The Carpet Bagger's Journal — moving from NYC to Mississippi

October 24, 2015

The South Comes North, Conquers and Desegregates: Anne Babson and Caroline Randall Williams read tonight in Pittsburgh

Oh, readers of this blog,whom I adore — please come revel with me tonight.  I am not inviting you to meet me in a wheat field under the full moon with a blanket.  I am not inviting you to look for me hiding in a cave on the edge of Hannibal, Missouri, so we can sneak in the church balcony and watch our own funeral.  I am not inviting you to slip out of the governor’s ball so we can elope in my mother’s buggy.  No, none of these.  I am asking you to escape with me North.

Come see me tonight at 7 pm at East End Book Exchange in Pittsburgh

Come see me tonight at 7 pm at East End Book Exchange in Pittsburgh

I am reading tonight (October 24) in Pittsburgh at East End Book Exchange, 4754 Liberty Avenue, in the Little Italy section of town known as Bloomfield, at 7 pm.  The reading is called “Iambic Drawl.” With me will be the brilliant and lovely Caroline Randall Williams.  Caroline Randall Williams is a poet from Tennessee who has done something really radical — she has written a book of poetry, Lucy Negro Redux, in which she reclaims (and repurposes) Shakespeare for African-American Southern women, who have often had complicated and rather painful relationships with older white men. She talks about it, really talks about it in her very clever book, a book so clever it hurts my feelings that I have never thought of anything so clever to write myself.

I will read selections and delicatessen cuts from my collection The White Trash Pantheon, which resets the ancient Greek myths in the Deep South. In it, as many of you know, I write about white privilege, although I do so with a lot of humor, as this allows white folks like me to examine our pretensions and reject them.  I also write about idolatry, as myths about white people in the South have engendered false gods that some have actually revered.

Together, Miz Caroline and I are busting a few myths, including, but not limited to:

  1. White people have a unified and illustrious heritage.
  2. Black people do not.
  3. White people have some kind of a corner on the market for heroism.
  4. Black people are merely victims in society, not participants, not contributors.
  5. White women are the only women who are really beautiful and elegant.
  6. Black women are the only women who are really drudges.
  7. Old books have nothing fresh to say to new people.
  8. New people have nothing fresh to say to old books.

We are going to tear down these walls and others and dance around linguistically.You should come out and hear us!

In high-falluting literary and scholarly circles, there is an abiding tendency to see African-American writers as operating in some sort of a cloister wholly separate in their influences and their production of poetry, and if white folks should read that poetry, it is because we are committed to being somehow politically correct.  Paris Review poetry editor Richard Howard once remarked that black poets would only be great writers when they stopped writing about race all the time.  What Mr. Howard failed to realize was that he was writing about his own race all the time, too, the presumptuous

 privilege of belonging to a dominant racial group that has believed that its culture was THE culture and that African-American culture was merely multiculture.  The work of Caroline Randall-Williams belies this notion, as I hope does my own.  Mr. Howard’s idea is wrong, and it ought to be obvious to all — African-American culture is at the center of all cultural achievements in America, not a parenthetical influence at all.  We should not read African-American poets’ work because we are being democratic.  We should read African-American poets’ work because much of it is good, some of it great.

This woman is on her way toward greatness!

This woman is on her way to greatness!

I am reading, then, with Caroline Randall-Williams because I actually get to — she is a good poet on her way very possibly to being a great poet.  If you meet her tonight, which I hope you will, you will almost instantly realize she is ten times smarter than the rest of us.  She is also delightful and gorgeous. Her career is a freight train barreling down the track, and we can get out of the way or get on board, because she is part of the next big thing, as I hope to be right with her.  She likes what I do to old books in my writing, because she likes to mess with old books, too. Call it quilting or decoupage if you like, but we have been calling it post-post modernism.  We deride the Derridian idea that text has no inherent meaning.  We just think that we get to couple authorial intentions of old to our own; we write back.  We also write around.  We write beneath and above.  We believe in capital-T-truths, but you’ll have to ask us nicely if you want to hear which ones.

So come out to East End Book Exchange tonight at 7 pm.  We are going to be post-post.  We are going to be the Confederacy’s worst nightmare.  The South rises again tonight and wins Pennsylvania, only it’s not as General Lee imagined it, not at all.

December 15, 2010

Doing Shots at Faulkner’s Grave

My participation in a Southern Tradition

The PhD students in English and American literature at Ole Miss have a tradition of drinking at William Faulkner‘s grave — a stone’s throw away from  the campus.  It is germane to everything that department does — the specter of Faulkner, though he dropped out of the school and  went his own way — haunts the halls.  Who is the next immortal among us, he seems to ask.

