Waxing Poetic the Fourth, Poetry Month Day 3: Southern Heritage

Even though I am terrible at memorizing my own poems, I adore Slam Poets and Spoken Word Poetry. Def Poetry Jam is one of my all time favorite shows. How could you not love a show dedicated to the beautiful, funny, amazing poets they feature? As a matter of fact, I don't know how anyone could not love spoken word, but there are those that don't. Having semi-recently graduated from a creative writing program, I can tell you that there are those that not only don't like spoken word, they look down on it. They claim that "classic" poetry is more complex and better than spoken word. While I get that everyone has different tastes, but this is more than that. It's elitism, pure and simple. I love poetry in general, but I tend to identify more with poets who come from my sort of background and also those who come from other minorities and oppressed groups. Not to say that these people don't write "classic" poetry, but spoken word seems to provide more of a haven for us. There will likely be much much more spoke word in these poetry posts, so get ready. :-)

Jason Carney's "Southern Heritage" is a particular favorite of mine. He is brilliant, and I love all his work. But something about this one speaks to me specifically. Whether it's the Mawmaw or the Native heritage or the outrage, I don't know. I just know that I get chills every single time I listen to it.

Book Life 19: I Have Always Relied on the Awesomeness of Ballsy Southern Broads

When I was about 16, I bought a copy of Brett Butler's Knee Deep in Paradise in the Wal-Mart book aisle. This was before my hometown had a Supercenter, and I haunted that aisle to the point that I can still see it in my head. At the time, I was up to my neck in self-loathing Evangelical fervor, convinced of my own damnation and living in a black cloud of suicidal funk because of it. As was my habit prior to and after that time, I buried myself in books that, surprisingly, were more supportive of that little lesbian hiding within than the psycho that was wandering around on the surface. I found E. Lynn Harris' first novel (Invisible Life) at our library (I still marvel at that), and Brett Butler in Wal-Mart. Now, Butler is not gay, but she has had a similarly disjointed and broken life. And she hails from my neck of the woods--proof that you can be as odd as we seem to be there and survive, even thrive.

The 90's were rife with comedians and stand-up specials on every channel, but none of them ever caught my attention like Butler. Despite the jokes, something told me she had been as destructive and destroyed as I was at the time, and I loved her for it and have ever since. To this day, if I still had copies of her specials, I guarantee I would laugh until I hurt myself at her. I still quote things from her specials now. I watched every single episode of Grace Under Fire and was heartbroken when it no longer existed.

When writing, I could call myself back from the darkness, rest and reclaim things I'd let go of long ago.--Brett Butler

In the years before the internet was the monstrosity that it is now, I never really knew when books I would be interested in would be coming out until they hit the shelves at Wal-Mart or the library. So I had no idea her book was coming out until I stumbled upon it that day. It was profound enough of an experience that I remember it nearly 17 years later. Much like the Harry Potter releases so many years after, I did not sleep that night so I could devour the book. Then I read it again. And again.

I recently found another copy in one of my used book haunts and snatched it up immediately, worrying that I had only found it so engrossing and profound because of the time in which I first read it. I was wrong. I still see my own shattered years in hers, though the shattering was due to much different events, and my family in hers, both of which collapsed under the weight of their own particular Southern dysfunction. This has been less of a review than a love letter to one of my favorite famous women and her book, I know, but I don't think it could have been anything less. It is strong, intelligent Southern women like Brett Butler that make me proud of my Alabama roots. She is what I think Mema was to me but would have been publicly had she been born much later and what I hope I am or will be.

Book Life 17: "Poetry Should Not Flinch"

Given that one of my degrees is in Creative Writing, it should come as no surprise that I love poetry. I write it when my brain wants to cooperate, and I read the good stuff when I find it. Poetry is kind of like drugs: the bad stuff can really screw with you, but the good stuff, ah, now that will get you strung out wanting more.

