down, and four circling the mountain’s north side above Bry’s tree.”  Update: Go Here for a 2013 journal excerpt which, towards the end, contains a story and picture of an agave bloom I snuck from the mountain and put up in the condo.

Go to the LEAD POST in this series for links to all excerpts 

Go to the main pages for Sedona or for Emmanuel House

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D.L. Crockett-Smith: Cowboy Amok

Smith-DLCDavid Lionel Smith, who writes poetry as D.L. Crockett-Smith, is John W. Chandler Professor of English at Williams College, where he has also served as Dean of Faculty and as Chair of African-American Studies.  He has also taught at The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Duke, and New College of Florida and served as a consultant to such organizations as the Smithsonian Institution, the Folger Shakespeare Library, the Southern Humanities Media Fund, the Massachusetts Foundation for the Humanities, and The Mark Twain House in Hartford.  He has published many essays on such subjects as Mark Twain, Southern Literature, Nature Writing, and the Black Arts Movement and translates the works of Spanish and Latin American poets, specializing in Federico Garcia-Lorca and Pablo Neruda.  In 2008-2009 he translated five volumes of poems by García-Lorca.  Among his other books are the five-volume Encyclopedia of African-American Culture and History he edited with Jack Salzman and Cornel West, and his poetry collections Civil Rites and Cowboy Amok, the latter built on his uses of imagery from the mythic American West, which also stands for the entire Western World.

In my book Black Writing from Chicago, I included a precursor to Cowboy Amok, his poem “Cowboy Eating His Children.”  Here he begins with a reference to Goya’s “Saturn Devouring His Son,” a painting of a “mad god with blood / on his lips and raw flesh /
stuck beneath his fingernails.”  This Saturn symbolizes the fanatic West chanting lines eerily similar to what we hear today: “this bomb is a PEACE bomb,” “these dead children were TERRORISTS.” He sings a war song pitting “East against West, North against South,” but as he croons “we see the pieces of your children / dangling from your mouth.”  This poem first appeared in Open Places and again in NOMMO: A Literary Legacy of Black Chicago (1967-1987), the wonderful 20th anniversary anthology of the Organization of Black American Culture (OBAC).  Smith was active in Chicago’s OBAC Workshops from 1976 to 1980, the year he received his Ph.D. in English from the University of Chicago.

Smith-DLC-CivilRitesHis thoughts on the nature of race are particularly compelling, especially in his essay “What Is Black Culture?” from Wahneema Lubiano’s important 1997 book The House That Race Built, featuring essays by Smith and others, including Toni Morrison, Cornell West, and Angela Y. Davis.  Smith’s goal is “to theorize how we might endeavor within a culture bound by race to subvert the subordinating strictures race was designed to perpetuate,” and he begins by probing America’s connection of black culture with anger and violence, a connection in which the Black Arts Movement itself was ironically complicit.  He quotes a line, for example, from Amiri Baraka’s play The Dutchman and the Slave, where a leading character says, “…if Bessie Smith could have killed some white person, she wouldn’t have needed that music.  She could have talked very straight and plain about the world.”  Smith dismantles this connection by probing the nature of “culture” itself.  For him culture is such a fluid, inextricably mixed hybrid of many “cultures.”  This means, for example, that “black violence” is inevitably related to, and springs from, violence in other “cultures.”  He quotes Cornell West, who says “…the behavior so commonly described as ‘black pathology’ is rather the tragic response of a people bereft of resources in confronting the workings of U.S. capitalist society…a jungle ruled by cutthroat market morality.”  Elsewhere, regarding culture, he asks, “…is black culture obligatory for black people, and does blackness preclude them from mastering non-black cultural modes?”  If country star Travis Tritt sings soul, is that “black culture”?  Is it not “just” black culture because John Coltrane plays a saxophone, an instrument invented by a French man?  “Black Culture,” like all “culture,” he concludes is “…a complex set of processes and interactions.”  Most important, he says that although, “Race is a commonsense notion.  It falls apart under rational scrutiny.”  Race is, finally, a cultural construct, “…a set of social prescriptions invented by slaveholders and their descendants to exploit and constrain persons classified as black.”

