Poet Ai Has Passed . . .

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

A little taste treat I'm trying for a google ad. No idea how this is going to work, but google says everything "integrates."

Okay, maybe I am a Luddite *s

Lyssie says the fact that I can code an entire website on a napkin does not save me from being a Luddite. So . . .

For those of you who have been laughing at my recent . . . erm . . . forays . . . into facebook . . . yeah . . . I'm a little slow with gadgets . . . mm hmm . . . and? *s

The fact of the matter is: I find most things unnecessary, therefore uninteresting. If it doesn't capture my attention immediately, I can fairly well determine I'm fine living without it forever. Ask my grown children, who never could convince Mamí of the "need" for a microwave (or get her to read the labels on microwave popcorn, when we stayed in hotels . . .). We have a popcorn maker. Por díos.

Yes, I'm laughing . . . *s

M'kay, so . . . I'm dividing my time between polishing View Shock, my new site; adding fairly regular photos to my Flickr gallery (most of which you can't see, if you're not a member of the site, due to flickr monitoring standards, which cause me to put the majority of my works on either "moderate" or "restricted" status, and those aren't available to the general public, sorry); trying to redesign and add content to the new issue of Standards, the journal for which I'm Arts Editor; spending time with my crazed and beautiful 5-year-old (the smartest person in the forest *s); running around to physicians here and in Baltimore; preparing for my teen, Elle, and my ex/comadre La Lenni to turn up, next week; doing the business end of View Shock; trying to catch up with a few of you, for shoots; and deciding when to move to join Altaira down on the beach in North Carolina.

In short: I'm mad busy.

It's 5 something to the a.m., gente, and I'm typing with eyes at half-mast. Is that a mixed metaphor? *s

Wish me luck.

Emmanuela