Satchmo’s Letter to a Marine

Louis Armstrong, 1965

 
In 1967, Marine Lance Corporal Villec, stationed in Vietnam, wrote a fan letter to Louis Armstrong. What’s reproduced here is the jazz great’s amazing reposnse to that piece of fan mail — at once intimate, heartfelt, and wonderful. You see in its pages (it’s five handwritten pages) a breezy familiarity with a man, we can only assume, Armstrong had never met in person, and a willingness to be frank and thoughtful about his own life’s work and its challenges.

Armstrong’s unique punctuation — with unexpected capitalizations, underlinings and quotation marks — is preserved here.
 
 
 
 
34—56—107 St.
Corona New York’
U.S.A.

Dear L/Cpl, Villec”

I’d like to ‘step in here for a ‘Minute or ‘so’ to ”tell you how much—I ‘feel to know that ‘you are a ‘Jazz fan, and ‘Dig’ ‘that ‘Jive—the ‘same as ‘we ‘do, “yeah.” “Man—I carry an ‘Album, ‘loaded with ‘Records—’Long playing ‘that is. And when I am ‘Shaving or ‘Sitting on the ‘Throne with ‘Swiss Kriss‘ in me—That Music ‘sure ‘brings out those ‘Riffs’ ‘Right Along with ‘Swiss Kriss, which I ‘take ‘every night or when I go to bed. ‘Yeah. I give myself a ‘Concert with those ‘records. ‘Music is ‘life it’self. What would this ‘world be without ‘good music? No matter ‘what kind it is.

It ‘all came from the Old ‘Sanctified ‘Churches. I can remember—’way back in the ‘old days in ‘New Orleans, La—’My home town. And I was a little Boy around ‘ten years old. My Mother used to take me to ‘Church with her, and the Reverend (‘Preacher that is’) used to ‘lead off one’ of those ‘good ol good ‘Hymns. And before you realized it—the ‘whole ‘Congregation would be “Wailing—’Singing like ‘mad and ‘sound so ‘beautiful. ‘I ‘being a little boy that would “Dig” ‘Everything and ‘everybody, I’d have myself a ‘Ball in ‘Church, especially when those ‘Sisters ‘would get ‘So ‘Carried away while “Rev” (the preacher) would be ‘right in the ‘Middle of his ‘Sermon. ‘Man those ‘Church ‘Sisters would ‘begin ‘Shouting ‘So—until their ‘petticoats would ‘fall off. Of course ‘one of the ‘Deacons would ‘rush over and ‘grab her—’hold her in his ‘Arms and ‘fan her until ‘she’d ‘Come ‘to.

Then there were those “Baptisms—that’s when someone wants to be converted by Joining the ‘Church and get ‘religion. So they have to be ‘Baptized. ‘Dig this—I remember ‘one Sunday the ‘Church had a ‘great big Guythey had to ‘Baptize. So these ‘Deacons all ‘Standing in this ‘River—in ‘Water up to their waist in their ‘white ‘Robes. They had ‘Baptized ‘several ‘women and a few ‘Men—’saved their ‘Souls. When in ‘Walks’ a ‘Great‘big’ ‘burly ‘Sinner‘ who came down the line. So—’these ‘Deacons whom were ‘very ‘strong ‘themselves, they grabbed ‘hold of this ‘Cat and said to him as they ‘ducked him down into the water, as they let him they asked him—”Brother ‘do you ‘Believe?” The Guy didn’t say ‘anything—Just looked at them. So they ‘Ducked him down into that ‘River again, ‘only they ‘held him down there a ‘few minutes ‘Longer. So when the ‘Deacons looked in the guy’s eye and said to him—”Do you ‘Believe?” This Guy finally ‘answered—he said “Yes—I Believe you ‘Son of Bitches trying to ‘drown me.”