“What Is Black Culture?” begins with a quote from Ralph Ellison: “Could this compulsion to put down invisibility in black and white be thus an urge to make music of invisibility?”  From the crooning of war songs, to Bessie Smith’s blues, to a country star singing soul.  What is it that’s “invisible”?  That violence, for one, is not the possession of just one “culture.”  To think so is one of the ways we perpetuate and justify racism, one of the ways we continue to think “race” is just commonsense.

  Go to a list of Black Writers and to Black Writing from Chicago.
  Go to the Teaching Diversity main page.

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Django Unchained: Revenge Fantasies and Realities

Of course Django Unchained (2012) is your average Quentin Tarantino bloodfest, yet for me the main moment of the film suggests it could have been even bloodier.  In one of the film’s quiet, reflective seconds slave master Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio) drawls to Django (Jamie Foxx) something like this: “What I don’t understand is, there’s a whole bunch of you and just a few of us.  Now, why don’t you just rise up and wipe us out?”

DjangoIn fact, slaves did revolt often.  In the early 1930’s the number of revolts, highlighted by Nat Turner’s, naturally, was counted at around 30, but less than a decade later more rigorous scholarship, especially Herbert Aptheker’s 1943 American Negro Slave Revolts set the number at well over 300, starting with the South Carolina slave revolt of 1526 and ending just before the Civil War.  Aptheker, who counted 250, defined slave revolts as actions involving 10 or more slaves, with “freedom as the apparent aim [and] contemporary references labeling the event as an uprising, plot, insurrection, or the equivalent of these.”  Add in actions of less than 10, and consider the well-documented small sabbotages enacted daily, and you have acts of defiance numbering in the millions, obliterating all claims that the Negro slave was docile, content, or incapable of planning sustained efforts at freedom.

In this context we can see what might appear like a kind of docility in a different light.  In his great essay “Junior and John Doe,” James Alan McPherson writes:

“The very first articulation of language in their idiom, as expressed in their songs, had sufficient vitality to look beyond the trends of the moment and identify with an age that was yet to come.  The best of them looked back on their own degraded status from the perspective of a future time when their own process-of-self-making was complete.  Denied recognizable human souls by the society that enslaved them, they projected their full souls so far in the future that they became content to look back on their enslavers with laughter, and with pity.”

McPherson’s mention of music recalls Ralph Ellison’s assertion that the blues was a tool of survival, and it defines the depths of superiority Baldwin alludes to when, in his essay “Many Thousands Gone,” he writes that even our stereotype creations like Aunt Jemima and Uncle Tom,

“…had a life—their own, perhaps a better life than ours—and they would never tell us what it was….[W]e were driven most privately and painfully to conjecture what depths of contempt, what heights of indifference, what prodigies of resilience, what untamable superiority allowed them so vividly to endure, neither perishing nor rising up in a body to wipe us from the earth….”

In the same seminal essay, which I will comment on more at length in another article, Baldwin goes even deeper into the American psyche.  We want, he says, some black man to terrorize us, to take what we feel deep down inside is his rightful revenge.  Slave master Calvin Candie’s question about slaves rising up to wipe him out is actually a double fantasy, a two-for-one wish.  It both satisfies his desire to be punished for his sins, and confirms that blacks are indeed violent and monstrous.  The ultra violence of Django Unchained thus actually gives us comfort.  It wipes the slate clean. We oppressed you with monumental injustice, but now you’ve taken your revenge.  Now we’re even.  But that revenge wasn’t taken through spilling monumental amounts of blood.  Oppression was fought instead not only through appropriate militancy and everyday sabbotage, but also through exercising a superior humanity, and displaying superior talents that wove themselves so deeply into the American fabric that they virtually define what being American is in the arts, in spirituality, in the struggle for human rights, and so much more. White guilt only grew, in other words, and continues to make overcoming racism impossible. That guilt—and the white supremacy ethic it feeds—needs to be faced squarely, not entertained away through bloody revenge fantasies.

 Go to All Things Baldwin for more on essays like “Many Thousands Gone.”
 Go to Louis C.K. for another take on “now we’re even.”
 Go to a list of Reviews on this site, and to the Teaching Diversity main page.

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