Founder's Blog
Kwame Alexander, Founder of Book-in-a-Day
First of all, I am in Love with my wife. I have never been a slave, yet i know i am whipped. My daughters are the fuel that drives my soul to joy. However, poetry is that unnamed organ. It's somewhere between my corpus callosum and the metatarsals. Without it, I could not walk. breathe. love.
After college, armed with a degree in English, I embarked on a brief career as a...waiter. Sure, my father was a book publisher, but when asked If I could put my three years of study with Nikki Giovanni to use, and start a poetry imprint, he laughed and said "Poetry doesn't sell. You can't have a career as a poet." After a few years at Bennigans Restaurant, a funny thing happened on the way to today.
By 1995, I'd written and published two books of poetry, and together, with the publishing knowledge I'd gained at my father's hands, I now had a wealth of information and understanding on how to make a book. I knew more than most of my literary peers, and certainly all of my friends and associates. As it happened, a few writers asked if I would teach them how to publish a book. And so in 1995 on the campus of Howard University, I held my first "Do The Write Thing" publishing seminar. The cost was $25, and the room was packed. Naturally, during the course of the presentation I would interject poems and stories about my life in publishing. It was my way of balancing the technical speak with interesting anecdotes. And it worked. It worked so well, that a local teacher, who attended the seminar, asked if I would come to her school and read poetry to her high school students. I thought the idea rather cool, but it was the "honorarium" that convinced me. $25. Okay, now you have to remember that I was a waiter, and $25 in tips was great for a weekday; and I would be making $25 for doing what I loved for one hour.
As I approached the school, I noticed that it was an "alternative" school. I walked into her class, and noticed that "alternative" was code for "students who were kicked out of regular school for reasons ranging from too violent to too pregnant." I was introduced as "The Poet," which, for the students, was code for "guy who's about to bore us, so let's not pay attention to him." And, they didn't. For the first 30 seconds, I was like a simile at a metaphor party. Nobody wanted me there. Well, I knew I needed that $25, so I quickly and loudly recited some funny poem by some poet that I'd heard somewhere. And some of the kids laughed and started listening. Then, I recounted a remembrance of a weekend I spent with Tupac Shakur in 1992. And all of the kids turned their heads, eyes focused on my lips, and they listened. And, then I had them. Connections. Our conversation in poetry lasted for 2 hours, and none of us wanted to leave. And, I knew right then, that my days at Bennigans were over.
For the next 5 years, I would visit hundreds of schools, reading poetry, talking about books, discussing my life in literature, and I'd always begin with a poem that I felt would connect with the students. The idea was that if connected with the students, took a risk, put yourself out there, danced naked on the floor, then the students would be willing to take a risk also, and be willing to explore the magic of reading and writing poetry. This was a wonderful career that I was developing. Of course, I was being paid more than $25; poetry was becoming a tunnel of hope for me.
To be more specific, last week. I have been working in schools now for over fifteen years. Mainly high schools, but some elementary and middle. I've seen students come back from contemplating suicide, because of poetry. I've seen students decide to go to college, because of poetry. I've seen 15 year old boys unashamedly walking the hallways with books of love poetry sticking out of their back pockets. I've seen the impact that the power of poetry has on young minds. I make a living from poetry now. Even my father sees it now. I have developed a rhythm, a certain swagger when working with students. I've learned how to do "The Dance." And in my recent past I have never met a group of kids that I could not connect with—in the first 30 seconds. Until last week.
On Tuesday, my wife left. For two weeks. Without her, I am isolated, unfinished, broken off. On Wednesday, I held two poetry workshops for 13-18 year old black boys at Oak Hill Juvenile Detention Facility in Maryland. On Thursday, I held a two-hour poetry presentation/workshop for English as Second Language students in Herndon, VA. On Saturday, I held a book-in-a-day workshop for a group of DC high school students—eight were deaf, and eight were hearing. Talk about creative schizophrenia. Here are some highlights of what I've learned:
I.
You're tired.
Thirty seconds can easily become 30 minutes. Which can become a painful 3 hours.
When a young man tells you he can't wait to get out of jail, so he can get back to stealing, and you ask him what about getting caught, and he replies, "yep, but I got to get caught," it is time to start dancing.
"The Wire" is as close to real as it gets. In terms of the lack of hope.
Everybody has a connection to love.
When you look into a young man's eyes, and you see hopelessness, read a love poem.
Don't stop.
But, it's hard. Unlike anything you've ever done.
You talk all the time about how poetry is powerful and can change lives. But do you really believe it.
Senseless violence is antithetical to poetry. So how do you read a love poem when there is fighting at your foot?
Why do they interrupt you during the poem? Ebony trapped dark black. Question. This is what I know. Comment...