P.S. I guess you think I’m ‘Nuts. ‘Nay ‘Nay. I only ‘mentioned these incidents because it all was ‘built around ‘Music. In fact, it’s ‘All Music. “You ‘Dig? The ‘Same as we did in my ‘Home Town ‘New Orleans’—those ‘Funeral Marches etc. “Why ‘Gate” ‘Villec, we ‘played those ‘Marches with ‘feeling from our ‘hearts. ‘All the way to the Cemetery—’Brass Band of course. The ‘Snare drummer would put a ‘handkerchief under the ‘snares of his ‘drum to ‘deaden the ‘Sound while ‘playing on the way to the Cemetery—”Flee as a Bird.” But as ‘soon as the ‘preacher ‘say “Ashes to ‘Ashes—’Dust to ‘Dust”—the “Snare Drummer Commence ‘pulling the handkerchief from his ‘drum, and make a ‘long roll’ to ‘assemble everybody, including the members of the ‘dead man’s ‘Lodge—or ‘Club. ‘Then we’d ‘return ‘back to the ‘headquarters ‘playing “Didn’t he ‘Ramble” or “When the Saints Go Marching In.” You ‘See? ‘Still Music.”

I said ‘All of that to Keep ‘Music in your ‘heart the ‘same as ‘you’re ‘doing. And ‘Daddy—you ‘Can’t ‘go ‘wrong. ‘Myself and my ‘All Stars’ are ‘Playing here at the ‘Harrods ‘Club (Reno) for ‘Three weeks. My ‘wife ‘Lucille as ‘joined me here. The ‘rest will do her lots of good. She was ‘operated on for a ‘Tumor, about the ‘Middle of ‘July. She’s improving ‘very ‘Rapidly. Her ‘Doctor who ‘operated on her at the ‘Beth ‘Israel Hospital’ in New York told her—’She could go to ‘Reno and ‘spend some time if ‘you (Lucille) + your ‘husband (Satchmo) ‘promised to ‘behave ‘yourselves and ‘don’t try to ‘do the “Vonce” (“meaning ‘Sex). I ‘Said—”Doc I ‘Promise—But I’ll ‘Just ‘touch it ‘lightly every ‘morning—to see if it’s ‘still ‘there. ‘Ha ‘Ha. ‘Life’s ‘sweet. ‘Just the ‘thought that ‘Lucille is ‘through with her ‘little ‘Hindrance—and “soon “be well and ‘happy—’be ‘her ‘lil ‘ol ‘cute ‘self ‘again—’Just “knock’s’ me out.

‘Well ‘Bre’r ‘Villec, I guess I’ll ‘put it ‘down, and get some ‘shut eye.” It’s the ‘Wee ‘hours in the ‘Morning. I’ve‘Just ‘finished ‘Work. I am too ‘tired to ‘raise an ‘eye ‘lid. Tee hee. So I’ll leave this little message with you. “Here goes’.

When you ‘Walk—through a ‘Storm—
Put your ‘Head—up ‘high—
And ‘Don’t be Afraid of the ‘Dark—
At the ‘End of a ‘Storm—
Is a ‘Gol-den ‘Sky—
And a Sweet Silver ‘Song—
Of a ‘Lark—
‘Walk—’on—through the ‘Wind—
‘Walk—’on—through the ‘Rain—
Though your ‘Dreams be “Tossed and ‘Blown—
‘Walk—’on—’Walk—’on—
With ‘Hope in your heart
And ‘You’ll ‘Nev-er ‘Walk ‘A-’lone—
You’ll ‘Nev-er ‘Walk A-lone—
(one more time)
‘Walk—’on—’Walk—’on—with ‘Hope in your ‘heart—And ‘you’ll
Nev-er ‘Walk ‘A-lone—’You’ll ‘Nev-er ‘Walk—’A-lone—. “Savvy?

Give my regards to the fellows that’s in your company. And the other fellows too. And now I’ll do you ‘Just like the ‘Farmer did the ‘Potato—I’ll ‘Plant you ‘Now and ‘Dig you ‘later. I’ll ‘Close now. It’s a real ‘Pleasure ‘Writing—’You.

“Swiss Krissly”

Satchmo
Louis Armstrong

++++++++++++++ 
This letter is taken from Louis Armstrong, In His Own Words: Selected Writings. For more on “Swiss Kriss,” a brand of herbal laxative, see this story from NPR.
 

>via: http://www.musicinsideout.org/louis/2013/11/10/a-letter-for-veterans-day/

November 07, 2013

Meet The Man Who Wants To

Diversify Silicon Valley By 2040

Tristan Walker founded Code2040, an internship program designed to bring Latino and black engineering undergrads to Silicon Valley. / David Paul Morris/Bloomberg via Getty Images

 

Tristan Walker stands out in Silicon Valley.

