The Language Lane

On the seventy-seventh anniversary of his birth, I recall the stunning epic poem, Jazz in Jail, by Louis Reyes Rivera. Robin Kelley called it “one of this century’s great works of art.” In tribute, I post the foreword I wrote for the poem’s publication in 2016, four years after Rivera’s passing. Find the poem!! Steeped in discipline and touched by genius, Louis Reyes Rivera has given us an African-Amerindian lyrical and visionary epic, Jazz in Jail. He was, as he would term i

Over his entire career, poet Quincy Troupe has expressed fascination with the idea of creation and the life cycle. His first volume, after all, is titled Embryo and reflects his preoccupation with real and symbolic birth waters, the blood of existence, the passage of time, the bones of death (you could always read one of his books in a cemetery and feel right at home), spirits, souls. In the title poem, he writes, “germinating embryo/sprung African shades of ancestors/flung f

I have not agreed with John McWhorter on much, particularly regarding his ignorant remarks about the admission policies of specialized high schools in New York City (discussion for another day). But he raises valid issues in “Don’t Sleep: Linguistically, Black Americans Can Walk and Chew Gum at the Same Time,” his New York Times editorial of May 3. Well, what McWhorter’s title announces that we can accomplish, we, of course, can. This brings us to his objection regarding a pa

Colson Whitehead’s The Nickel Boys obviously has much to recommend it. A gripping tale about an African American youth trying to come of age amid the southern, early-1960s-version of American white supremacy, it represents a powerful addition to Whitehead’s oeuvre and to African American literature and American literature overall. Told in a sparse style, the novel is nonetheless richly allusive and artfully introduces you to its family. As in almost any novel by Morrison or R

Fred Foss probably won’t get a birthday tribute on radio as do many other jazz musicians. But he deserves a tribute from us. See, Freddy, as we called him, was from the block in Corona, Queens. He always seemed to say something you could use and by some accounts was the best lefthanded stickball player in history. He was introduced to the music through a record collection held by a friend’s father. I didn’t know that side of him back then. He told me the story after we reconn

As is frequently noted, one person’s freedom fighter is another person’s terrorist. One’s suicide bomber is another’s homicide bomber. Such is the entanglement of ideology, language, and battles, a dynamic perhaps best summarized in the Guardian during the First Gulf War thirty-one years ago. For example, one side has a military, the other a war machine. One side has reporting guidelines, the other censorship. One side has press briefings, the other propaganda. The missiles o

After having the privilege of conversing with Haki Madhubuti and Joanne Gabbin this past Wednesday at the 16th National Black Writers Conference, I have decided to post the closing paragraphs of an unpublished essay about the trajectory of Madhubuti’s nonfiction work. In 2016, Haki Madhubuti published his most sweeping political statement, Taking Bullets: Terrorism and Black Life in Twenty-First Century America Confronting White Nationalism, Supremacy, Privilege, Plutocracy a

Way behind because of personal matters, I wanted to post this last month. These remarks, made when the book first appeared, still ring true for me. Review May We Forever Stand: A History of the Black National Anthem is a thoroughly engrossing read. Imani Perry’s exploration of the origin, evolution, and resonance of this fabled song by James Weldon Johnson and Rosamond Johnson contributes mightily to our understanding of Black cultural and political development from the early

After maneuvering and maneuvering, I finally ran out of shelf space for books at home. Definitely wasn’t going to win that competition with the library. So to clear space for any new works, I figured I had to donate some of the old. Or so it seemed. The very first shelf was a problem. I couldn’t let go of anything written by Du Bois. Some sort of third consciousness would have to kick in for that to happen. Besides, he has so much that I still need to consult. Neither is Chin

I have been unsuccessful in my attempts to eulogize Andrew Vachss, my brother, mentor, and biggest supporter for more than 50 years, who passed away December 27. Fortunately, voluminous words in public spaces indicate his phenomenal achievements, though he was mainly about the work and not much about garnering praise. Andrew would say just be sure to make your ripple in the pond, and the rest will sort itself out. I think the poet Vallejo wrote something to the effect that “t

