Zetta Elliott's Blog, page 75

of the people?

I hate being a tourist. I’m a homebody, secure in my daily routine, and it’s uncomfortable for me to pack up my life and relocate for a while. But at the same time, I’m very aware of the fact that this is a privilege. Those 40+ school visits paid for this trip, but having extra income streams is also a privilege when so many people in this region want work and can’t find it. I show Life & Debt when I’m teaching my students about the effects of globalization, and we read Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place. Everyone is a native of some place, but not every native gets to become a tourist; according to Kincaid, natives have nothing but contempt for tourists who have the wealth and mobility to leave their own boring existence in order to pursue “the exotic.” The Caribbean seems like paradise to many tourists, but that’s not how most natives experience their homeland. I realize now that the reason I could afford this hotel is because it’s their slow season, and that means a loss of income for people whose livelihoods depend on tourist dollars. I just booked a morning tour of the island and appreciated my taxi driver’s honesty earlier today when I asked her about the economy. Judging from the number of luxury condos that are under construction, I thought maybe there was a building boom. But who do you think those condos are for? Not the natives. And here I am in my pretty little bungalow with the a/c on—I ordered Indian food for dinner and (thanks to satellite TV) watched the local NYC news, PBS, and BBC America before finally forcing myself to find a channel with local programming (The People’s Show). I’m not a native, but I need to think of myself as something other than a tourist. A researcher? Prospective immigrant? Maybe I’ll have to settle for being a “better” tourist. It helps that everyone seems to know my aunt—just mentioning her name changes the way people look at me, I think…

 

the arrival

I’m writing from high atop my four-poster bed...the a/c is on, and I can see the Caribbean sea just a few feet from my front porch. I’d like to take a nap right now, but will push myself to go out for a minute. Was up with the first bird at 4:45am, had a smooth flight, and enjoyed the ferry ride over to Nevis even though the windows had to be closed to keep out the spray. They opened them up again as we pulled up to Charlestown and I could see Nevis Peak—green and inviolate, though new housing developments are gradually encroaching. I looked at the peak swathed in fog and wondered how “Congo Sarah” managed to live up there for a year (in 1730). She’s the only woman fugitive I’m come across so far, though I’m sure there were many more. How do you escape when you’re on an island? You climb the peak…

It’s strange to be back—I want to say it’s not my first time here, but after being away for almost a decade, I can’t claim to remember much. Think I’ll take a tour of the island tomorrow with Edith, the nice taxi driver who warned me about the deceptively shallow water here at Oualie Beach. You can go out half a mile without the water going above your waist—but then what? I’m terrified of the sea. Don’t want to put on my bathing suit b/c I know I’m not ready to venture in. My friend Kate thinks I must have been a bird in another life. Sounds right to me. No matter how high or far she soars, a bird has to land somewhere eventually.

This bed is so tempting…but must go out. Head’s full of stuff and a walk always helps to sort things out. Plus I can hear the birds calling me…

do your duty

For three days I woke up and worked on my conference paper—I’ve got nearly 8 pages but I’ve finally accepted the fact that I won’t be able to finish it before leaving on Wednesday. I’m depressing myself with this paper, which makes me wonder what impact it will have on my audience. Maybe getting away will help shift my perspective on publishing, which is admittedly bleak right now. I feel anxious about this trip, but am trying to take it moment by moment. I could just go and lie on the beach for seven days, but I’m mostly going to do research. I’m not sure what I’ll find, but I’m reading up on Nevis (Out of the Crowded Vagueness) and somehow learning the island’s history makes everything seem more weighty. I have my own expectations to live up to, my family obligations, and then there’s this growing pressure to vindicate those who passed without having a chance to tell their stories…enslaved Africans were bought and sold in Nevis since the 1600s—it was the Royal African Company’s “depot” for the region. Of course, I’m not from Nevis and that will limit my ability to speak for the dead. But I can do my part; I can encourage and assist others so that a new generation of writers can emerge. This is the final paragraph I tacked onto my grant proposal:

I named this project The Hummingbird’s Tongue because I feel I am uniquely positioned to write this book. Found only in the Americas, the hummingbird is tiny yet powerful, beautiful but elusive. Hummingbirds are determined migrants (able to cross the Gulf of Mexico without stopping), and they can survive in both hot and cold climates. Caribbean hummingbirds have beaks and forked tongues that have adapted over time to reach the nectar hidden deep within long-throated tropical blossoms. My grandmother probably never could have imagined that one day her namesake would return to Nevis equipped with the skills needed to probe the past, unearth her story, and redeem her reputation.