Walker is black. Silicon Valley, for the most part, isn’t. Research shows that only about 1 percent of tech entrepreneurs in that section of Northern California are African-American.

“There just aren’t as many folks who look like me in the industry,” the 29-year-old toldAll Things Considered host Audie Cornish.

Until last year, Walker ran business development for Foursquare, the social networking app that now has some 40 million users. He was then handpicked by a team of heavy-hitting venture capitalists to work on his own big idea. Walker wants to create the next Twitter, the nextSpotify. In short, the next big idea.

Now established in Silicon Valley, Walker is also working to tackle the tech industry’s dearth of diversity. He’s set up an internship program called Code2040 to bring black and Latino engineering undergrads to the Valley.

From The Projects To Privilege

Walker is an unlikely candidate for success in Silicon Valley. Born into poverty and raised by a single mother in the projects of the New York City borough of Queens, Walker says the only way to make sure he didn’t have to go back to it was to work hard — and make money.

“It was tough, and life definitely wasn’t easy,” Walker says. “And I realized that I didn’t want to go back to that life.”

First, he landed a full scholarship to a top-flight, New England boarding school. There, he got an early feel for what it’s like to be an outsider in a world of white privilege.

“A lot of my classmates had a confidence that I’d never seen before,” he says. “It was almost as if the world just worked for them in a way that they expected it to.”

Next, Walker went to college — Stony Brook University on Long Island, N.Y. — again, with a big scholarship.

Then it was time for the career part of the plan. But he didn’t have a lot of successful, career-minded role models growing up, he says. When it came time to make money, Walker says he figured there were just three ways to do it. One way, he thought, was to be an actor or an athlete. That, he says, clearly wasn’t going to be his path.

His second idea was to work on Wall Street, which he did for a while. He landed a job as a trader after college, but says it was the worst two years of his life.

“I was caught up more in the allure, as opposed to the passion behind it,” he says.

The Third Option

That left one option, in Walker’s mind: entrepreneurship. So Walker headed to Stanford’s business school and to Silicon Valley. But despite being in the center of the tech industry, Walker says he had a tough time breaking in.

Then he heard about a then-tiny tech startup called Foursquare. What happened next is now tech lore.

“So the story goes, I emailed the founders, Dennis Crowley and Naveen Selvadurai. Didn’t get a reply. Emailed them again. Didn’t get a reply. Ended up emailing them eight times,” Walker says. “After the eighth email I got a reply back from Dennis. And he said, ‘You know what, I just may take you up on some of this. Are you ever in New York?’ “

Minutes later, Walker responded, saying he was planning to be in New York the next day. He booked a flight, flew out the next morning and hung out with Crowley for a week. A month later he was running business development for the company.

When Foursquare took off, so did Walker’s career. Now, he has the leverage to work on his own startup — but he’s been thinking a lot about how he can make the path a little easier for the next Tristan Walker.

Diversity As Business Opportunity

Part of the allure of the myth of Silicon Valley is that in the epicenter of the tech world, all that matters is the idea — that if you have a good idea, you’ve got a shot. But Walker says the notion of the Valley as a pure meritocracy doesn’t always ring true. Even the most well-meaning people can discriminate without intending to, he says.

“There’s looking at a resume with the name of a woman and forming some idea around the value set that person has, without realizing it,” Walker says. “There is speaking on the phone with somebody and you happen to potentially sound white — and then meeting that person in person, shaking the hand and seeing this look of awe and shock, as if there was some other expectation around how you should look.”

The question for Walker became how to get recruiters for tech companies to look explicitly for more diverse candidates. And that became Code2040.

The year 2040 is when demographers believe minorities will become the majority in the United States. Walker sees a golden business opportunity in this shift.

“If you’re not including what will be the majority demographic in our country at the table in positions of leadership, your company just could not be destined for the level of success it should be destined for,” Walker says. “If someone puts those two together and really understands that, they will have done something really special. And there are not enough people thinking about it like that.”

That’s where Walker’s new startup comes in. It’s still in the early stages, and he wouldn’t talk on the record about his big idea. But Walker did say that he hopes one day his story — a young black outsider who makes it big in Silicon Valley — won’t be so remarkable.

