Etoufee Beignet: Regarding Hurricane Katrina
Hurricane Kartina hit five years ago. I still don't know what to say about it. So, I am posting the poem I wrote while the disaster was happening. I don't think that I have ever shared it before today.
Etoufee Beignet By Rhonda Welsh Etouffe beignet Mere mortal children created from clay. Washed away by the flood. Screeching, screaming, curdling blood. Shooting in the Astrodome Home to those who would not, could not get away. Etoufee beignet crawfish Dish after dish of seafood and pork. The Big Easy was sleazy and gritty and all about the good time. And now horror and destruction find people stranded and crazed. Dazed by destruction. An eruption of waste and thirst and not even a hearse to cart the dead. Writers wax inane about their nightmare. Attempt to stare into the collective chasm of their collective soul. But CNN isn’t the real thing and any words we bring clang with the inauthenticity of those who see but do not know. Helpless we still try. Otherwise we’d cry and admit our intellectual defeat. Some things we just don’t understand. And just like the levees and the sand wouldn’t hold back the ensuing surge we cannot hold back the ink’s pain one more day. Etouffe beignet washed away Mere mortal children created from clay. COPYRIGHT RHONDA WELSH 2005 Lover's Hands Revisited My cousin Linda at 15
Lover’s Hands Revisited Recently, over 200 Detroiters took to the streets. They were outraged about the rape of a 90 year old woman. (Read news story here.) From door to door, they questioned and probed. They decided to take a stand against an unthinkable act. And rightly so... The elderly should be honored and revered in our community. The crimes against senior citizens have become heinous and progressively more brazen. So to the people who took to the streets, I say, “Bravo.” It seems the victim’s age created the community’s outrage. And again, I say, it should elicit outrage. It was an awful crime. But what about the other women, young, middle-aged and old, who experience violence every day? Where is the community outrage? So often, we cast a blind eye. In my book, I write about my own experience with rape in the poem, "Naked." Most of my neighbors ignored my screams and the police were accusatory. Unfortunately, my experience is the more common one. Last year, I wrote a piece about my cousin Linda’s death at the hand of an abuser. Today, I’m reposting it. I hope it saddens you. I hope it outrages you. I hope it causes you to act like those valiant 200 last week. Violence against women, any woman, should not be tolerated. Here’s the essay "Lover’s Hands" below: Lover's Hands “He said if I ever leave him he’ll kill me. He said if he can’t have me nobody can.” My thirteen year old eyes bucked in amazement and jealousy. He loved her so much and I wanted someone to want me that much, too. “He was just talking,” I said. “He wouldn’t do that, he loves you.” And I believed it. I believed he loved her. My fifteen year old cousin Linda was tall, vivacious and full of life. She was two grades ahead of me in the Performing Arts Curriculum at Cass Technical High School. She was later kicked out because her grades slipped after she met Eric and she skipped school all the time. We weren’t as close in high school as we had been as younger children. When we were really young, she taught me the words to Barry Manilow’s “I Write the Songs.” In fact, we sang and danced all the time – Fame, Grease, Sparkle, West Side Story. We were quirky soul mates and we were going to take the world by storm with our brilliance. We even had matching burgundy leotards and pink tights. You know, for modern dance routines and stuff. We’d walk down the streets singing at the top of our lungs. We were stars and we didn’t care who knew! After she met Eric, I didn’t see her as much. But, she would come by to borrow money. I always suspected it was for Eric. He was an eerily silent, handsome, body builder with a silver TransAm. He would say hello but never much more. He would also watch like a hawk while I doled out my meager babysitting earnings. She’d become reticent and anxious. Eric started to creep me out and I voiced an opinion. I changed my now fourteen year old mind. Suddenly, his “love” seemed crazy to me. I suspect she told him how I felt. We lost touch for two years. Until, our cousin Maxine called on a gorgeous summer evening. I answered the phone and she blurted out, “Linda is dead.” Linda had had enough of him and she finally left. She’d earned her G.E.D. and was planning on college. He begged her to go out one last time. When they got to Belle Isle, he strangled her and dumped her body in the Detroit River. She was eighteen. It didn’t even make the newspapers. He was promptly arrested and convicted, but it’s little consolation. Linda is gone. She never became a full, grown woman. She never realized her big dreams. She never realized love doesn’t beat you, call you out of your name or control you. Today, I’m remembering my cousin. And together, we’ll remember your cousins, nieces, aunts, mothers, friends who are murdered by lover’s hands each year. COPYRIGHT RHONDA WELSH 2009 Speak gratitude.   SOME FOLKS WHO SUPPORTED THE RED CLAY LEGACY BOOK SIGNING CELEBRATION TOP PHOTO: Performing w/Los Angeles based Soul-Blues-Jazz artist Kevin Sandbloom and DJ Andre Royster MIDDLE PHOTO: Poets Chantay "Legacy" Leonard and jessica Care moore BOTTOM PHOTO: Posing w/Detroit City Councilman James Tate "Poets don't support other poets."
