Part Two: An Envoi, A Bridge, and A (?) Demon

Until the TV series Treme, about which we’ll hear more later, most people’s association with the word “Creole” was “shrimp.” Robert Pinsky, whose mother was originally from Little Rock, recently explored the term in a poem by that name: “Creole comes from a word meaning to breed or to create, in a place.” In what follows with Jennifer Reeser and Mona Lisa Saloy, there’s a duo of concerns: the influence of culture on aesthetics and language—all "creations"—which I view as microcosmic for this piece as a whole.

Reeser, primarily known for her writings in received forms, as well as translation—which indicates a reverence for tradition—answers two primary questions: why haven’t her travels put her at odds with her native lineage as much as mine seem to have? And what makes her so different from certain other Southern poets, who find their own work can’t be nourished except by others of their ilk?

I can attribute this phenomenon to nothing of my own credit. Like any other, I am primarily a product of Nature, followed next by Nurture. My roots are from the beginning here. I am a native, born not far from a bayou called “Contraband,” and I have been raised here, steeped in the French/Cajun/Creole culture from the first, mostly by French Catholics who served to instill and reinforce in me a religious regard for tradition, for continuity, for creed and “catechism,” (if you will) of culture. While I remain, technically, a Protestant, I am probably the most catholic Protestant you might ever come to know, and there is that other, ineffable definition of the word “catholic” which means “of interest or use to all; universal; all-embracing; of wide sympathies or interests” according to the Oxford American dictionary. 

But this influence has to fall on fertile ground, of course, to grow and thrive, and in me, it happened to find a temperament pre-disposed to deep and passionate loyalty. I don’t for a moment suppose that it would have been any different, had I been born in Paris, or Moscow, or London. My intensity and identity in the case of such would have merely meant that my foremost devotion would have belonged to those places, while I reached out to encompass the cultures of New Orleans, or Acadiana – or wherever – allowing their cultures to collect and “coagulate” in my consciousness, before returning inevitably to European roots. And whether blessing or curse, depending on how one looks at it, I possess a monstrous memory. My impressions do not collect in any logical, sensory sort of way, but my “information gathering” preference is like a pool of indistinct feeling with intuition, where nothing absorbed from my early years here has ever really changed.
 
Beyond that, I do believe there is a certain amount of courage which has to counter the innate fear of “dislocation.” I have been to Paris. I can say with absolute confidence that there is a moment when one can become so giddy with the thrill of an alien encounter – particularly when one is a poet, or any type of artist, for that matter – that the lure away from identity, from place and “centering,” can be overwhelming. This temptation is the same, I think, in any area of life, whether it be the lure of a new lover, or a new literature, a new locale or a new language. “Oh!” goes the Ego, ”this strange feeling!” Immediately there follows the question: could I become accustomed to this? Could this replace what I know now?  Could I be content with it, or even – dare I ask – happier?” Not everyone is the same, but for me, I answer that question in the negative: No. I could not, because however thrilling this experience may be for me, it could never be authentic, and my own core motivation, psychologically, (I stress those words “my own”), is the search for authenticity. No, it means I might never again hear some Cajun exclaim, “de riches’ men in de parish, sha!” or taste a really first-rate genuine gumbo again, or hear “St. James Infirmary” played to perfection while witnessing a French Quarter funeral procession. Fortunately for me, that temptation to “dislocate,” in an intellectual/spiritual way, is something I am able to overcome. “This is great, “ I say, “but it is not who I am.” The ability to recognize this, and resist, might not be so easy for some — so I do sympathize, rather than judging one who is reluctant to venture far from home, whether it is in a geographical or literary sense. Exploration takes faith.

Which writer and folklorist Mona Lisa Saloy—winner of the PEN / Oakland Josephine Miles Award in Poetry, as wells as finalist for the Story Line Press Morgan Poetry Prize—has in abundance. This year she was awarded a sabbatical and fellowship from the UNCF/Mellon Foundation to complete her second collection of verse, which will continue to discuss Creole culture, the disaster of post-Katrina and hurricanes, plus the heart of NOLA folk to rebuild and keep the faith while preserving a fabulous, unique milieu.

My work is a mix of forms: free verse, some with attention to the vernacular (I love people’s voices), narratives, lyrics, sonnets, haikus, and villanelles. I read work that feeds me, that informs humanity and the spirit, from Nikky Finney to Niyi Osundare, from Sonia Sanchez to Seamus Heaney, Natasha Trethewey to Li-Young Lee, so I read writers who respect the past and their cultural histories. I read for the songs in their work as much as for the silences and what transpires between lines. This range inspires me to better articulate what I’m after, not just preserving the past but expressing purposeful life as we Southerners do. It’s no wonder that I admire Jennifer Reeser’s sonnets, and also Alison Pelegrin, who is a riot—what humor!