>via: http://www.npr.org/blogs/codeswitch/2013/11/07/243783500/meet-the-entrepreneur-who-wants-to-change-silicon-valley

November 8, 2013

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Woodard lays out his map in the new book “American Nations: A History of the Eleven Rival Regional Cultures of North America.” Here’s how he breaks down the continent:

Yankeedom: Founded by Puritans, residents in Northeastern states and the industrial Midwest tend to be more comfortable with government regulation. They value education and the common good more than other regions.

New Netherland: The Netherlands was the most sophisticated society in the Western world when New York was founded, Woodard writes, so it’s no wonder that the region has been a hub of global commerce. It’s also the region most accepting of historically persecuted populations.

The Midlands: Stretching from Quaker territory west through Iowa and into more populated areas of the Midwest, the Midlands are “pluralistic and organized around the middle class.” Government intrusion is unwelcome, and ethnic and ideological purity isn’t a priority.

Tidewater: The coastal regions in the English colonies of Virginia, North Carolina, Maryland and Delaware tend to respect authority and value tradition. Once the most powerful American nation, it began to decline during Westward expansion.

Greater Appalachia: Extending from West Virginia through the Great Smoky Mountains and into Northwest Texas, the descendants of Irish, English and Scottish settlers value individual liberty. Residents are “intensely suspicious of lowland aristocrats and Yankee social engineers.”

Deep South: Dixie still traces its roots to the caste system established by masters who tried to duplicate West Indies-style slave society, Woodard writes. The Old South values states’ rights and local control and fights the expansion of federal powers.

El Norte: Southwest Texas and the border region is the oldest, and most linguistically different, nation in the Americas. Hard work and self-sufficiency are prized values.

The Left Coast: A hybrid, Woodard says, of Appalachian independence and Yankee utopianism loosely defined by the Pacific Ocean on one side and coastal mountain ranges like the Cascades and the Sierra Nevadas on the other. The independence and innovation required of early explorers continues to manifest in places like Silicon Valley and the tech companies around Seattle.

The Far West: The Great Plains and the Mountain West were built by industry, made necessary by harsh, sometimes inhospitable climates. Far Westerners are intensely libertarian and deeply distrustful of big institutions, whether they are railroads and monopolies or the federal government.

New France: Former French colonies in and around New Orleans and Quebec tend toward consensus and egalitarian, “among the most liberal on the continent, with unusually tolerant attitudes toward gays and people of all races and a ready acceptance of government involvement in the economy,” Woodard writes.

First Nation: The few First Nation peoples left — Native Americans who never gave up their land to white settlers — are mainly in the harshly Arctic north of Canada and Alaska. They have sovereignty over their lands, but their population is only around 300,000.

The clashes between the 11 nations play out in every way, from politics to social values. Woodard notes that states with the highest rates of violent deaths are in the Deep South, Tidewater and Greater Appalachia, regions that value independence and self-sufficiency. States with lower rates of violent deaths are in Yankeedom, New Netherland and the Midlands, where government intervention is viewed with less skepticism.

States in the Deep South are much more likely to have stand-your-ground laws than states in the northern “nations.” And more than 95 percent of executions in the United States since 1976 happened in the Deep South, Greater Appalachia, Tidewater and the Far West. States in Yankeedom and New Netherland have executed a collective total of just one person.

That doesn’t bode well for gun control advocates, Woodard concludes: “With such sharp regional differences, the idea that the United States would ever reach consensus on any issue having to do with violence seems far-fetched. The cultural gulf between Appalachia and Yankeedom, Deep South and New Netherland is simply too large. But it’s conceivable that some new alliance could form to tip the balance.”

Take a look at his fascinating write-up here.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Reid Wilson covers state politics and policy for the Washington Post’s GovBeat blog. He’s a former editor in chief of The Hotline, the premier tip sheet on campaigns and elections, and he’s a complete political junkie. Reid is a Seattle native and a graduate of The George Washington University. He lives on Capitol Hill with his wife, Veronica. Get GovBeat in your inbox! Sign up here for our twice-weekly newsletters.

>via: http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/govbeat/wp/2013/11/08/which-of-the-11-american-nations-do-you-live-in/

NOVEMBER 12, 2013

They Came Before Columbus

Ivan Van Sertima was a literary critic, linguist, anthropologist, and the author of the Holte Prize winning book They Came Before Columbus: The African Presence in Ancient America. Van Sertima believed that mariners from West African nations such as Ghana, Mali, and Songhay landed in North America long before any European and had a persistently ignored influence on Indigenous American culture.

