Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 17

leaving the table

I often think about this quote by Nina Simone and even worked it into one of the poems in SAY HER NAME. So many of us have been fighting for “a seat at the table,” but why pull up a chair for a meal poisoned by disrespect? Last week Black authors shared their advances on Twitter and White authors did the same. Not surprisingly, it quickly became clear that Black authors—even those who have won major awards—are routinely offered much less money by publishers. Most of us have known this for years, but it was important to have it out in the open. On Friday we got an offer from Random House for the third book in my dragon series. The protests around the murder of unarmed African Americans have gone global and most publishers have made public statements about their support of the Movement for Black Lives. These statements from corporations are suspect, of course, since it isn’t hard to take a look at their boardrooms and offices for proof of anything but inclusion and diversity. But I felt hopeful about the offer from Random House—after dropping the series without explanation, I thought maybe they finally saw the value of my stories and my voice. My editor said as much in a thoughtful email last week. But then the offer came in and it was so low and so offensive that I almost lost it. My agent tried to calm me down but I am DONE. I shared that Nina Simone lyric and told her I didn’t want her to fight for more. Sometimes you need to accept that people aren’t going to change because they don’t want to—and don’t have to. Another wise Black woman artist—Maya Angelou—reminded us not to trust sudden transformations: “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

The good news is that we signed with a film agent on Thursday. He loves DRAGONS IN A BAG and will be pitching it to studios in the coming weeks. On Wednesday we actually had a conversation with a film studio and I’m hopeful that we’ll find a team that truly values my work. On Wednesday night I had a fun conversation with Joel A. Sutherland; if you missed our conversation on his show SOME GOOD BOOKS, you can watch the video on YouTube. Monday is my last poetry class for the BPL; I have three Zoom events over the next two weeks and hope I can manage to get some writing done before the month ends. Yesterday I realized I have close to thirty poems ready for publication. Maybe this summer I’ll self-publish another collection of poetry…

just do the work

In the age of social media, it’s hard to resist the urge to share visual proof of everything we do. This has been a difficult time for Black people and I find it interesting that THIS time, so many folks are vowing to make a change. I appreciate all the folks on Instagram who are uplifting Black creatives by sharing our work. I appreciate the folks showing up at rallies day after day. I appreciate the readers who reach out to tell me that my poetry has comforted them. I do not appreciate the folks who are not Black and somehow need me to know what they’re doing. No cookies here, folks. Just do the work. Don’t play show and tell or expect Black people to pat you on the back. Time will tell just how many of these gestures are genuine or just performative…

 

And before you ask a Black author to donate books or free labor, take a look at #publishingpaidme and spread the word. Publishers are doing something on social media today but it rings hollow when you look at how few Black people work in publishing, and how little Black creatives get paid relative to their White peers.

take action at home

My county is still under lockdown and will be until the end of next week. But that doesn’t mean I can’t join others in expressing my outrage at yet another police execution. George Floyd’s murder in Minneapolis has led to uprisings around the country. If you’re not ready to put your body in the street, there are other ways you can support the protestors. The Minnesota Freedom Fund has a list of organizations working on the ground that are accepting donations. Wee the People, Raising Luminaries, and MassArts are coordinating an at-home Family Day of Action tomorrow—Chalk the Walk offers people of all ages a chance to support the Movement for Black Lives in a variety of ways. I made a sign to place in my window and accepted the 8-word protest poem challenge: “As multi-generational as it gets: Invite young and old to create poems as long or short as feels right, incorporating the following EIGHT WORDS that resonate with this moment: POWER * JUSTICE * UNITY * CIRCLE * LISTEN * STAND * HEAL * RESPECT.” It takes a different kind of creativity to write a poem with such constraints; I prefer the easy flow of free verse but not much has been flowing from my pen lately. Like so many members of my community, I’m tired. My teen poetry class with the BPL starts up again on Monday and I might have my students give this challenge a try. We will definitely be talking about the protests just as we discussed the pandemic in April. I’m looking forward to teaching again; I find that having a duty to serve my students keeps me honest, and I push myself for them in a way I wouldn’t for my own benefit. I reflected on the way teaching impacted my pandemic poetry practice for the NCTE blog; they pulled the title, “The Process of Rebuilding Begins in Our Imagination,” from the final paragraph:

Audre Lorde famously wrote that “poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence.” I agree, yet there are times when I feel guilty about my writer’s life. I support my local food bank and have donated books to kids in Lancaster and teens in detention in Kentucky. But I do not face the same risks as the essential workers on the front lines of the pandemic. I will honor their sacrifices by continuing to stay home and taking every precaution when it’s time to venture out into the world again. When the pandemic ends, we must be ready to rebuild and that process begins now in our imagination. As Lorde asserts, “Poetry is not only dream and vision, it is the skeleton architecture of our lives.” I hope that my poems—alongside all the others produced during the pandemic—create a frame upon which we can build a more just world.