However, despite the lovely, rich prose, Faulkner, were he in fact a king-maker, would never point his scepter at a woman or a person of color to indicate that we were smart or interesting in any way  but perhaps sexually.  I’m sure I would have scared the crap out of Faulkner, so in going to his  grave at Saint Peter‘s cemetery, I had no problem trying to spook him.  I am the kind of woman who would have wanted  to scare the crap out of him, anyway,when he was living — a Yankee feminist who worked as  a speechwriter and pamphleteer to end apartheid.  To Mister Faulkner, whose worst nightmare I am, I say “Boo!”

One does not drink alone at Faulkner’s tombstone.  Apart from the shade  of the author himself, his longsuffering wife is buried next to him, his parents across from him.  One wonders who chose the inscription “Go with God,” which must be read ironically, if one has ever read the guy’s work.  Not only  did I drink with the former Faulkners, I  also  drank with my pals in the PhD program Victoria, Thomas, and Ebony, who are all  very cool.  Thomas provided the booze (see the Maker’s Mark in my hand).  Victoria provided much of the prose from Faulkner and the photos.  Ebony brought the fabulousness.  I just brought the bad attitude.

We had trouble finding the grave.  Saint Peter’s cemetery is not next to Saint Peter’s church, and it was cold and dark outside.  We wandered the streets of Oxford, Mississippi, following the confused navigator function of Victoria’s phone.  I think we were bamboozled by it because of the magnetic waves emanating from the tombstone.  The waves are a transmission from the next dimension, which declares in a garbled text message:

OMFG — you will never have immortality as writers.  Post-modern criticism  has killed the cult of the author.  Give it up.  I am more fabulous than you will ever  be.  Even Satan bows to me in Hell.

I knew it was a lie from the pit itself.  We  disregarded it.  We climbed into Ebony’s car for warmth and listened to Ella Fitzgerald  and Frank Sinatra.  Whatever is true about the so-called cult of the author, the cult of the diva is alive and well, as evidenced by Ebony’s i-Pod play list, as evidenced by Ebony and her fabulous diva self.

I care about the Pulitzer.  I  care about the Nobel.  I care about the National Book Award.  I care about authors.  I care about Divas.  No tombstone can talk me out of this.  All it can do is lend perspective on the notion of  authorial immortality.

I once saw a graffito that went like this:

“God is dead”  — Neitzche

“Neitzche is dead” — God

Shakespeare  is an immortal writer.  His bones are turning to powder as  we speak.  It is not good enough to be an immortal writer.  One must actually go with God, not just have relatives, who would burn every copy of one’s heretical books if they could, inscribe such a thing on a tombstone that they never meant to be ironic.  There is truly only one  kind of immortality — the resurrection kind.  That said, without the other kind, how will I  explain to future generations why I thought the giraffe-print furry hat and  giraffe-print furry bag  I had with me the night I did shots at Faulkner’s grave were really cool?  I intend to be an immortal writer who is immortal indeed, not like the godless, misogynist, racist genius at whose grave I poured libations a few days ago.

Here’s a picture of  me with  Ebony, wandering around looking for the grave:

Hunting for Faulkner's grave; finding the fabulous

Ebony is a brilliant woman who is funny, hilarious, and — despite all Mississippi siren calls that might have drawn her away from this — always impeccably dressed.

If Faulkner were living and breathing, he wouldn’t like either of the women in this picture — one  he would utterly dismiss, and the other he would just loathe.  Faulk him and his  genius, I say.  We’re fantastic.

Finally, the four  of us found our way to the grave.  We all took a shot, and Victoria read a lovely passage of prose from the man in the grave about the enduring quality of words.

As the moon stood in a sliver against the black of the night, and the wind rustled in the breeze, I couldn’t allow myself to make this a worshipful experience.  I don’t believe in ancestor worship, even of really fantastic ancestors, but while Faulkner was fantastic as a writer, he wasn’t such a great antecedent.

After Victoria finished reading, I took what was left in my glass and splashed it on the grave.

“Bitch, give  me your talent!” I shouted.

Ebony, Victoria and Thomas are used to such outbursts from me —  not so much the cursing  as the incongruity — and they just took it in  stride.

Thomas read a passage from “A Rose for Emily,” one which involved the repetition of the n-word over and over again.  I took the bottle and poured out  half of it  on the engraved name beneath us, interrupting Thomas to say, “That’s what you get for saying ‘n*gger’ so many  times.  You’re just lucky it’s not my urine.”

We went afterward to a reading of living writers. It was time to go.  Let the dead bury the dead.   We were out of booze, anyway.

Insulting Faulkner while taking note of his talent seemed appropriate — not worship, just acknowledgment.  The cult of the author, per Derrida and his sychophants, is dead.  Perhaps it should be.  Instead, long live the diva, I say.  Long live Ebony.  Long live you, whoever you are.  Go with God.

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