the barakas i have known

(a praise poem for amiri, for that wall of books)

When I was a young militant in the 60s, back in Memphis, Leroy Jones was some kind of artistic beacon, a guiding star in the firmament to the culturally inclined young turks of the Civil Rights/Black Power Movement.  Already a living legend.  A Conductor on the Underground.  The up against the wall infant terrible that shaped our ideas of what a committed black revolutionary was.  The voice and face of our fierce independence from the old ways.  Leroy Jones was the man.

When he renamed himself  Le Roi we went along with the program.  Calling himself the King was kinda bold but it worked.  By the time I moved to New York, a would be writer in 1973, he had become Amiri Baraka.  That mean Blessings.

And still the man.  Early 70s the New York literary scene was Harlem Renaissance hot - readings, literary crews, dreams percolating, cross fertilizing visions.  Presiding over it all was Amiri Baraka.  (Kimako, Amina, that whole Baraka crew)  Those were some wonderful times for literary cubdom and I would sometime question myself, this cant be real, this literary life Im living, this historical even destinical moment, I must be dreaming this, fantasizing like I sometimes do, losing track whats real and whats fiction - but I would look around and go now thats really Amiri Baraka, and this really John Killens and there Sonia Sanchez and I know they real, true force and historical, I must be real too.  Just might be.

Amiri was one of the few established writers who made themselves available to young writers, one of the few big names who tried to make of themselves spaces where young writers grow.

I remember one of Amiris legendary birthday parties.  Im sitting in a little room all tore down as the sun rising and notice Im sitting next to a wall of books.  I start looking them over and they are all about Amiri, a whole wall of them, and Im thinking one day one day Ima have a wall of books about me too.

Mid 80s still no books about me but I got my 1st novel out and Im feeling like the man myself, and Amiri welcome me to the fold.  Blurbs for my books, opening doors, showing me the ropes and I know him now beyond the public Amiri, I know him for the kind and generous soul he is. 

I remember once trekking out to Long Island University for a reading he had arranged and wondering how on earth Amiri did you end up out here in whitebread Long Island.  I see then how he work both hands, how he dont just represent blackfolk, he represent humanity, I see the complex and multifaceted Amiri beyond that firebrand image of him.

Then come late 80s and I seem to have stumbled, living life a little too hard, crashed and burned, left NewYork with my tail tucked between my legs.  So Im out on the West Coast, Im living that kickback LA beach life and not even part of the literary world no more and Im feeling a little lost when Amiri come out to the coast to do a reading.  I go figuring Amiri gon dis me like folk do but Amiri treat me like Im still a contender.

“Arthur, what are you doing out here” he say with that classic intensity of his, like it really mean something.  I get a Bearden poster at the place where he reading and Amiri signs it, “We passed the baton to you, dont drop dat m.f.”

I keep that poster on the wall of my writing space.  That poster keep me honest.  That poster brought me back from the dead.  Aint never dropping no baton never again.

Mid 90s Im back in NewYork, 2nd novel out, back in the literary world but now Im treated like a has been never quite made the grade.  Im doing okay, Safiya Henderson Holmes hook me up teaching MFA fiction up in Syracuse, Im working my bigbook, life is good, its a struggle but when aint it been a struggle.  Literary world still treat me like I dont exist, when the writers of our times listed Im not on the list.  What can you do.  Ive reached that point in life where you go with the flow.  What writer ever satisfied I guess.  I figure the Gods of Lit dont want me to rest on no laurels.  They want to keep me hungry.

Then one day I see where the lions and lionesses of the black arts movement going to be at Cornell for a Black Arts Movement conference.  All my old comrades and mentors in struggle.  I consider not going.  I know Im going to be treated like a civilian, part of the audience.  Whatsisname.  Dont know if I can take it.  But I go anyway, I do my lowprofile thing, I savor the panels the readings seeing old comrades in struggle getting their due, feel like the good old days, and when its over, they all going to this communal dinner and Im filing out with the audience when Amiri notice and call me over into the conference dinner.

When they stop me at the door Amiri say “Arthur with me.”

That meant a lot to me.  I needed that.  Amiri Baraka will always be my model and mentor, my fearless leader, my friend.

When I needed high octane recs for tenure, Amiri came through.  Blurbs for my books, Amiri came through.  Far back as I can remember as a writer Amiri come through.

Nowdays when I see Amiri he a little old man, a little gnarled gnome, still fierce, still intense, still on what Sekou Sundiata called the sungun, 360%, and everytime I see him he remind me what its all about.  Aint about egotrips, no literary fame and fortune, always been about service with Amiri, about passing it on and giving committed young writers a place to grow, a place to be.

For Amiri, always been about true force - about influence on the way of thing and producing works that contribute to the enhancement of the human condition.  Works that nurture the generations we want to see and need to be.  The vision we all share.  With Amiri its always been about legacy.  For those of us in the griotic school of Afroam lit, seeing Amiri perform still a revelation, still move the congregation, boy get to stamping those feet, still got the chops.  When I see little old man Amiri, he seem to be the epitome of what Babajohn Killens meant by Long Distance Runner.

I love what Amiri stand for, I love Amiri even more. 

Appreciate the opportunity to express that love.  To thank him for taking care of me, and my cohort, all these years.  For me Amiri was, still and always will, be the man.  And I just love seeing little old man Amiri.  It seem fitting somehow he made Eldership.

Baba Baraka.  Thats who he is to me now.  Baba Amiri.

Gods Blessings on us all.

Comments

[BuffaloSoldier]

THE INDIANS CALLED HIM BUFFALO-BuffaloSoldier salutes the original BuffaloSoldier, Amiri Baraka.
This is why SoulDoctor and BuffaloSoldier are linked. I read this blog three times. I don't have
much more profound to say. I just had to respond. "Hey, TaHa," my neighbor, my friend asked me.
"Did Art make tenure?" This was some years ago. I was passing by my neighbor's house and he
saw me from his window. He knew the SoulDoctor and the BuffaloSoldier had been in Fred Hudson's
workshop together. I sat on my neighbor's porch and we talked lit and politic. He talked about
his childhood,about the passing of a girl from the neighborhood we both knew( a girl highlighted
in his book Eulogies) I've eaten at his table in the kitchen, met both NiNa Simone and Sonia
Sanchez in his living room. He radiates encouragement. When his archenemy, Stanley Crouch,
ran in his biline that Amiri was a false hero, I was the first to bring him the article.
He teased me as he always does: "So now you're the messenger for the netherworld."
He'll be 75 this year, if his milestone hasn't already passed. I know the year of his birth
but not the month. So I join SoulDoctor in his salute. I can't match the eloquence, but I hope
I echo the feeling. I'm BuffaloSoldier and I approve this humble acknowledgement. O-Him-Ya-Ma!

[Lesley-Ann Brown]

This was really well written and so true and much needed! It's funny how people tell us how difficult the life of a writer is, we just kind of shrug it off, thinking it will be different for us. But then it turns out to be true. And the richness is in this struggle.
Amiri is amazing and I am so happy to have read this.
Thanks Arthur! You rule!
Hugs from Mars,
Lesley-Ann

[nanakwame]

you got me nervous there for a minute. yes grandpa is up there, saw him in Philly two years ago with Mama Sonia. i was thinking the other day, what a journey, we have shaped. 59 this year. love u all.
O
Osunwole