Elegy for the Southern Drawl by Rodney Jones

I stumbled on this while picking books at Powells.com to use my trade credit on, and I am so glad that I did. Jones is an Alabama-born poet with a beautiful voice. The title quote is from his poem "A Coronary in Liposuction," and I swear it's going on the "maybe one of my tattoos" list. After reading this book, I immediately realized I'd read a poem of his elsewhere, and lo and behold if I didn't find it in one of my favorite collections ever: Working the Dirt: An Anthology of Southern Poets edited by Jennifer Horne. I picked that one up in a tiny bookstore in Monroeville, AL when we went home to visit. I fell in love with it, and there Jones was on page 164. Too bad I'm so broke, or I'd order the rest of his books right now!

While I'm on the subject of poetry, I have also recently had the good fortune to read The Alphabet Conspiracy by Rita Mae Reese. A friend and former professor gave me a copy, and it's wonderful.

Book Life 15: Deep South Musings

I can always tell when I am the most homesick. The radio stays tuned to country, and my reading list tends to be filled with books somehow attached to Alabama or the South in general. Case in point: Confederates in the Attic and The Devil Amongst the Lawyers.

Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War by Tony Horwitz

Despite my upbringing in the Heart of Dixie, I have never been a Civil War buff. In fact, I tend to ignore it as much as possible for sheer annoyance factor. Once you've listened to your paranoid, racist stepfather discuss the technicalities of Pickett's Charge or why the CSA should never have lost this or that battle ad nauseam, you start to hate the topic. That being said, I've always been fascinated by the obsession with the War Between the States, or "War of Northern Aggression" depending on who it is you're talking with, and the people who are basically knee-deep in it 24-7. Horwitz was as well, and wrote this fabulous book. My first concern when I pick up any book about the South is how the author is treating it, especially if they themselves are not from the South. I shouldn't have worried about this one. Horwitz does the near impossible in that he manages to give a fair view of some of our, shall we say, less-enlightened citizens while describing the rest of us and our home as it is. I don't mean that he's whitewashed over our failings; no, he includes those. However, he also does not sweep in as the city intellectual and talk about the areas he's visiting as Deliverance II. Even if you hate the Civil War, this is worth the read.

The Devil Amongst the Lawyers by Sharyn McCrumb

"There is no more vicious bigot than a city intellectual contemplating someone to whom he feels intellectually or morally superior."

This is the latest of McCrumb's amazing Ballad Novels, set in the Appalachians of Tennesee and the surrounding areas of Virginia and the Carolinas. If you've never read anything of hers, stop reading this right now and go order everything in the Ballad series first, then everything else. Not only are they excellent mysteries, they are addictive as hell. This is the first book I've read in a long while that I could not make myself put down. I read the entire thing (minus the first 50 pages whoch I read before falling asleep sitting up last night) this morning...admittedly not an unusual occurrence for me, but still. McCrumb, like my favorite sci-fi author Octavia E. Butler with feminist problems, manages to work complex issues of poverty and rural life into the narrative without getting preachy or heavy handed. I honestly cannot say enough wonderful things about these novels.

Anyone who knows me (or hell, anyone who's paid attention to this blog) knows that the misrepresentation of the South, particularly the mountain and rural South, is one of my pet projects. Women's Studies failed me on these points, and I abandoned it as a graduate pursuit partially because I could not stand the thought of ramming the topic into conversation for the next 30 or 40 years. More importantly, I had conflicts over this very issue on at least a weekly basis in classes across my particular academic spectrum. (See this blog for the last one of the spring semester.) I honestly don't know what this means for my future in academia. Maybe it's just particularly bad down here in Florida, who knows...All I do know is that I am relieved and overjoyed to find books that don't paint all of us as slack-jawed morons.

I'm Pissed, Y'all: A Short Exposition on Ignorance

While waiting on my 19th British novel class today, a few classmates and I were discussing people with poor grammar--the ones with no idea what the difference is between it's and its, your and you're, etc. Another classmate decided to put her two cents in but in an entirely different vein. She began a short rant on her "hickey" boyfriend and his y'all's and yonder's. I proceeded to explain to her that those words and many others are actually descended from Old English, Irish, and Scottish dialects, the literature of which is taught in our department as classic. I also told her that "y'all" is basically the only elegant and efficient way to denote a plural you in English and that she was offensive. She looked shocked, and I walked off. After class, she came up to me and said, "I didn't mean to offend you." I responded, "Then you shouldn't have said it."