According to Van Sertima trade between Africa and the Americas began over two millennia ago. On Columbus’ second voyage to Haiti the Native Americans told him that black-skinned people had come from the south and southeast in boats, trading in gold-tipped metal spears. Olmec civilization revealed elements that were closely parallel to rituals and traits performed in Egypt at the same time and may have been the basis of Mexican culture.

Nicholas Leon was reporting that the first inhabitants of Mexico were Black as far back as 1919. In 1858 in the Gulf of Mexico a stone head was found with  vividly African features that weighed 10 tons and wore an Olmec helmet. Why was the truth about Ancient African American kept from the school systems? 

This was done to keep Africans in an inferior status mentally and physically to prolong slavery as long as possible . It was also done to ease the troubled minds of the veil ones involved because deep down they knew that slavery and oppression is morally wrong and the African race is not “inferior” in any aspect of human life.

By Joann Crandall

>via: http://progressivepupil.wordpress.com/2013/11/12/they-came-before-columbus/

photo by Alex Lear

The Breeze And I

Last Thursday I drove out of town to Lulling, Louisiana, only thirty or so miles upriver from New Orleans on the west bank of the Mississippi River. I was there to see a neurologist, Dr. Hightower, who was an associate of my brother Keith. Keith is a cardiologist and arranged the visit because he suspected I might be exhibiting symptoms of the onset of Parkinson’s disease, a degenerative illness for which there is no known cure. Additionally, Parkinson’s is idiopathic, there are no known causes of the illness. The best modern science can do is a drug regimen that will offset some of the effects.

In the early seventies I never thought about health issues when we were traveling back and forth all over Mississippi, often racing each other cross the length and breadth of an extremely hostile terrain for young black firebrands such as those of us in The Free Southern Theatre. I remember we were speeding from West Point, Mississippi headed over to Cleveland, Mississippi. Their infamous highway patrol caught me.

“Boy, you know where the courthouse in Oxford is, don’t you?”

“No sir, I don’t.”

“Well, you best go find it and pay this here ticket.”

I found it.

The court clerk was an old, white man straight out of In The Heat Of The Night. He pulled down a big, weathered ledger book. I remember his hand was trembling and the book shook as he lowered it to the counter top. At that time, I saw absolutely no commonality between me and that wrinkled, old presumed racist. Today I realize he probably had Parkinson’s.

I know now what I didn’t know then: all of we humans have more in common than are apparent when we judge each other by easy to discern differences such as gender, race, ethnicity or social behavior. I wonder was the old man’s tremors ever diagnosed or was he doing what I had done, simply accepting the inevitably of the shakes and coping with it as best he could.

How long would I have gone without professional attention had not my physician brother spotted something and had he not been able to track down a neurologist to check me out. We’re over five years after Katrina and medical care in New Orleans is still very much a spotty proposition, particularly for specialties and for mental health. I mention the latter because so many of us are suffering various stages and/or severities of depression. Our vary states of dementia, from mildly retarded to full out, bona fide crazy, often inhibit us seeking help for preventable and/or curable illnesses.

Worst than the paucity of health care in post-Katrina New Orleans was my general antipathy toward hospitals and medication, and it’s not just me. I recall Keith was hospitalized once with a fever and the physicians couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. He had an infected appendix but the protrusion had lodged behind a rib bone or something and was not detected by normal x-rays. They wanted to do exploratory surgery. Keith nixed that. I think they finally found it when they did a CAT-scan x-ray or something like that and with a proper diagnosis, the doctors were able to operate before Keith’s appendix burst.

Also influencing my attitude was the way my father died of a mysterious illness. Friday evening he was talking. Friday night he slipped into a coma. Sunday morning he expired. Keith said when he arrived from out of town early Sunday morning there was not one doctor present who could tell him anything definitive about what was happening with daddy.

My father was not into taking medications. I’m like him. I don’t even take aspirins, but even if I was to seek treatment, without Keith’s expertise and assistance I probably would still be waiting for an initial screening. When obtaining health care is difficult, many of us just shuffle along, self medicating ourselves with over the counter pain killers. Worse, we generally ignore early signs of trouble and don’t seek treatment until we have some kind of major incident or incapacitation. And don’t even bring up the question of health insurance—if you’re poor and don’t have good health insurance, you can’t afford to get sick. It’s depressing.