Bringing Diversity to Kid Lit on THE AGENDA

Three Chapters of DRAGONS IN A BAG read by Zetta Elliott

Poems of Hope & Healing from SAY HER NAME

we can’t breathe

from SAY HER NAME, illustrated by Loveis Wise

fear itself

I’m afraid of spiders. I’m better now than when I was young, and I don’t kill spiders if I can help it. I expected to find a lot of them in this Victorian house and there are webs in almost every corner, inside and out. But I haven’t seen a spider up close after nine months in this apartment…until this weekend when THREE spiders got way too close for comfort. On Mother’s Day I started to write a poem about the police killing of Breonna Taylor and somehow it turned into a poem about spiders—I was writing about fear, really, and how avoidance has become a way of stopping myself from feeling things too deeply. I can live with cobwebs in the corners. But I can’t claim to be okay with spiders unless I’m willing to let them be themselves. On Friday there was a jumping spider in the kitchen; it was on the floor so I just made sure to avoid stepping on it. But the next day I was reading on the sofa and that same skittish spider appeared on the armrest just a few inches away. I managed to put it outside but then woke up this morning to a big dark splotch on the bathroom wall—even without my glasses on, I knew it was a spider. That one was too big to try to move so I left it alone and now it’s out of sight. The things we fear can’t be avoided forever. I’ve been asked to write a short essay about finding balance during the pandemic and I think I’ll start with spiders. I’m struggling to finish my poem in a way that’s honest because I’m skirting the real issue: that it *hurts* every time another Black person is killed, every time it’s covered up, every time folks march for a Black male victim but not for a Black woman. On Saturday I attended a workshop to honor Aiyana Stanley-Jones who would’ve turned 18 if Detroit police hadn’t killed her ten years ago in much the same way they killed Breonna Taylor. I left the Zoom meeting early because of a migraine but today I’m feeling better and my unfinished poem is still waiting for me…this afternoon I saw a squirrel snacking on the seeds that fall from my feeder while the cardinals are stuffing their beaks. I’ve started leaving a container of water on the deck and it made me so happy to watch the squirrel stop to take a drink. Will I ever take comfort or find pleasure in watching a spider? If it was weaving a web out in the forest—sure. But in my home? Many of us try to keep the things that scare us at a distance, but sometimes we have to face the fear, let it in, sit with it for as long as we can. I’ve designed a life that lets me avoid a lot of things that cause me anxiety or make me uncomfortable. Some days I think of that as self-care. Some days it feels like cowardice. It’s probably somewhere in the middle. That’s what I want to say in my poem. So back to work…

boundaries

It’s Mother’s Day. I did my duty digitally yesterday, sending e-cards and gift certificates. I talked to my mom on the phone; we had planned a Zoom call but my sister’s dog is ill and no one wants to press her to show up online right now. I self-published a new book last week. There was a contest last year that I entered but didn’t win; I liked my entry, though, and so decided to make the book myself. The challenge was to create a story for kids age 0-3 years that celebrated the urban environment and helped caregivers promote language development. I don’t generally work with kids that age, but I knew the story had to be simple and I decided to make mine rhyme. My illustrator in Hong Kong told me it might take a while for her to finish the 8 illustrations because she now works full-time and takes freelance gigs on the side. Then Hong Kong erupted in political protests…and then the pandemic hit. She insisted she could keep working—that the book was a welcome distraction—and I tried to be reasonable about my revision requests. I started two picture book projects last year and I thought they would be done within a month or two; both have ended up taking much, much longer but I decided not to press either illustrator because they’re working as best they can under these conditions. And new books can’t be launched in the usual way—with a party at a bookstore or a signing at a book festival. Right now I’m just giving copies of ON MY BLOCK away to nonprofits and I’m happy just having it done. Here’s the summary:

A child shares their neighborhood’s best features by focusing on the sights, sounds, and scents on each block. Parks encourage urban wildlife, gardens add color and beauty, chalk drawings brighten the pavement, and different cultures blend in a single community. For very young children, their world is often only as big as the families and neighbors on their block, and these rhyming verses reflect that microcosm of urban life.

It’s Mother’s Day and the pain will be great for Ahmaud Arbery’s mother. There have been a number of police shootings lately, but the murder of a young Black man simply out for a run in Georgia has garnered the most attention because the killing was filmed. I had no interest in watching the video and appreciated a friend’s Facebook post reminding would-be allies that posting the video again and again retraumatizes many Black people who are already grieving. When I became a professor, my colleagues knew that I was doing research on lynching. But I had to set some boundaries because one White colleague thought it was helpful to leave photocopied images of lynch victims in my mailbox. It felt like he was saying, “Here’s one more for your collection!” It clearly didn’t occur to him that looking at those graphic images had an effect on me as a person. That finding one in my mailbox at the start of my work day might be painful or jarring. Every one has boundaries. Some folks are desperate to connect with others right now but be thoughtful, be gentle, and sometimes just be quiet.

Illustration from A PLACE INSIDE OF ME, illustrated by Noa Denmon.

building stamina

It’s May! Cranking out of a poem a day got harder this week, and I am looking forward to taking a break now that April is over. But I don’t want to stop altogether—the whole point of NaPoWriMo is to develop a poetry-writing practice, so I’ll try to keep it going. I won’t be teaching another poetry class until June, so I’ll have to find other ways to keep myself motivated. Yesterday was Poem in Your Pocket Day so I posted this tricube—I’d never even heard of the form (3 stanzas of 3 lines with 3 syllables per line) until my student Emmy suggested it during class. I’ve missed teaching but I don’t miss traveling…I did quite a few Zoom events last month and enjoyed connecting with kids, teens, and adults across the country. I know some people dread the extension of the lockdown, but it wouldn’t really bother me. I’m trying to be aware of my privilege: I have a spacious apartment with a deck and small yard, I can earn money without working outside my home, and I can pay for food delivery (though the May Day strike has me reconsidering that option). I remember being surprised months ago when I realized how many food pantries there were in Lancaster, but now I’m glad they exist and every donation I’ve made has resulted in a personal email of thanks. Today I went to Central Market and it was nice to see some familiar faces—everyone waiting in line was wearing a mask, and most people were using the red tape on the floor to maintain a proper distance from other shoppers. I worry about folks pushing to reopen businesses before we’re ready, but we don’t seem to have too many gun-toting extremists here in Central PA. I worry about a second surge in the fall but right now that feels like a lifetime away. Time is crawling but all we can do is live in the moment and let go of the luxury of planning our futures. We can still dream, of course, but we have to be practical about what’s possible…