Poetry, privilege, and telling the truth
Hello Courageous Thrivers,
In the midst of many attacks on the telling of our shared histories in the United States especially, I thought I’d share a tiny slice of mine—and an invitation to explore the power of poetry as a support on your journey toward a more compassionate, just, and healed world…
When I was about 15—a white, middle-class, military kid/girl living in Georgia—I came across the poem “Theme for English B” by Langston Hughes. Despite, and perhaps because of, the vast difference between my lived experiences and those of Langston Hughes, it spoke to me.
Perhaps it was because, having moved from a Chicago suburb to a small city in Georgia, I had recently experienced (for the first time in my life) being in a school where I was the racial minority.
I noticed how uncomfortable I felt. And I was aware that it was a problem that I felt uncomfortable.
White people often say we “don’t see race,” but it becomes quite evident that we do when we are in the minority.
I was also aware that it was a problem that the quality of education at my new school—which was predominantly Black and in the Deep South—was significantly below the level of the predominantly white high school I’d left back in Illinois.
“Theme for English B” puts some words around the injustice of systems of education in the U.S. that stuck with me. That poem, and my experiences in Georgia, began changes in my life that continue to ripple throughout it.
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it’s that simple?
The poem raises questions about what it means to be a young Black man from the South in a classroom at an elite university in New York City (Columbia), writing for a white teacher in the 1950s. How much freedom is there to fully express yourself, as the professor suggests? In doing so, it highlights the ways unseen privileges prop up those of us who easily fit right in—whether due to class, race, gender, being able-bodied, speaking English, or some other reason—and make success more difficult for others, without those of us who feel “normal” even noticing.
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
Hughes’ poem reveals and raises questions about the unjust contrasts between his life and that of his professor. And about the ways the fictional—but socially real—category of race, which has no biological basis, divides us as humans.
It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me—who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
The poem also highlights the deep connections that exist between us, whether we want to acknowledge them or not.
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white—
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That’s American.
Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that’s true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me—
although you’re older—and white—
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
Hughes’ poem has infused my life and my spirit in ways that have shaped it indelibly. I carry its questions and longings with me. And the beauty of the crafting of language to say so much more than the number of words should allow.
Poetry has re-entered my life lately, and my impression is that it’s not just me. It seems to be a bit of a trend.
Maybe we need our poets now more than ever.
They seem to speak a soul-language that other forms of writing don’t quite reach in the same way.
A poem requires you to sit with it. To ponder it, even to memorize it. It often reveals its meaning only in layers, over time.
Sometimes poems point out the obvious that isn’t obvious until the poet expresses it, and as a reader you say to yourself, “Yes! That’s exactly it!”
They can help us to see what’s amazing, or humorous, or intriguing about life that we’re not noticing. “Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity,” as poet David Whyte wrote in another of my favorite poems, “Everything is Waiting for You.”
Other poems, like Layli Long Soldier’s “38” put our shared history and shared grief into words in ways that invite us to be honest about—and struggle with—the pain of the past instead of looking away or pretending it didn’t happen.
“You may, or may not, have heard of the Dakota 38,” she writes. Before hearing her poem, I had not. Have you? If you haven’t, please click the link and hear with your heart.
Perhaps more poetry is the medicine we need to bring healing to ourselves, our country, and our world.
Recently I saw an article that suggested journaling with a poem. So, I offer this practice to you as a new way to explore what Life means and how to live it—how to carry both its beauty and its pain.
Try it with this poem by Wendell Berry, or one of those I mentioned above (or pick your own):
“When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.”
Instructions:
Read the poem over a few times silently. Read it out loud. Then journal for 10 minutes without letting your pen stop, starting with the prompt:
“When I read this poem I…”
If you want to, you might also think of an action you want to take based on what you just discovered as you journaled.
I’d be so curious to hear if you try it. Hit reply and I’ll get your message.
Here’s to thriving—and equity.
With love,
Deb
P.S. Except for Langston Hughes, all of the poems and poets I mentioned here I “discovered” through the On Being podcast (which I’ve probably mentioned here at least 1000 times because it’s where I discover many things!). You can find the poems and hear the poets reading them and/or talking about them there.
P.P.S. If you know someone else who might be encouraged by this message, would you please forward it to them so they can sign up to get the Thriving for Equity blog in their inbox every week? We’ll both be so grateful. Tell them they can sign up here.