8/6/19
So here I am…again for this curious process and I am not
sure what to say really. But this is not
new. So maybe I should start with the memory
and unfortunate the passing of one of the greatest writers to ever grace the
page, Toni Morrison. There is nothing
that I can say that hasn’t already been said.
Any attempts at trying to sound original in my remembrance of her will
only sound cliché’. So, I guess I can
begin with this: She is one of the only
writers I have ever given my undivided attention. I don’t claim to know her work extensively,
although I do know it enough to be aware of its impact on my life. I came across her work through conversations
with two valuable friends. The first was
my friend Horace at a time when we were younger and hyper aware that our
thoughts mattered; before we realized that there were people in the world that
just didn’t care what two young black men talked about when no one else was around. Although the context escapes me, I remember
we talked about that part of Song of Solomon when she talked about the flying
Africans. And although it was a
fictional tale, the thought of Africans in flight in some ancient time before
slavery seemed quite possible. We were
both active artists then, in a poetry group that allowed us to travel throughout
the country and meet different types of people, many of which Morrison spoke
about in her works. Although the
significance of these travels had not quite solidified in our young minds, at
least metaphorically, we knew flight was possible. Words were the winds which we glided upon and
we wrote them and spoke them with the full belief that they would change our
lives. Deep down I still have this
belief. In spite of my many responsibilities…fatherhood,
provider, husband it is still there though dormant, it still pulsates beneath
the surface of my poker face, which hides the fear of an unfulfilled life. Horace and I have spoken about this, but it
would be unfair to tell his story. He is
more than capable of telling it himself.
Paul’s part in this tale begins with an invite and a journey
to travel south to Virginia to relocate his mother who has since passed on. During
the journey I also met her sister, his favorite aunt. One of the greatest finds in the history of
ones friendship with another is when he is invited into the history of another’s
being. Although much of this is a blur,
I distinctly remember Paul playing my Jimi Hendrix CD on his car stereo, which
sparked a conversation from these two women about the sixties and the sensibilities
of those times. Both ladies talked about
the way people dressed and how they expressed themselves freely and
unapologetically. In hindsight, I think
the thing that I appreciate the most is that they both tolerated my arrogance
and ignorance, because back then, I thought that I was the foremost authority
on all things Hendrix even though he was making music long before I was
born. It was an honor to be a part of a
conversation in which I could have easily been made an outsider either because of
age or blood. But the opposite happened
and I was grateful. As I reflect on that
time, I realize that I suffered from a common affliction among educated people
in their twenties. I was self-absorbed
and in love with every thought that I was able to muster about people in the
world. It was a blessing to be in the
company of people that would allow me to be that way without judging. As I recall, Paul and I shared a hotel room the
night before we headed back north to New Jersey to reenergize for the journey
home. This was after spending a few
hours at a bar where we discovered oatmeal stout for the first time. As we sat at the bar descending further into drunkenness
we visited politics, metaphysics, relationships and family along the way. We ended the night on our twin beds searching
for something on TV and came across Charlie Rose’s interview with Toni
Morrison. I remember how intrigued we
were at her words and verbally affirming how much they meant to both our lives
at the time. The way she unflinchingly
addressed the problem of race as a white problem and her refusal to accept it as
her problem was truly inspiring. Although
much of the content is a blur. We can
blame the stout for this. I know that
this was an event that again showed us both that flight was possible. Paul, Horace and I have had many challenges
in our lives since we discovered the brilliance of Toni Morrison. But what we continue to learn as we get older
is that flight has always been possible, no matter how old we are. I will always be grateful to Ms. Morrison for
showing me this. May she rest in peace.
