Authors: Nikki Giovanni

Chasing Utopia (2 page)

My grandfather was twenty years older than my grandmother so he was an old man when we, the grandchildren, met him. He didn't seem all that old and he was a very patient man but he didn't hang out and laugh with us the way Grandmother did. We cooked with Grandmother and did chores. Grandpapa attended to the grocery chores and cut the grass. He was also a Deacon at our church, Mt. Zion Baptist Church. He seemed formidable.

For whatever the reason he liked me. He liked my younger cousin, Terry, also calling him Terry the Brick. He would on his deathbed charge Terry with “take care of the women.” Which Terry has done.

I am the only grandchild to live with them. During the Age of Segregation I went back to Knoxville, the place of my birth, and lived with my grandparents and attended Austin High School.

But before all that we four, my older sister, Gary, and Terry and his older brother, William, spent summers in Knoxville. The two boys, being boys, were up early, breakfasted, and off to the playground or the park or swimming or whatever it is boys do until lunch when they are famished, then off again. My sister liked to cook so she and Grandmother would huddle in the kitchen baking wonderful things. Me . . . I was set adrift. I would, some days, ask Grandmother if I could go to the library which was at the top of our street, Mulvaney. I always enjoyed dusting, it was my chore at home, so some days I would dust then read something from Grandmother's library. Grandmother wanted to teach me to play the piano but I was too dumb to know that one day I would wish she had.

I guess Grandpapa noticed that I was by myself a lot.

He would call me over to read an Aesop Fable or to teach me a Latin verb. I guess he wanted to make me feel needed or interesting or something. In the evenings before there was so much neon that the stars were blotted out, he would invite me to walk with him and he would point out the stars to me, guiding me on a journey through the Underground Railroad. He was a good storyteller and a great teacher. But I was always disturbed by a couple of the Aesop Fables. I didn't like the way the “Mice in Council” ended. It seemed someone should be brave enough and courageous enough to bell that cat even if a supreme sacrifice had to be made. What little bit of history I was learning showed there is always a hero or heroine in the case of Jeanne d'Arc or Harriet Tubman who risked it all for freedom and justice. As I was older I added Rosa Parks to that list and Daisy Bates. I was particularly angry about “The Grasshopper and the Ants.”

Grandpapa was always on the side of the Ants. He thought the Grasshopper should have saved up for a “rainy day.” I thought the Grasshopper was being abused by the Ants, though I did not have
abuse
in my vocabulary then.

We were Baptist, though I'm sure other Protestants do the same thing. Every Sunday, we youngsters went to church. We had a dime apiece: a nickel for Sunday School, a nickel for ice cream, since in those days you could buy an ice-cream cone for a nickel. We would all walk together to Carter-Roberts Drug Store for our ice cream but we had to be back to church on time.

After church we would go home; change clothes; then take a plate of dinner to the “sick and shut-in.” There was no variation with this. Dinner in the South on Sunday is early because we were probably going either back to church or to visit another church in the evening. It was the right thing to do. I couldn't understand when we read “The Grasshopper and the Ants” how the Ants could send the poor Grasshopper out into the cold to freeze to death. Grandpapa and I argued about that one a lot. I, of course, always lost.

Time, however, was on my side. I grew up to become a writer which let me think and think and think again about issues. And in the back of my mind there were these Ants and this Grasshopper. I was still unhappy about the justification of taking advantage of the Grasshopper's better nature. Then an opportunity came to me to write about it and I seized that moment.

The Grasshopper, like Sisyphus, was an artist. We, Grandpapa andÂ I, had argued about Sisyphus, too. He was not, in my opinion, being punished for bringing fire but rather, like all Artists, challenged to create, yet again. The rock was not there to torment him but rather to remind him he had work yet to do. The Grasshopper made music. And where would we be without music?

There is a reason when we step into an elevator there is music playing. You are about to get into a box which will rise higher than you can jump. In order to soothe you and make you think everything is all right we play music. The same with an airplane. Your dentist tells you to bring your favorite CDs to play while he drills your nerves. And we all know when we are afraid we “whistle a happy tune.” Music is the first and, I believe, most essential tool in combating the unknown.

I could have had the Grasshopper go in to destroy the Ants but that would have been unintelligent. The Grasshopper did the American thing: He sued. For R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Of course, respect might come later but half the harvest would be primary. “Am I not worthy of my bread?” the Plaintiff, the Grasshopper, asked. And the Ants tried to respond by asking for a Contract. But isn't a Contract the services we accept as much as the services we ask for? Aren't the great ideas of this nation based on the Mayflower Compact, an agreement of mutual assistance not just on who can beat whom out of what? Where is the justice if we only follow the letter instead of the spirit of the law? Young people need to know the law is our shield, our Gladiator, our protection. Right makes Might and not the other way around.

The Grasshopper prevails because he put his faith in the twelve good people who impartially heard his story. The Ants needed to learn they were helped with the art and soul the Grasshopper offered. They needed to learn to share.

And they all lived happily ever after because the law said it is good and right to be fair to everyone. Greed is un-American. Thievery is un-American. It is good to recognize and understand that we all benefit from paying our fair share of taxes, treating our friends and colleagues fairly.

Grandpapa and Aesop were wrong. The Grasshopper did contribute. Where would we be without the imagination that encounters with art and artists bring? We'd be little Ants working day and night selfishly hoarding the bounty nature provides with no joy in the benefits of our work. We can . . . and we should . . . do better than that.