"They just don't get my work." "Why isn't anybody helping me?" Wah-wah-wah... I hear the whining all the time. In fact, I am often the HWIC (Head Whiner in Charge). But as a friend reminded me lately, we speak things into existence. That alone, is enough to make me speak responsibly.
A recent sequence of events has further strengthened my resolve to speak beautiful truths. It has unleased a chain of gratitude in my life. I have just finished the first round of Red Clay Legacy book signings. From down the block to sunny Los Angeles, the love and support overwhelmed me. The venues were diverse: private suburban homes, downtown literary spots, neighborhood cultural centers, etc. The people were well-known, unknown, black, white, young, old, degreed, unschooled, political, artistic, churchy, heathenesque, calm, and ecstactic. People bought books. People donated food. People organized details. People donated time. People hugged me, kissed me and showed me all kinds of love. People came out and supported the project. People showed me their absolute joy for me. It was, it is, humbling. In the face of all that postive energy, how can I be anything but grateful? Hustler with a penchant for words My mama did it with her stove. My husband does it with his sewing machine. One of my sisters does it with training programs and another does it with gift baskets. I know people who do it with Mary Kay and Avon. Barbeque dinners out of the back of car trunks... Bed sheets at the gas station... Flowers on the side of the road... Michael Jackson did it with everything that is within him. It is hustle.
I am from Detroit. We hustle. It's our birthright. Our heritage... The world labels us poor and disenfranchised. Yet, we still manage to "get our hair did," rock magnificent mani/pedis and dress better than many of our Suburban counterparts. Statistics point out our very real social problems. Dateline paints us all as uneducated racoon eating folks living in substandard housing. (It should be noted that selling racoon meat was ONE man's hustle.) Our critics and analysts don't realize the beauty and savvy we employ in the hustle. So many Detroiters rise to the occassion like Moses being called by God to lead the children of Israel. We simply pay attention to what's in our hand. Then we use it to supplement or provide income. We don't wait for the approval of an employer. We employ what's at our disposal. I am pondering this idea as I attempt to define myself as a writer. I've been talking to a lot of smart artists and educators lately. Some of them are learned intellectuals with impressive credentials. Others are performers with a loyal following. Still others are obscure genuises who express their art whenever and wherever they can. I've tried to figure out where I fit. Am I a stage poet? Am I a page poet? Should I read more "serious poets" and pay attention to critical reviews? Should I take a cue from my Slam colleagues and perfect my stage presence? I'm not sure. Maybe I should do all of that or none of it. Perhaps I am ignoring the true issue. Because maybe, I'm just like many of my Detroit compadres. I might just be a hustler with a penchant for words. Everytime my world falls apart, I look at what's in my hand. It is always my pen. So like any other hustler in my town, I use what's at my disposal. I write. Then I package it, promote it and lay it at the feet of all who might appreciate it. Because that's what hustlers do. To coin a phrase, "You can take the girl out of the hustle, but you can't take the hustle out of the girl." So let's scratch all the yin-yang baby, I got that good-good. Words baby. Check out my store. Find out how you can get more. How this writing a book thing started.... I took this picture with my cell phone at the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids. I started reading at an unnaturally early age -- three years old. From the time I can remember, my nose was stuck in a book. I was particularly fond of Laura Ingalls Wilder. I related to that little prairie dwelling nomad. Her petty jealousies, her girlish ambitions... Half-pint was my girl! Most Saturdays you could find me in the main branch of the Detroit Public Library or in the Detroit Historical Museum. If I wasn't making corn-cob dolls, I was trying to see how many books I could finish for the week. But, it was at the school library that I discovered Nikki Giovanni. I remember that I was ten years old. So it was probably the library at Tappan Elementary School or the one at Custer Elementary School. (I was at three schools during fifth grade so I can't remember clearly. It was a rough year.) I found the book, My House. It's not even a kid's book, so I am not sure how it ended up there. But, I was awestruck by the poem, "A Certain Peace." I was a kid, but those words spoke to me. They moved me. I checked that book out of the library all the time. I wanted to do what she did. In third grade, I'd already written my first poem: "I love like I love./I hate like I hate./It makes no difference what you think of me,/for my freedom trails behind me.