I hope I’m right about that! I hope I really do have the skills I need to write these books. It’s humbling…which is good, because that means I’ll have to ask for help instead of going it alone.

Will try to blog daily while I’m away, so stay tuned!

true believers

I will never again book 20 school visits for one month! but I’m grateful for each and every opportunity to meet students and educators across the city. Yesterday I spent the morning at a school in Park Slope and after my presentation on Ship of Souls, I was treated to a feast—the parents put out *quite* a spread, and I was seated in a virtual throne with the kids ringed around me. Overhead dangled the names of their ancestors and loved ones who had passed on—the kids *and* their teacher were so serious about the concept of life after death. We shared ghosts stories and no one was freaked out; they fully accepted that the realm of spirits and the realm of the living sometimes merge…amazing! That particular class was remarkable in another way: every month their teacher walks them over to Barnes & Noble and they BUY a book to read as a class! You know I have issues with books being given away for free to low-income kids; I think it’s important to develop book-buying habits, and this teacher has found the way! When I asked if she encountered any resistance from the mainly black and Latino parents, she laughed. “One child was sent with $100!” Where there’s a will, there’s a way…

Speaking of ancestors, another luminary from the kidlit community has sadly passed on. Leo Dillon, illustrator extraordinaire and partner to fellow illustrator Diane Dillon, made his transition a few days ago. I got to meet the Dillons at the 2010 A Is for Anansi conference at NYU. His legacy will live on in all the breathtakingly beautiful images he created with his wife over his lifetime. Rest in peace…

the hummingbird’s tongue

I had a moment yesterday when I wanted to quit teaching. As soon as I submitted my grades, the whining began…no matter how clear you are about the course requirements, no matter how many opportunities you give to earn extra credit, there are always a few students who think you owe them something more. I love teaching and I hope to teach for the rest of my life, but I’m wondering if there’s a way to build a life that lets me do what I love and discard all the rest. Yesterday’s meeting with Terry Boddie was great—I can’t imagine what I’d do without the support of fellow artists! Artist/professors who teach, and grade, and deal with ridiculous demands, and yet still manage to get their work out into the world (Terry’s got FOUR shows up right now). Giving up the academy would mean working as a teaching artist and supplementing my income with grants. I’ve gotten three grants so far this year, and right now I’m applying for a fourth. It’s a different kind of hustle but the good thing about writing grant proposals is that the process lends clarity to your work. Why do I do what I do, and what does my writing offer the world? I’m still working on my project summary but thought I’d share what I’ve got so far. This is Nevis book #1:

The Hummingbird’s Tongue

This nonfiction book—a blend of memoir, genealogy, and mythology—will attempt to trace the life of my paternal grandmother, Rosetta Elliott. Born on the small Caribbean island of Nevis, Rosetta was institutionalized approximately ten years after the birth of her two children, George (my father) and Ilis. Both children were removed from Rosetta’s custody when they were quite young; George was raised (alternately) by his maternal and paternal grandmothers, and Ilis was raised by her biological father and his wife (though his paternity was kept from her until adulthood). Stripped of her children, my grandmother continued to live in Nevis until the mid-1950s when she began having “fits” and was committed to an asylum in neighboring Antigua where she allegedly died.

Shortly after his mother’s death, my father emigrated from Nevis to live, for the first time, with his father in Canada. Fifteen years later, in 1972, my father returned to Nevis with my mother (who was pregnant with me at the time). They visited the asylum in Antigua and found no record of Rosetta Elliott. In his unfinished memoir my father implied that Rosetta was involved with prominent men on the island; I plan to investigate this claim and others, including speculation that my grandmother’s “fits” weren’t caused by epilepsy but by obeah (so-called “black magic”). My grandfather once worked as a policeman in Antigua—did he use his professional connections to make his former lover “disappear”? Was the news of Rosetta’s death prior to his departure for Canada a lie designed to sever my father’s connection to the less reputable side of his family?

I have lived with depression and anxiety since my teen years, and suspect that my father battled depression throughout his life as well. Fortunately, I evolved into a black feminist writer, though my commitment to self-expression led my father to call me “a stranger in the family.” I feel a strong sense of kinship with the woman for whom I was named, though we never met and I have not even a photograph of her. My great-aunt once told me that Rosetta had “hair down her back”—a significant feature for a poor black woman. Was she beautiful? Was marriage unavailable or uninteresting to her? Perhaps my grandmother traded whatever assets she had in order to survive.

