A Plea

Today I am thinking about the violence in my neighborhood. I am remembering the young 17 year old girl who was shot coming out of a party one block away. After she died, during the prayer walk, her sisters begged that the violence stop, that there be no retaliation. I am thinking about the recent question asked on my list serve of women poets about myths where a woman attacks another woman. I am thinking about the article that I read in the City Pages about the girl gangs: the Ladiis and the Baddest. I am thinking about the dog my room-mate just got for protection because one of our neighbors had his home broken into in the daytime, while he was at home. And I am thinking about the dreams I once had as a young woman of Peace and Love, to unite us all in brotherhood, recognition that we all share the planet.

Feminism? It has not filtered down to my neighborhood. Poetry? The kids walk along the street repeating rap and hiphop lyrics to themselves, ready to burst into cussing and screaming at the least provocation.

But I can’t sit still and watch the chaos around me without doing something. So I go down to my local library and volunteer to teach a writing workshop. I call my workshops Writing Circles for Healing: words to light the way because it is something I know. I have experienced the violence of losing my partner and my son to suicide and the shock, despair, anger and guilt this has put me through was assuaged by prayerful patience, by the love and support of friends, by dark hours of shaking a fist at God, by putting myself into challenging situations where I didn’t speak the language and knew almost no one, by loving and surrendering my expectation, and by writing down my words: poems, stories, memoir, essays, and then acting them out and sharing them. And by holding the space for others to be vulnerable and to dip into the deep well of their pain, their memories, their losses and their passions.

So. I have to be trained as a volunteer, I have to go through an orientation, we have to see who will come and sign up for creative writing. But I will be there. Ready for whomever shows up. Ready to walk through my neighborhood with a notebook in my bag and a smile. Maybe, just maybe, the light will shine and get us through these times to something that resembles my first dream of peace and love. Maybe I can convince the girls to be powerful with hope and openness and courage to speak their truth as much as with fists and weapons. Maybe we can start a revolution to take back our homes and to feel part of the neighborhood instead feeling that we are at war.

Our Green Card Anniversary: to find the book

Our Green Card Anniversary

You come home dressed in black.
I can’t decide between silk or
velvet. I remember I wore a lace
blouse. It was a warm October day.
In the photographs I am standing
in shadow, you in the light.

You ask, “Where do you want to go?”
I don’t have any appetite, only a desire
to wear stockings and heels and
retrieve the gaze, the way you looked
at me the first time.

I remember how I clutched the flowers,
couldn’t call it a bouquet without wanting
to toss it away. In my room there
are tulips and a note. “I want to make
up,” you write. The storm was still

ringing in my ears. I remember how we
laughed trying on Halloween costumes
at the party store. One costume was
husband, another wife. I ended up wearing
strands of red coral and a gold

mask. It was our first public
appearance as a married couple.
I hadn’t changed my name yet.
The tulips are blooded and I don’t know
if I want to rebel or give in because now

I see though your subterfuge. You stood in
the light where the love reflected
off your face for all the memories
to come. I stood in shadow
promising that the tears I accumulate

would belong to us both. We took it on
despite the clock of abandonment
ticking its warning note.
“I want to make up,” you wrote.

“The way I love you is beyond words,”
I write back. At the table you open the card
and I can’t read the expression on your face.

For Dia de los Muertos your ancestors danced
on the altar with mine. Does that make us family?
Your mother’s spirit came by and blessed me in the
shadowy aftermath of the party when we
drank too much tequila. She said you would

never let me go. You hold on by offering
tulips, dinner out, the red wine I like best.
You never said you believed the
vows we took. You took my tears
and braided them into the rug at the entrance

of our home, where I live with
your name that is now mine and my
disappointments. Dia de los Muertos is
coming and I am afraid the grief will sweep me
away. Once again you

reach out to catch me. I remember
we drank champagne and I went home alone
and happy. Tonight we drink champagne
and you take me into your life
as neatly as folding shut an envelope.

When I told you I need you, you
did not try to negate me. I said
I think it is natural. You said, “Are you
ready for tiramisu?”


from Ceremonies of the Spirit
(c) Wendy Brown-Baez
2009

Ashes in the Rio Chama

“I close my eyes, and think of water.” –James Wright

I close my eyes and think of
water. Water flowing crystal
clean, the brook, the forest
gilded in daybreak, serene

Water from an icy spring high in
the Spanish mountains, the road
as heated as a griddle
as we wound our way down

to supper and a bottle of wine. Water
carried away my son, or what was
left of his mortal remains, my hand,
my hindsight too blackened

to know what I was doing in this
humble ritual. The river is flowing,
I sang into the immaculate silence of our
mourning circle. Kaddish suddenly

understood, the need to weave praise or leave
the earth to its wretched toil. I was thirsty
for a sprinkle of water on my brow
from the holy font scummed with marbled

green by the church door. I think of water,
flowering in womb-warmth to be re-
born, the salty return
to innocence if I could but believe

Jugar con fuego, bilingual poetry event

Jugar con fuego:
a celebration of Spanish Poetry
Jugar con fuego,
una celebración de la poesía española

The students of El Colegio Charter School and poet Wendy Brown-Baez invite you to Jugar con fuego, a bilingual poetry performance, featuring their original poems as well as works by famous poets. We welcome you to celebrate the rich heritage of Spanish poetry as we play with words and build bridges between the past and the future. We will interweave Spanish and English translations as we present poems in a vivid dramatic way.

Los estudiantes de El Colegio Charter School and poet Wendy Brown-Baez les invitan por Jugar con fuego, un espectaculo de poesia bilingüe donde presentarán sus propios poemas originales, así como la poesía de las poetas famosos. Les damos una bienvenida para celebrar la herencia rica de poesía española mientra jugamos con las palabras y construimos los puentes entre el pasado y el futuro. Entretejeremos traducciones españolas e inglesas mientra presentamos poemas de una manera viva y dramatica.

Thursday May 29th at 7:00 PM
at El Colegio’s Theater
4137 Center for Independent Artists
Bloomington Ave S, Minneapolis
free, gratis

Funds for this activity are provided by the COMPAS Community Action Program through a grant from the McKnight Foundation .