Lucky for me my wife had Blue Cross insurance from her previous job as an X-ray technician at Veteran’s Hospital and my physician brother had excellent contacts, so I was able to receive first class health care shortly after a potential problem was spotted. My relatively stable mental state is due in part to the social safety net surrounding me.

It was a warm, late fall day in December and I was driving out to see a doctor. The temperature was inching up towards the high sixties, too warm to be considered a proper late autumn by New Yorkers but just the way we like fall and winter in the Crescent City. The drive over went well. I had music I’d burned to CD and when I got really close to the destination, I called for the final directions. I had just passed the non-descript gate and had to double back half a block.

Keith had seen a tremor in my right hand. Of course I had noticed it before but at sixty-three, I just passed it off as one of the many physical breakdowns that occur with getting old. I paid it no mind because the malady was infrequent and not serious enough to prevent me from using my hand.

From somewhere in my stored memory cells an image came to mind: a cut kite, fluttering downward. We used to have the kite patrol, a bunch of us adolescents on our bikes chasing after kites that broke away or were intentionally let loose. We would tear off, racing to see who would be the first to find the errant kite.

Back in the late fifties flying kites was a big thing in New Orleans. Most of us made kites. And even a lot of the adults would join in the fun. Miss Vivian who lived across the street from us and who sold chickens that she raised in her back yard would cross the street to the empty lot that was next door to our house to join the fun.

Sometimes we would make spending money by helping Miss Vivian slaughter young chickens but I didn’t have much stomach for it, so after two or three times I just stopped going. I hope my hand never goes spastic like those headless chickens whose wings beat against our pants as we held them still after Miss Vivian had sliced off their heads.

We had cut down most of the trees in the lot and that’s where we played baseball and football instead of in the street like we did when we played two-handed touch with the big boys. Lionel could throw the ball with some degree of accuracy damn near the full length of the block, three quarters of the block easy. But the street was no good for kite flying because car antennas and kite strings didn’t go well together, so when it was kite season, we generally stuck to the empty lot.

A white man whom I never saw or met owned the empty lot between our house and the corner house and refused to sell it to my father. Eventually, my father bought the corner house, which was on the other side of the lot between the two properties. My daddy’s father stayed by himself in the corner property until Betsy, when my grandfather drowned after retreating into a closet as the water rushed in.

My brothers had tried to go get him but they said the water came up too fast, and wires and trees were knocked down and all kinds of stuff was flying through the air. I believe Keith almost got hit, or was blown over, or something, and my father called Keith and Kenneth to come back. My family spent that night in the attic of our brick house before somebody in a boat carried them down to the roof of Hardin Elementary School in the next block from our house, the same school where my mother taught third grade. At that point my father must have deduced that his father was lost to the storm.

I was in the army in Texas when the hurricane hit. Kenneth says my daddy didn’t talk about his father drowning. They didn’t find the body until the following week, after the water had subsided and they were able to get into the house. Maybe it was even two weeks later. I know now that daddy was deeply affected—how do I know?

To quote my brother Kenneth’s favorite explanation for a lot of the behavior of we three brothers, “it must be genetic.” Over twenty years later I’m still deeply affected by daddy’s death even though on the surface I seem to have made peace with my father’s departure. I can talk about his transition without wincing or crying aloud. Such stoicism is typical of we Ferdinands, we take our blows and move on without lingering over the pain.

I don’t much remember my grandfather. I recall visiting him before he moved in after our family purchased the corner property. I have a deep but extremely fuzzy recollection of how my father would go check on his father when the old man stayed in some musty, two-room apartment. I believe it was somewhere in the upper ninth ward but I don’t accurately recall. My grandfather liked those old, big, square soda crackers—much thicker and more puffy than the thin saltine crackers like the ones we ate with cheese.

After grandpa relocated on the corner, my brothers and I would take turns crossing the lot to bring dinner plates to him in the evenings. He didn’t talk much. I don’t think we ever had an extended conversation beyond “here’s your dinner. You need anything else?”