If my grandmother did indeed suffer from some type of mental illness, I would like to know what symptoms she exhibited and what services were available to women in the eastern Caribbean at that time. Could any “undesirable” be institutionalized? Was Rosetta truly a danger to herself, or was her sexuality deemed dangerous to an insular, patriarchal society that expected women to know and stay in their “proper place”? The 2009 study of Nevisian girls, Pleasures and Perils by Debra Curtis, reveals disturbing patterns of coercion and early experimentation with sex; my book will consider contemporary conditions for women in Nevis and will offer strategies to ensure that girls have the tools they need to recognize and resist exploitation and marginalization.

Green-Throated Caribbean Hummingbird

it’s raining

Actually, it’s pouring. Good thing I went out early to get some groceries: two apples, soy milk, juice, and a mini Toblerone bar. I needed some little treat since today I plan to get ALL my grading done. I’ve got one exam left and about ten book reviews. Once grades are in I can turn my attention to my conference paper for ChLA, which is starting to take shape (in my mind, at least). I wake up visualizing the slides I plan to share, and then I sit down at the computer and my mind is filled with ideas for a new novel set in Nevis circa 1765…it’s about the two siblings who befriended Alexander Hamilton when he was a boy. The brother is thirteen, mixed-race, the emancipated son of a successful white trader; his younger half-sister is black, enslaved, and on the verge of being initiated into a secret society…

I learned yesterday that Horn Book will run a review of Ship of Souls in its summer issue. They chose a Canadian reviewer, which is interesting. She didn’t share the exuberance of The Book Smugglers, but that doesn’t really surprise me:

Elliott’s story is quick, clean, and briskly paced. Although the elements of the fantasy adventure wobble, Elliott engages some interesting content—the historic dead who lie beneath Brooklyn and Manhattan, and the three African American teens, all from different backgrounds.

It’s cold in Canada. Good thing I’m heading south…

Tomorrow I meet with Terry Boddie, a Nevisian artist who’s been giving me advice on conducting research and making art in Nevis. This morning I emailed the local radio station—there was an address specifically for “requests,” and I’m sure that meant song requests, but instead I asked for help locating listeners who might know something about my paternal grandmother. I could put an ad in the paper, too, I guess. This is new territory for me and I know I should show some restraint, but there’s been so much silence for so long…I feel like I don’t have time to ease into the past. It’s like a ship pulling away from shore. She who hesitates is lost…

expert eyes

I did my 16th school visit this morning and got soaked coming and going…came home, put on some dry, comfy clothes, and made a cup of ginger tea. Checked my email and found a Google alert that led me to The Book Smugglers fabulous joint review of Ship of Souls! Here’s a peek:

WOW. D’s journey in Ship of Souls is breathtaking in its gravity and heartache. While, from a plotting perspective, the actual story proper is a rather small, contained thing, it is not without its taste of the fantastic, drawing a portal between the current world and the ghosts of the past through the magic of a very special park and its historical significance. Do you know what I love the most about Zetta Elliott’s work? In both A Wish After Midnight and in Ship of Souls, Elliott effortlessly weaves history – a painful, grim, but true history – with fantasy. In this novel, she explores one of the first major battles of the British-American Revolutionary war. In 1776, Prospect Park (along Flatbush Ave) was the battleground for British and Hessian soldiers as they fought the Continental Army (led by George Washington) – and this iconic battle serves as a key point for the story. To do this, to add on top of the historical commentary also one that explores the issues of race, gender, and religion in contemporary Brooklyn, this is no small feat. But Zetta Elliott does it all without making the story didactic or dry, by making these threads more than just a Message or underlying theme – each of these facets of identity are a part of our main characters (D, Keem and Nyla).

You can read the entire review here. It’s one thing to have kids tell you they love your book, but it’s something else entirely to have two experts in the field of YA SFF give your book a rave review! I was in such a good mood that I didn’t even fuss when I went back out into the rain to keep an appointment I’d made with a student and he didn’t bother to show up…

Family Literacy Day

Ah…a day of rest! On Friday I wrapped up my last Harlem workshop with Behind the Book. The students had finished reading Ship of Souls, and when I asked if they had any questions, it turned out most of them wanted to know what would happen in the sequel! I should have recorded my answers to all those questions because I actually sounded like I’ve got a clear sense of the narrative. Now I just have to make time to write it! The students did a great job developing outlines for their own magical stories and, as usual, several of them asked me whether Ship of Souls would be made into a film. I could have shown them the audio version of the book, which came out last week. I received my copies in the mail but have only listened to a couple of minutes so far. I think of an audio book being a lot like a radio play, but I don’t think there are any sound effects in the reading of my novel.

