One of my favorite people, the renowned poet Ai, passed from this earth last weekend.
I didn't know, until I phoned her, about something that now seems irrelevant. She didn't answer, and I thought: Oh, she's listening to NPR; that's what she does, at this time of day . . .
Can't say why my intuition failed me, this time, mi gente. Perhaps I've been ill so long . . .
When the word came down, in response to the voice mail I left, I was stunned.
More so, when I conducted a google search, and found there was but one news story on Ai's passing—and that was from the university in Oklahoma, where she was faculty.
One.
This is the poet who won the National Book Award, in a year that heralded the first time the award had ever been given to Black women in two consecutive years. And that is a major achievement, notwithstanding the accomplishment of winning the award on her own merit.
Ai's voice is not that of the soft and genteel poet. Understand: having her works published is akin to the way we all felt, when Sapphire finally got some recognition, with Precious.
So where are the news stories?
Today, there was a small piece in the LA Times.
Oh, this happened with so many of our people.
Wait until Norton runs a few of Ai's works through their approval mill. The classrooms will start recognizing; the children will have a sudden comprehension of the talent du jour . . . and Ai will be "seen."
I'm angered.
And saddened.
I do know, however, how very grateful was this woman, for every blessing she received throughout her lifetime.
She was not one to hold tight to bitterness.
For her, I will celebrate the day.
My love, Ai.
May you walk in peace with the ancestors.
Emmanuela
