Growing up in Shreveport, Louisiana, I found poetry in the slums of the city. Many nights I awoke listening to the blues playing in the den. Grown folks knew how to make a party out of hardships. Police sirens being followed by ambulances was a familiar motion picture. Syrup, mayonnaise, and sugar sandwiches satisfied the appetite when the refrigerator was empty. In the heat of the night, I caught fireflies. I picked flowers and wrote poems just to see the bright lights in my mother’s eyes. I learned that the art of poetry came with hardships too.
One Sunday, I heard the pastor preaching and the choir singing at the church across the street. The stirring echoes got so good, I decided to go over and enjoy the praise and worship. The sermon moved through me like poetry. I got baptized that day. I learned the church could capture hardships and turn them into poetry too.
I loved school. The winter cold made it difficult to concentrate on good grades. A cold home could turn warm intentions to stone. A poetry assignment given by my tenth grade English teacher, Mrs. Inocencio, breathed life into a burning desire. Unfortunately, my mother had a stroke, and truancy caused me to be sent to Swanson Center for Youth. I wondered if poetry had set my expectations on a ledge then wandered off. From there, I discovered roads had crossroads. A young boy died at the intersection. Weakness had no space in time to climb. Stanzas write out our destination before we arrive. I continued my assignment. Confinement, surprisingly, took hardships and anchored them in poetry too.
There was a dear lady by the name of Julia Hebert who was a librarian. She showed me around the library and helped me learn the Dewey Decimal System. She gave her time to pay attention to my poetry and encouraged me to write more. When she knew I was coming to see her, she would leave a Coca-Cola and two candy bars on the counter. Other times, she would bake me a homemade cake. She bought me my first collection of poetry. The bookmark was laid on the page of a poem by William Ernest Henley titled “Invictus.”
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
She mailed my poems to different poetry organizations and brought me their responses. I instantly learned that librarians and libraries could magically take hardships and turn them into poetry too.
I took a test at the youth center to determine placement and scored 12.9 on all subjects, equivalent to a high school senior graduating with an additional nine months of learning. Instead of going to school on campus, the administrators paired me with different teachers to prepare for college. Barbara Pierce, a teacher and alumnus of Grambling State University, enjoyed showing me pamphlets about “Tiger Land.” While I was sitting and talking with Mrs. Pierce, guards rushed upstairs to the library to remove a disorderly student. Mrs. Pierce grabbed me by the hand and introduced me to the librarian. During the weekends, I delivered library books to the dorms. During the weekdays, Dr. Mize, a professor from the University of Louisiana at Monroe, was brought in to help prepare me for the ACT. Withstanding the test of time, I rose to the occasion with a score of twenty-six. The gates of opportunity opened, and I entered Grambling State University. Clearly, divine intervention knew how to assemble hardships and turn them into poetry too.
Initially, my major was computer science but after calculating calculus, I instead calculated a major switch to English. I raised my hand to be excused and left the calculus class. An uncle whom I hadn’t seen in years crossed the street at the same time I did. I went to his home for a few hours to visit family, and then he took me to meet Dr. Reggagae, the dean of the department of English.
Ralph Wilson, an instructor in public speaking, taught me the importance of performance. In his class, I learned that poetry mixed with theatrics could intensify the allure of a poet. I recited poems in the yard and participated in Grambling’s first “Rap Olympics.” I had already gotten to know the muse of poetry in my spirit. Writing and reciting poetry to music unlocked new levels of creativity. The subject, poetry, didn’t have to ask if I was ready for higher learning. I volunteered. Oh, poetry! My dear friend. The gift that keeps on giving. Learning is fundamental and fun for the mental.
In the field of poetry, there are many transformations but the universal language stays the same. At each turn, there appears to be a mysterious meeting of the minds. Behind this wheel of perpetual motion are parents, preachers, teachers, musicians, and artisans. They may not come when you call them but they’re always right on time. Mentors are masters in turning hardships into poetry too.
To whom much is given, much is required. I began performing at churches, venues, and open mics in Shreveport.. I met TaShakka Stills, a local producer, and recorded my first poetry album, When Faith Begins to Flourish. I came under the new leadership and management of Dr. Daryl Gates, a celebrated former teacher at Youree Drive Middle School, who always reminded me, the gift will make way for the river and bring you in the presence of men and women in high places. He would often say, “Doritos and Coca-Cola don’t leave without product on the truck, neither should artists.” To date, I’ve recorded four poetry albums; published two poetry books; created numerous visual artworks, including poetry; written and directed two poetic documentaries; and launched a poetic brand, Speak Poetry. Strangely, poetry knew of me before I knew of myself. Faith was no stranger to turning hardships into poetry too.
Hosting poetry events at different venues attracted individuals from all walks of life. Watching communities grow because of poetry was equivalent to gardening. Every seed planted produced a harvest. I would frequent the downtown library to print papers for upcoming events. My first time having to present a pitch before a board was with the Shreveport Regional Arts Council. I had caught the bus to the wrong location and had to run to Texas Street to make the meeting on time. I was sweating, my palms were sweating, and the board members could see I was in disarray. But I spoke up for what I believed in: the power of poetry. A few of the board members already knew me from my performances across the city and recommended for me to be added to the Artist Roster. That day, I made a choice to continue taking artistry to higher heights.
I studied poetry to show myself approval. Having a career in poetry was the main goal. Pam Atchison, former director of Shreveport Regional Arts Council, helped to bring this goal into fruition. Standing on the shoulders of giants, I looked out into the future. Following a performance at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art, I found myself riding along the Berkshire Hills to present poetry for a Williams College freshman orientation at Clark Art Institute. The students’ affinity for learning was exquisite, like the Berkshires. Planet Earth has become a personal canvas on which to paint poems and watch them come alive.
Becoming the Poet Laureate of Caddo Parish and being recognized as an Academy of American Poets Laureate Fellow has proven to me that the incarnation of a poet is written before their birth. To become is the difference. New chapters come with new responsibilities. Growing up in the slums of the city, I found jubilee in the jukebox. Gracefully, the down home blues could turn hardships into poetry too.