Please describe your culture—and perhaps also offer the distinction between “Black” and “African-American”—and how it has influenced your poems.

I’m Black and Creole, innately Southern, and certainly American. When one is raised with names that return centuries here, when the stories of those folks inform our sensibility, traditions that teach how to make each day precious, and we grow up enjoying those traditions, appreciating the specialness we each bring to continuing these ways, I can’t help but be thankful. In New Orleans, there lives a recognizable culture, and it’s here to stay.

About “Black” vs. “African-American”: again, it’s complicated, and not everyone agrees. It took “Negroes,” or the “Colored,” centuries to be proudly “Black,” which originally was a derogatory term. During that time of blossoming, many blacks learned the positive past in Africa—massive kingdoms, architectural and engineering feats in agriculture and arts. Claiming that heritage brought on the term African-American; at the same time, there is an awareness of more recent Africans, who are not descendants of slaves, and as a result, many Blacks currently use those terms interchangeably. The lines blur: people use the term they feel best describes them, though this is an over-simplification. Anyone interested should pursue the subject in depth.

And your newer poems? How are they different from those in Red Beans and Ricely Yours?

The versatility of verse brings great creative freedom and challenge. While I come from a strong oral tradition, I expect my poems to work on the page. The older poems are just that—earlier efforts, written over time focusing on New Orleans culture pre-Katrina, a sensibility that is Creole in tradition and Black. In America, just as in Africa, there is no monolithic Black culture, but on many things we agree. The result is that my poems work nationally and internationally. Some of that is an articulation of oppression and its subtleties, linguistic expression and folk stuff that most folks recognize, whether it’s endearment or attacks. See “The N Word,” which was banned in Virginia, then published by University of Virginia Press in Furious Flower: African American Poets from the Black Arts Movement to the Present.

Seven years post-Katrina devastation, I’m rebuilding my family home. I’ve moved fifteen times, had twelve addresses in three states since then, and this is not uncommon. No short film can ever contain what it means to rebuild post unnatural disaster when everyone you know and love also lost everything, and there’s no place to live. For me, the new collection attempts to capture the old-world friendliness that is New Orleans, our joie de vivre, then the smack-down of post-Katrina, the leaving, the homelessness, returning to the ghost of a grander life, and by Grace and Faith, rebuilding one brick at a time, which takes a lot of heart. Finally, I hope the collection pays tribute to that stalwart nature and celebrates a strong foundation continuing with joy.

Speaking of “Grace” and “Faith”—then there’s “joy” again!—could you describe your religious vision and what it means to your work?

As a kid, I attended church a lot. I’m a cradle Catholic, for my mother, the eldest of a Baptist minister, converted to marry my Dad. My maternal grandfather co-founded his church, Mt. Zion Baptist, on North Robertson before Katrina; it did not return. At Papa’s church, we had fried chicken and potato salad after services, and we studied the entire Bible. Between the Baptist experience and Catholicism, I grew up with a great sense of sacred traditions: an appreciation of God’s bounty in nature and knowing all gifts are from God. That’s why we call it “the present!” I’m active in my church and worship with my family; I sing in the choir, lector when scheduled, even minister to the infirm when called. My new collection reflects this appreciation especially since I want to show that more than “Sin City,” New Orleans is holier than folks think. These Christian family traditions built up a strong sense of faith that has carried me through more car accidents—one left me crippled for a time—than I care to recall, a divorce, multiple disasters (earthquakes out west, hurricanes in the south, being a caregiver, loss of dear ones), and struggles of a female artist competing for support. I’m thankful, for these trials carved the character that I am becoming, the writing to come, and tomorrows of adventure, promise.

While no one is promised happiness at readings / celebrations / panels, even when invited, I was ignorant of both the Tulane and Emory proceedings, as previously confessed, so I attempted to suspend judgment and read, carefully, the responses that began to deluge my Inbox. Chronology isn’t easy for me, but Faulkner believed that writers could leap through eras and characters as long as they stayed in one place. Or, to quote from John Jeremiah Sullivan’s introduction to the new Random House / Modern Library edition of Absalom, Absalom!, in which he warns of potential impediments to understanding: Don’t look for “the plot,” he advises. “There is none. He tells us on the third page (in italics) pretty much everything that will happen in the book, actionwise. If you ever feel lost, you can refer back to it, a little not-even-paragraph that begins, “It seems that this demon—his name was Sutpen—”

“Don’t look for the plot” in this entire assortment of essays, either!—though I can offer a sole fixed locale: my mind. Also, in the next few installments, some speculations regarding the presence, if any, of “demon[s]” at work regarding the PSA co-sponsored gatherings at Tulane and Emory, and afterwards.

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