Some are not even listening.
You are a poet. You work in schools. You don't want to do this again. Ever. You will not come back.
Your wife, who is away, enjoying crawfish, and family, and hope, tells you "They don't expect you to come back. People come in and out of their lives all the time. Why would you be any different? They're supposed to trust you after one visit. Come on, Kwame, some of these boys haven't found trust in 18 years."
One boy says he wants to write a book.
Another asks can he have a book. Yes.
Another writes a poem about loss, but doesn't want to read it to the group. Asks you to.
Everyone listens. Then they applaud.
Note to Kwame: They don't want to hear your poems. They want to hear their poems. And they want you to listen.
You're tired.
II.
It makes a poet feel alive when an entire school wants to "be a part of the KA movement."
It feels even better when 7th and 8th grade students want to "eat your book like chocolate."
Middle school students LOVE Clerihews. You know this, but it's always cool to see how these short, funny poems can inspire reluctant writers.
You give away way too many books.
If you allow students to ask you any question, about anything (except your family), then be prepared for them to do it.
When an 8th grader asks if you use poetry to get into girl's pants, or do you actually mean what you write, it is time to dance.
Are you going to have to pre-screen questions?
The answer you give him is thoughtful and appropriate and deflective.
The answer you want to give him is hilarious.
When you write poetry that is good and honest and authentic, sometimes, by default, you might end up in a girl's pants. That is okay. You think.
When you write poetry that is dishonest and manufactured to get into girl's pants, that is not okay. You know.
There are poets who fit into both categories. You know some of each.
A 7th grader ask you to sign her book. Then she hands you a folded sheet of paper. A note. The teacher, Robin, has already alerted you that one of the students wants you to read a poem. You read it. It is about loss. It is sad. You remember Oak Hill. But it is also uplifting. You smile. The student tells you to keep it. Like you need it more than she does.
Maybe you do. Does it have a blanket? A pillow. Can you curl up inside of it, you wonder.
III.
You started Book-in-a-Day to inspire students to write. To make writing cool. To create student authors. To open young minds to extraordinary possibilities. The whole "one day" thing was sort of a fluke. You kind of backed into it. But, hey it works.
Since 2006, you've created over 400 student authors.
You've never worked with deaf students. Until Saturday.
At 8am, 8 deaf students are on one side of the room, and 8 hearing students areon the other.
There is fear, nervousness, all kinds of hesitation. You know this, because you experience all three.
You are prepared for this workshop. You did the work.
Nothing can prepare you for teaching poetry to a group of deaf and hearing students. Together.
Except doing it.
You begin with a rhyme poem. It's your comfort zone. Your first 30 seconds routine.
There is no concept for rhyme in ASL (American Sign Language).
Why didn't you know this? What do you do now?
Clerihews always work. Wait a minute. Clerihews are rhyme poems. Oh my, maybe your father was right.
The workshop will last for five hours, and you're supposed to inspire the students to write poetry that behaves, for publication, and you are like an ABC drama, after only 4 minutes.
Lost.
When you are teaching deaf and hearing students to write poetry, and how to publish a book, and you suddenly have the realization that Sign Language is NOT ENGLISH, and grammar, rhyme and other English constructs do not apply, IT IS TIME TO DANCE.
A deaf student says there is no such thing as bad poetry. A hearing student agrees.
You ask them is there such a thing as bad fried chicken. You tell them to season their poems right, cook them well…you ask them the ingredients that go into a poem.
Rhythm. Imagery. Feeling. Line breaks. ..
You start getting a little more comfortable.
Deanna has a brilliant idea. Pair them up together, one hearing, one deaf, and let them write a list poem together.
Until now, the students are Capulets and Montagues. Okay, well maybe not that extreme, but they are of two different worlds. Afraid. Unaware. Unknowing.
You watch the resistance.
You walk around and see the poems forming. You see the walls coming down.
You see a deaf girl and a hearing boy texting each other.
Well, yes!
You see a deaf girl and a hearing boy smiling. At each other. For a while.
You see something happening that is magical, and wonderful.
And hopeful.
You do not know where the time has gone. You finally have everyone dancing, and it is almost time to go.
You ask the students to read their poems. Deaf students sign. Hearing students read. Some simultaneous. It is honest. Authentic.
Powerful.
A phenomenal interpreter (because none of this works without fabulous interpreters) asks if you've considered doing this at other deaf schools. She wants to come with you.
The students leave. You will see them again in two weeks.
This is what you do.
And, you are making a living.
And, you love your job.
IV.
Because you are walking the path of a poet.
You are breathing.
You are no longer tired.
You are alive.
And still learning.
How to dance.
—Kwame Alexander
May 2, 2009