MY SISTER AND ME

Chocolate cookies

Chocolate cakes

Chocolate fudge

Chocolate lakes

Chocolate kisses

Chocolate hugs

Two little chocolate girls

In a chocolate rug

No one can find us

We're all alone

Two little chocolate girls

Running from home

Chocolate chickies

Chocolate bunnies

Chocolate smiles

From chocolate mommies

Chocolate rabbits

Chocolate snakes

Two little chocolate girls

Wide awake

What an adventure

My, what fun

My sister and me

Still on the run

My sister and me

Still

On the run

SPICES

i used to watch

my mother cook

she would invariably sigh

a little sigh then light

a cigarette

since no one smokes

anymore Beans

have not tasted as good

i have her sigh

and stacks of spices

“This one is cardamom

It comes from Southeast Asia”

“This one is nutmeg

the defense of this spice by a Brit was so fierce

the world court heard the case and the Dutch

gave up Manhattan Island for the little island

in the Indian Ocean that grew nutmegs”

and cloves . . . stick them in an orange for a

Christmas present

or a ham to make

a design

cooking with Mommy was

Geography “These pansies you can eat”

“These mushrooms will

kill you” (should we put them in your father's eggs? she'd laugh

and say)

the green things

rosemary thyme tarragon cilantro

the fennel we grew brought mean

yellow jackets so

we get it at Kroger's

“The trick to a great

Ham

is a song” she'd say

And we would sing loud and lustily

She harmonizing with me but me

Unable to carry a straight melody

Now it is ready

cold water almost to the top

fennel allspice pepper pods of all colors

No Saltâit's a rule

green spices till it

looks right then

cinnamon on the uncovered top

low heat until boiling

(about 2 hours)

let cool 15 minutes

pour off water then

let cool on your platter

I make my Ham the way

my mother made hers

with lots of talk and love and laughter

THE OTHER PLACE

Corn bread muffins

A streak of lean

Mustard greens simmering

On Grandmother's stove

Boiled ham

Fresh churned butter

Grandpapa reading the comics to Grandmother

And me

While we cook

I set the table

With the everyday dishes

They both like ice-cold water

We are home

I am home

Safe against the dangers

Of the other place

THE LIONESS CIRCLES HER BROOD IN NEW ORLEANS TO SWIM HOME

(for Marvalene Hughes)

When the storm was coming, the first storm . . . Rita, Marvalene called . . . unhappy. “I have to evacuate the school . . . and I just got here.” I made nice noises because Marvalene is a friend . . . an old . . . not aged . . . friend and I could tell she was upset. I am a big fan of when you can't change it, you've got to go with it. “Want me to come down?” I asked trying to offer support. She didn't say “Dummy! If folk could come down I wouldn't be evacuating the school.” She just said “No. I'm going to visit my sister. I'll be all right.” I watched Rita make land. I tracked her. New Orleans and Dillard had made it through. I remembered Hugo here in Blacksburg when my fifty-pound umbrella weight was sliding across my deck. I was in Florida even before that when Hurricane David penetrated the walls of my condo. So while I was aware of the fear I was still trying to remember we had all gotten through. Then along came Katrina.

Katrina was shaping up to be one of those hurricanes that we all remember. I'm a big Al Gore fan and I was absolutely in awe when I saw his film. This was going to be quite a moment.

My son and I, when he was a little boy, used to visit an island called Young Island which is off the coast of St. Vincent. For the hip folk, Young Island is about a two-hour sail from Mustique which is where Princess Margaret and her friends used to hang out at or near the Cotton House. I never made it to the Cotton House but one night our manager said “There's a tropical depression coming our way. You may want to go on up to your suite after dinner.” There were a lot of things to love about Young Island: no phones; no shoes; no roads. Of course, this was before everybody and their mother had a cell phone. You could go there to totally relax. The most dangerous thing in or near the island was a piranha who had been fed so much garbage she was friendly. No worry there. I tried to understand why I would need to go to my room after dinner. The island is quite small. No one is ever around. And why on earth would I worry about the tropical being sad? Isn't that what a depression means? Then it hit.

Lightning thunder winds like I have never seen. Thomas came from his room to “sit with me” but we both were scared to death. Since the island is essentially a rock that has been hollowed out we were safe except for the front window which we got way away from. The next morning when I saw the manager I said something like “Boy! Was that ever a storm!” “Yes,” he answered in that way the Brits do when they are coping with a real problem. “It's one of our worst tropical depressions in years. We're all right but St. Vincent was really hard-hit.” Now I understood. It was not mental. Katrina wasn't either.

When my phone rang and I heard Marvalene's voice I knew she was upset. “I have to evacuate the campus again!” Yeah, but this time it was going to be real real bad.

The story of Dillard University is a story of courageous leadership. Dillard took the hardest hit of the colleges but Dillard had the strongest person to handle it.
After the Storm
is an important voice to add to the lore of the wrath of Katrina. We need to understand how Marvalene Hughes put her heart on her shoulder and made everyone care that this school survive. It's a great story. And not only because Marvalene is my friend but because she demonstrated the very best of all of us. I had to share with her that the Katrina era was the only time I had wished I was rich. I would have written a check for a million dollars and never looked back. But since I'm a poet I do have books. I culled my personal library for first editions and once the library building was rehabilitated I sent about eleven hundred first editions to help jump-start Dillard's library. I wish I could have done more. But I, and others, gave the measure of what we had. Following Marvalene's lead.

THE RIGHT WAY

My grandmother's grits

Are so much better than mine

Mine tend to be lumpy

And a bit disorientated

Though that is probably

My fault

I always want

To put 1 cup grits

Into 4 cups cold

Water with 1 teaspoon

Salt