I don’t have any image of my mother ever going over there, nor even my daddy spending any significant amount of time talking with his father on the porch or anything. I didn’t have words for it but it seemed to me my grandfather wanted to be alone, wanted to live hermit-like. I don’t even remember a radio over there. My father loved listening to the radio but wasn’t crazy about television. We used to watch the Gillette Friday Night boxing matches but that’s about all I remember my father regularly watching on television. I’m beginning to think solitude runs in my bloodline.

My grandfather was a big, red-bone man. Didn’t look much like my father. My daddy’s mama had died when he was very young, maybe five or six. From the one picture we found of her, years later, she was a dark-skinned woman—we couldn’t really make out her features on the blurry photo. Daddy undoubtedly took after her in appearance. I don’t think my daddy remembered his mother. In fact, my daddy didn’t even know exactly when he was born. The courthouse out in Napoleonville, or was it Donaldsonville, had burned down and the records were lost and none of the family knew for sure. So much history gets lost in the wind.

Even when the wind is blowing real hard, a kite doesn’t fall like a plane with engine failure, or even a balloon that springs a serious leak. The kite just sort of slowly flutters downward until caught in the branches of a tree or on a power line, occasionally on the roof of a house, seldom settling on the ground.

There were a lot of trees all over the Lower Ninth Ward when I was growing up in the fifties. It was sort of like living in the country. Indeed, we had a real farm with cows, horses, pigs and stuff in the next block before the city bought the two block stretch and built a school in the late fifties or early sixties. I never got to go to Harden Elementary because I was too old by the time it opened. It’s funny the bits of unconnected things you remember when you plummet your past.

I never made a box kite. I had wanted to, like the kites I saw in a book, or even construct one of those Chinese dragon kites, but I got so wrapped up in building fighter kites with razor blades embedded in the frames. We would crash the kites into each other trying to see who would have the last kite flying. In fact, now that I think about it, chasing down kites that had been knocked out of the sky was how the kite patrol started.

A red kite descending against a blue sky towards a not too distant green tree line. That’s what I think every time I remember my hand trembling until I dropped my fingers down to the desk top or atop my knee. It seems Keith’s suspicions were on target. Dr. Hightower—what a name, I wondered during the drive over whether he would be a black man. Leslie Hightower. I was willing to bet he was a brother. I was right. Anyway, after the check up, I listened with equanimity, even cracking a joke or two as Dr. Hightower delivered his preliminary diagnosis. I indeed was exhibiting symptoms of the onset of Parkinson’s Disease.

It’s days later I can’t resist the urge: from time to time I hold my hand out to see if it’s shaking. So far, every time I’ve checked it’s been relatively still, but I take note whenever I feel a brief tremor and it reminds me of catching a falling kite whose string has been cut.

—kalamu ya salaam

22 december 2010

MEEMEE NELZY

JESSICA NEWRY

The Charles Causely Poetry Competition 2013

Charles Causley is acknowledged as one of the very finest Twentieth Century English poets. His poetic reputation was worldwide and brought him many awards, among them The Queen’s Gold Medal and The Ingersoll/TS Eliot Award. He received the Hon DLitt from the University of Exeter, where his archive is now held. He was made a CBE in 1986 and a Royal Society of Literature Companion of Literature in 2000. He died in 2003.

“The poet works continuously at the conveyor-belt of his imagination. As soon as he gets peace of mind at having completed one set of verses, fresh shapes are apt to rise in his head once more. And if he is true to his art, he picks up his pen and goes on struggling to make something fresh in words of what he sees.” Charles Causley, 1962.

First Prize: £3000

Second Prize: £500

Third Prize: £100

Judge: Sir Andrew Motion, Patron, The Charles Causley Trust

Open date: July 1st 2013

Closing Date: November 18th, 2013

Entry Fees: £7 for first poem; £4 each poem thereafter.

Entry form: CLICK HERE

Rules and guidelines: CLICK HERE

Find more information here: thecharlescausleypoetrycompetition.wordpress.com

>via: http://www.commonwealthwriters.org/charles-causely-poetry-competition-2013/

Narrative Fall Story Contest

>via: http://www.pw.org/writing_contests/fall_story_contest_0

Call for Papers:

“Caribbean Entanglements

—Culture(s) and Nature Revisited”

>via: http://repeatingislands.com/2013/11/07/call-for-papers-caribbean-entanglements-cultures-and-nature-revisited/