Seems the Color Purple movie is a quiet staple of holiday-season television. Many see it as an inspirational story of a journey to selfhood. The frenzied controversy of bygone years, especially in the immediate aftermath of the holiday-season release in movie theaters in 1985, is hardly known to new generations of viewers. They must dig in the archives to discover the hot takes on the Phil Donahue Show, in the New Republic, in scores of newspapers, and at literary sessions su

While Coop and I were talking about my recent post on the Class of 1953, we mentioned several New York City backcourt men we admired back in the day, namely, Dean Meminger, Tiny Archibald, and Charlie Scott, all born in 1948, all playground legends, all members of NBA championship teams, all actors in each other’s stories. So I’m thinking that these facts are the core of another documentary. Dean Meminger (5/13/1948--8/23/2013) Although a native of South Carolina, Dean “The D

“Wonder how Rittenhouse gon do with the whole Stevie thing?” “Semple, you know I try to understand you the best that I can. But I am really lost on this one.” On an unseasonably warm day in November, the two men were back on one of their favorite park benches discussing recent news. The sunshine beamed conspicuously bright and flitting birds seemed especially playful. “Find yourself, Junior Boyd. You was a little nappy-headed boy just like me. Stevie singing about those days

I never tire of teaching Their Eyes Were Watching God because I’m always interested in characters who emerge from relative voicelessness to become powerful language users. This is the trajectory of Janie, who has little say as her grandmother pushes her toward the well-to-do Logan Killicks and into a marriage of (in)convenience. She escapes that marriage, while still a teenager, by running off with husband number two, who appears to be kinder than the man who demanded her hum

I start by apologizing to my good friends Glenn Cooper and the late Leroy Charles. Both were born in 1953 and were very good high school basketball players in New York City. But when I think of their age peers---and my idea for an ESPN 30 for 30---I don’t consider them. I think of the intersecting narratives of Mel Utley, Fly Williams, Larry Fogle, Phil Sellers, and World B. Free. You could have found numerous scouts to claim that each of these players possessed the most pote

To illustrate the point of textual conversations in American literature, I had students read Toni Morrison’s Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination. In addition, I had them read some of the novels that Morrison writes at length about, namely, Willa Cather’s Sapphira and the Slave Girl, Edgar Allan Poe’s The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket, and Ernest Hemingway’s To Have and Have Not. They understood Morrison’s idea about an Africanist presence

As we know, somebody will always come to your party, eat up as much food as possible, kill all the liquor, and then tell you how you should have made the party better. I won’t do that after working through the 1100-pageAfrican American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle & Song. I sincerely appreciate the effort of the editor, Kevin Young, who underplays his own contributions, by the way. Nonetheless, he does a great job representing a tremendous tradition and including a fair numb

Semple hadn’t talked to his good friend in a while. Texting felt too clumsy, so he went old-school and called him on the phone, land line no less. After greetings and small talk, Semple got to what was troubling him. Man, Junior Boyd, I’m all the way messed up over here. I’m stuck on that Raising Kanan and don’t even wanna dig it that much. I watched an episode myself, Semple. But the Southside drug angle doesn’t hold me captive. That’s what I’m saying. I wanna be free, too.

I mentioned in the last post that I once commented about the need for a literary movement for Larry Holmes. I thought those remarks, made in ” Konch” magazine years ago, were still available online. However, I was told that they aren’t. So, because people asked---and because of another Muhammad Ali documentary---I include some of them on “The Language Lane.” Ishmael Reed says Larry Holmes had been a greater boxer than Muhammad Ali. I’m not going for that one. Nor is Vorris Nu

As Manny Pacquiao nears the end of his boxing career, we are hearing the story of his greatness more and more. Hype, after all, is what announcers are paid to do. And Pacquiao has made it easy, having won recognized world titles in six weight divisions. (I don’t count Ring magazine.) He has been a champion at 112, 122, 130, 135, 147, and 154 pounds. It’s an incomparable feat. Almost. If you put pressure on the semantics of “world title,” you figure that if different sanction