// Fast forward to high school, I went to Cass Tech. I thrived in the Performing Arts curriculum after years of being a misfit. Don't get me wrong! I was still a misfit. I just found other like-minded misfits to commiserate with and I studied Oedipus Rex and Waiting for Godot and Purlie Victorius. Ah good times... All of those great plays and the emphasis on the spoken word, turned me on big time. My acting skills, however, did not turn Mr. Otulakowski on. For some reason, I would always use poetry as an audition piece. I was NEVER cast in any of the school's Spring or Fall productions. But I managed to become a puppeteer and get a recurring role as "The Queen" in a kid show production. I also found out that I had no fear in front of audiences. I went to Michigan State University (MSU) my first year and I had an ill-fated radio show. The whole thing was pretty ill-fated because MSU got rid of me due to lack of funding. Eventually I decided to become an English major and I landed at Wayne State University (WSU). I was heavy into British Regency Era lit and African-American lit. At WSU, I learned the word marginal. All of my literary choices and my own poetry/writing were considered marginal. But, to me, my stuff had the spirit of Langston Hughes and Gil Scott-Heron and the songs from Phoebe Snow's Second Childhood album and of course, my hero, Nikki Giovanni. My professors did not agree. By the time I graduated from WSU, I was convinced that I was a marginal writer. So I delved into public relations and business writing. It was all good for a lot of years. I wrote short stories and I would attend the occassional writing seminar. I had a knack for PR/Communications. I even got a master's degree in PR. And of course, I always journalled. But it was after my sister died -- nearly fifteen years after my graduation -- that my old friend poetry resurfaced. I was tremendously grief stricken. Every morning during devotions, I journalled and wrote poetry. I started sharing. (Before that I almost never shared my work.) People started requesting it. People started booking me to read stuff. Soon, I became a working poet. I produced a CD, I Saw Myself. I visited open mics. I was asked to read at the DIA, the Museum of African-American History, the Detroit Opera House, etc. I was even laid off from a lucrative PR job and asked to teach poetry in the classroom. Poetry became my constant. I still struggled with whether I was a good writer or not. But, I decided not to care. After all the people wanted to hear it. So one day, I ran into jessica Care moore. (jessica is the founder of Moore Black Press. She won five, consecutive times on Showtime at the Apollo with poetry. She published Saul William's first book. Yeah, THAT jessica...) She made an off-handed remark about [paraphrase] old people needing to write books and focus less on slamming. I am a veritable spring chicken (LOLOL) and I don't even slam, but the idea was sparked in my head to write a book. So I did. And when it was all written, I emailed my childhood hero, Ms. Nikki Giovanni. And, she called me back. She CALLED me back. (In fact, the message is still on my cell phone.) She asked me to send her the book. So while many refused to review the book, some promised to review but never did and still others gave me the silent, marginal treatment, she took me seriously. She was the FIRST ONE to review the book. She wrote the review on a lovely piece of card stock and mailed it to my home. She treated me like a colleague and a friend. I had no connection to her. I had no hook-up. I am convinced that it was God's favor. A blessing landed on my wooly, little head. Through another delicious set of circumstances, jessica Care moore wrote the Foreword. You remember jessica? The one who made the comment... Spoken word poet Cherrie Woods (aka Cherrie Amour), Minister Rhonda J. Smith, and Detroit poetry icon, M.L. Liebler all reviewed the book. Stack Parker Aab (now LeMelle), author of Government Girl, really didn't know me from Adam. I asked her to review the book and she did. They all gave it rave reviews. The misfit, book worm wrote a book and people actually liked it. And what's more, I like it. Red Clay Legacy contains poems about my life. My messy, spiritual, insecure, fantastic, weird, quirky, boy-crazy, strong, wrong, right, ethereal life. It's the first offering from my press, Crimson Kairos. It's available now. If you are reading this, you have discovered my new blog, "Deconstructing Red Clay." It is about writing, politics, the book Red Clay Legacy, boys, girls, make-up, shoes, pop culture, scripture, relationships, music... You get the picture. I'll just write what I feel, like I always do. (It should be noted that I am overly fond of conjunctions and prepositional phrases.) Until later. Be blessed and purposeful, Rhonda 
Red Clay Legacy is the new poetry collection by poet Rhonda Welsh. JOIN THE COMMUNITY ON FACEBOOK! Red Clay Legacy  Promote Your Page Too 
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