Yesterday I spent most of the day in the Bronx with four other Lee & Low authors and illustrators: Tony Medina, Katie Yamasaki, Mark Weston, and G. Neri (via Skype). We had a small group of kids, parents, and educators for Family Literacy Day, but they were amazingly attentive considering our presentations lasted from 10:30am to 1pm. Then each participant got a signed copy of Bird, Honda: the Boy Who Dreamed of Cars, I & I Bob Marley, and Yummy. Lee & Low’s sales manager, Abe, did a great job organizing the event and it was nice to see families resisting the lure of a sunny Saturday in order to focus on books and art. I like meeting other authors, but meeting artists is a totally different experience—it’s a blend of awe and envy because I can write a decent story, but I can NOT paint a beautiful picture. You should see the incredible murals that Katie has made all over the world—and she’s working on another with women prisoners at Rikers Island right now. After the event ended, Katie, Tony, and I talked about the publishing industry and how easy it is for some to divorce multiculturalism from social justice. We discussed the Trayvon Martin case and the news that “minority babies” now make up the majority of births in the US. Ten years from now, will those children be able to find their mirrors in books? Not unless we continue to press for change in the publishing industry. I connected with a few allies this past week, which is just what the doctor ordered—it’s too easy to feel isolated and discouraged…

Today: rest, read (I’m halfway through Toni Morrison’s Home), write out a summary of The Deep, and then prepare for tomorrow’s school visit. Just five more to go…

home on the grange

Today I reached out to the Nevis Historical and Conservation Society—I’m planning to spend some time there during my week-long visit, and asked for help with my two writing projects: a memoir about my family, and a historical novel about life on an 18th-century sugar plantation. I understand the pride Nevisians feel when it comes to being the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton, but I’m more interested in writing about the people who didn’t go on to fame and fortune. Still, I can’t pretend the man didn’t exist, nor can I pretend it doesn’t matter that he and I share links to the islands of Nevis and Manhattan. Barbara Christian once said you have to know the facts of history in order to be freed from them, so this afternoon I visited The Grange, the only house owned and built by Hamilton in what was once the country (it took him an hour and a half to reach NYC, which was 9 miles south). The impressive house was moved to St. Nicholas Park in 2008 (the video showing that engineering feat is a must see), and now you can learn more about this founding father by watching a short film, touring the gallery, and taking a guided tour led by a National Park Ranger. It was great to show up and see a familiar face—Ranger Sean was transferred from the African Burial Ground to The Grange, and we speculated on the possibility that Hamilton might have African ancestry (though there’s no evidence of this). As I watched the film about his role in the American Revolution, I found myself wondering about Hamilton’s early life in Nevis—who were his friends? Did he become an abolitionist in later years in the US because of his affection for free or enslaved blacks in the Caribbean? Believe it or not, I already have a YA novel sketched out in my head. NOT that I have time or energy to take on yet another book project, but still. So far I’ve only found one novel about Hamilton’s childhood, and I doubt it privileges the perspective of Afro-Caribbean kids…

more, please

After my presentation up in Harlem this morning, the students actually begged their teacher for more homework—they wanted permission to read ahead in Ship of Souls! This class was selected by Behind the Book to receive copies of my novel, but they’d only read the first two chapters by the time I arrived today. Their teacher assigned the next few chapters, but the kids wanted to read up to Chapter 10 so they could find out what happened to D, Nyla, and Keem (I read from Chapter 9). By the time I finished my presentation, the kids were so excited I could barely hear myself think! And my voice was giving out…doing five school visits a week in addition to teaching my own courses is just too much, I think. On Thursday, by the time I got to my third and final class of the day, I actually taught sitting down. I never do that! It reduces the overall energy level of the class, but I was simply too tired to stand. I gave my students an in-class writing assignment and then graded some of their papers until it was time to reconvene. I don’t have the energy to teach public school—nor the patience. Last Monday I had a small class of about a dozen students, but two of the boys just wouldn’t stop talking—one even cursed while reciting a rap. I was waiting for their TWO teachers to rein the boys in, but it didn’t happen. If they’re disruptive again next Monday, I might ask for the students to be removed from the room. It’s not a long-term solution, but I’m only there for 40 minutes—I can’t help the kids who actually want to write poetry if the two that don’t are raising hell. Then today I was just starting my presentation when a boy raised his hand and asked to see the copy of BIRD I was holding in my hand. I gave it to him but asked that he not read it during my presentation. He ignored my request, of course, but I later learned from the teacher that that particular boy has *never* expressed interest in a book before. HE is the reluctant reader I’m hoping to reach with my writing. Maybe on Monday I better arrive at that other school armed with more copies of my books. If those two boys don’t want to write, maybe I can get them to read…