When I was solicited for interest in this course, I thought "Who in the heck is William Stafford?" Then I was responded to like I was the square kid who was the last to know everything. Being as that he's a who's who in the literary world (especially having taught at the same place I'm writing this), I decided it was time to stop looking stupid and figure out who he was. After all, I am a Language Arts teacher. Besides, it was paid for. And y'all remember the right reverend Tom Peterson preached the word and said "Free is a very good price." Amen? And up I signed.
I had no idea what I was in for. I was the only Black person, and the only one with no greys or receding. I was the new kid that came to the school mid-year. We know that kid.
This piece of writing I did on the first day - within the first couple hours - will explain it much better than if I had to go revisit it. But it was through learning and exploring Stafford's daily writing routine that the shackles called bad nerves were unlocked.
I began to type, and this came out.
Like Magic: What I got from Stafford’s Method of Daily Writing.
When I walked into this class, the hairs stood up on my arms, like a cat. I had something to crochet. That was fortunate for everyone there, because I would have said things I didn’t mean. Keeping my hands busy and my ears alert, keeping a mental tally of every microaggression while keeping a physical tally of how many rows I had left to finish my dress. Tension prevented me from being able to fully function in my creative capacity for writing. I usually fill a page in two minutes. I could hardly write a sentence that morning. Thank God for a writing assignment over a working lunch, using Stafford’s method of daily writing entries, because I was able to spew what I needed to spew:
Abracadabra
Hocus pocus
I feel so hypervisible
I cant even focus
Everyone here is White
And I’m already late
Because the instructions told me
To drive through the wrong gate
Walking in 30 minutes
After the scheduled start
My hands are cold and clammy
I can feel my heart
I walk in, he says Hi
And I ask myself why
Why they all have anxiety
Peering out of their eyes?
I settle in to conversation
And I start to crochet
“It helps me to focus…”
…or at least that’s what I say.
I’m a professional “other” in this town Called Portland.
Since I was 3,
I’ve devised many methods
To take the focus off of me.
Crochet is a deflector
A security blanket
A rhythmic soothing outlet
When my nerves just can’t take it
And just as suddenly, I disappear.
As I look around,
Images of people who look like me
Are nowhere to be found.
Lewis and Clark are everywhere
Their portraits are prominent.
Chief Joseph’s picture is in an unlit corner
Behind a TV, near a vent.
And where on earth is York?
I teach history, I know well
That exploration without this brother
Would have shot the whole mission to hell.
We happen upon a photo
Of Primus St. John
And everybody looks at me
Like I have his t-shirt on.
I sink into my writing
Foot is shaking
A woman asks me
What it is that I’m making
The ice starts breaking
I decide to converse
These folks are kind and safe
It could be much worse.
Like magic, people of color here
Can very easily disappear
Until people hear, in their ear
That theft, rape, or basketball happened here.
I’m the writer who tends to say
What other people won’t –
Now you see me
Now you don’t.
I got that out of my system, and was able to get back to my regularly scheduled program of being able to sit down and fluently spill words on paper.
Writers need uninterrupted space to write, with no obligation to cater, tailor, or explain.
The next step was to dream up a project inspired by William Stafford. I thought it would be hard. Really, I had already done the hard part by showing up and showing that unconventional Black women like me belonged here.
I had no idea what I was in for. I was the only Black person, and the only one with no greys or receding. I was the new kid that came to the school mid-year. We know that kid.
This piece of writing I did on the first day - within the first couple hours - will explain it much better than if I had to go revisit it. But it was through learning and exploring Stafford's daily writing routine that the shackles called bad nerves were unlocked.
I began to type, and this came out.
Like Magic: What I got from Stafford’s Method of Daily Writing.
When I walked into this class, the hairs stood up on my arms, like a cat. I had something to crochet. That was fortunate for everyone there, because I would have said things I didn’t mean. Keeping my hands busy and my ears alert, keeping a mental tally of every microaggression while keeping a physical tally of how many rows I had left to finish my dress. Tension prevented me from being able to fully function in my creative capacity for writing. I usually fill a page in two minutes. I could hardly write a sentence that morning. Thank God for a writing assignment over a working lunch, using Stafford’s method of daily writing entries, because I was able to spew what I needed to spew:
Abracadabra
Hocus pocus
I feel so hypervisible
I cant even focus
Everyone here is White
And I’m already late
Because the instructions told me
To drive through the wrong gate
Walking in 30 minutes
After the scheduled start
My hands are cold and clammy
I can feel my heart
I walk in, he says Hi
And I ask myself why
Why they all have anxiety
Peering out of their eyes?
I settle in to conversation
And I start to crochet
“It helps me to focus…”
…or at least that’s what I say.
I’m a professional “other” in this town Called Portland.
Since I was 3,
I’ve devised many methods
To take the focus off of me.
Crochet is a deflector
A security blanket
A rhythmic soothing outlet
When my nerves just can’t take it
And just as suddenly, I disappear.
As I look around,
Images of people who look like me
Are nowhere to be found.
Lewis and Clark are everywhere
Their portraits are prominent.
Chief Joseph’s picture is in an unlit corner
Behind a TV, near a vent.
And where on earth is York?
I teach history, I know well
That exploration without this brother
Would have shot the whole mission to hell.
We happen upon a photo
Of Primus St. John
And everybody looks at me
Like I have his t-shirt on.
I sink into my writing
Foot is shaking
A woman asks me
What it is that I’m making
The ice starts breaking
I decide to converse
These folks are kind and safe
It could be much worse.
Like magic, people of color here
Can very easily disappear
Until people hear, in their ear
That theft, rape, or basketball happened here.
I’m the writer who tends to say
What other people won’t –
Now you see me
Now you don’t.
I got that out of my system, and was able to get back to my regularly scheduled program of being able to sit down and fluently spill words on paper.
Writers need uninterrupted space to write, with no obligation to cater, tailor, or explain.
The next step was to dream up a project inspired by William Stafford. I thought it would be hard. Really, I had already done the hard part by showing up and showing that unconventional Black women like me belonged here.