First, that isn't an apology. An apology would have been: "I'm sorry I offended you." "I didn't mean to offend" means you actually did mean what you said, but you're incredibly sorry you were overheard. So, just no...Second, when are people going to learn that country and ignorant are two entirely separate things. I am quite country most of the time, but I simply know how to write and speak in a more academic manner. My accent never really disappears, and I wouldn't want it to. But I am sick and tired of my extended i's and odd word choice calling my intelligence into question. For the record, there are just as many ignorant people from northern cities as from the rural south.

Gone Up Home: A Displaced Hillbilly Girl Ruminates on St. Patrick's Day

Unfortunately, I attend the former number one party school in the nation. I think we've slipped a few places since then, but the point is alcohol is a primary concern for the majority of the population here. So, as you can guess, St. Patrick's Day is insane in this town. Bars open at 6 am and sell green beer for very little. Half the student population is wandering around with bar wristbands, half-sloshed. I, on the other hand, could care less. If I do have Irish blood, it's so little and so diluted that I don't think it even counts anymore. Half the time, I don't even think about wearing green. So why am I blogging?

The first people to settle the Appalachian mountains from Virginia all the way down into Alabama were from Ireland, England, and Scotland. They were drawn there because it reminded them of the mountains back home. My grandmother's family is from the rural hills of north central Alabama, and I know from experience that certain tales, songs, traditions, and linguistic elements survived from their homelands in modern speech and traditions. Case in point, my great aunt Lainie used to sing me a song called "Fair and Tender Ladies," which as it turns out is a traditional Irish and English ballad as well as a traditional Appalachian tune. So I made my very first video with a version of this song and pictures taken back home in honor of Aunt Lainie...and St. Patrick's Day. The song is taken from a locally made CD named Off the Porch Strong with several Alabama musicians; "Fair and Tender Ladies" on this album is sung by Amanda Smothers. Enjoy!

Dispatches from a Refugee in the Land of Privilege, Episode 1: Homelessness Isn''t My Problem

For article/essay technique class yesterday we read Barabara Kingsolver's "Household Words" (found in her essay collection Small Wonders), and I spent most of the class shocked and horrified. If you haven't read it, Kingsolver uses an incident she witnessed while in traffic (an apparently homeless man beating on an apparently homeless woman) and which she did nothing about to discuss homelessness in the United States and Americans' complicity in it. It's an excellent essay, of course; everything Kingsolver writes is amazing. She goes through all the American "fuzzy-blanket myths" related to homelessness, such as "anyone who works hard can make it in the US" and "most homeless people want to be that way." Statements like these seem obviously ridiculous to me, but the people in my class apparently disagree. They proceeded to give every one of the reasons she was arguing against as valid and reasonable.

Can we talk about apathy for just a minute? They pasted the "poverty is more complicated than just handing a dollar to a guy. it's way too big for me to fix it." argument over their lack of give-a-damn and expect that to cover it. I call shenanigans. No one ever said that one person can or should be able to fix poverty and homelessness single-handedly. I wish that was possible, but it's just not. However, it is possible to help one person at a time, thereby making the world just a little bit brighter in the process.

But this post isn't about my belief in positive energy and its ability to change the world. It's about privilege. When I spoke up and said, "Well, I've been so close to their position that regardless of what they eventually use the money for, I will always give them money if I have it. If for no other reason than I would hope that if it was me with the cardboard sign on the side of the road, someone would help me." They not only basically said that there was no way I had ever been close to homeless (because they themselves had never been) but also then spent the next ten minutes recounting tales of homeless people who refused to be helped, etc. I'm not sure where this line of thought is going except that I didn't think people actually thought this way. Where I was raised, people generally didn't think this way, and I don't know how to take this.