By Mansfield Frazier
As much as Martin Luther King, Jr. was the leader of the Civil Rights Movement, and Malcolm X the leader of the Black Power Movement, Amiri Baraka, who died Thursday, Jan. 9, 2014, in Newark, NJ at age 79, was the leader — the creator, the embodiment — of that tumultuous era’s Black Arts Movement.
He — at first, almost single-handedly — broke the ground, tilled the soil, and planted the seeds that would blossom into the necessary notion of black pride, and, more importantly, the concept that black really is beautiful. Through his artful writings he taught a generation of blacks to begin to love themselves, as well as to give voice to their hatred of their oppressed condition in America. He took no prisoners.
The poet, playwright, social critic and activist electrified a standing-room-only audience in the Louis Stokes Auditorium of the Cleveland Public Library on July 30, 2000, with bursts of harsh, prophetic insights such as: “I can pray all day and God never comes, but if I call 911 the Devil is here in a minute.” The woman sitting next to me nodded and whispered, “Hush, truth.”
One of the most polarizing voices of his (or any other) generation, his work was both praised and damned by critics … but never ignored; he held a mirror up to America, and forced those who dared to look deeply into it. There were things — some of them very uncomfortable — that needed to be said in the ’60s, and Amiri Baraka had the courage to say them … fuck what anyone else thought.
I first met Amiri Baraka in 1972, in New York City, backstage at the revolving repertory company (Actors for Actors) where I was apprenticing as a thespian. His searing 1964 Obie Award-winning one-act play, Dutchman, (which went on to win the award as the best new play in America that year) was being performed in conjunction with two other one-acts plays.
He knew the actress who portrayed Lula, the white temptress who seduces and then kills Clay — an uptight, middleclass, black man — as they ride on a subway train … after she goads him into expressing his rage at the day-in-and-day-out racism he faced in his life. The play ends after Lula hides Clay’s body at the back of the train, retakes her seat, and then smiles seductively at the next black man that enters the subway car. It was powerful stuff then, and still powerful stuff now.
After the performance I was invited to go with a group of other members of the theatre company to a jazz club in the Village where Baraka held court until the wee hours of the morning. It was a heady time, and I felt privileged to have been invited to tag along. Of course I said nothing, I just listened … soaking it all in like a sponge.
Ah, New York, New York … so nice, they named it twice.
Twenty-eight years later as I was interviewing Baraka after his appearance at the Library, I mentioned meeting him that long ago night in New York City, and he was kind enough to pretend to recall the night and meeting me. We exchanged copies of each other’s books, and even exchanged emails for a while on matters cultural.
Four years later Amiri (I felt we were friends by then) was back in Cleveland to do a poetry reading for a small gathering at a black cultural arts center on the Eastside, and he made sure that I was invited to lunch with the group that had sponsored the event at the residence of the woman who ran the center.
After lunch the hostess asked Amiri if there was anything he wanted and he replied, “Yeah, a beer.”
The woman, who (like most of the others at lunch) was a member of a Rastafarian-type religious sect, almost went apoplectic; alcohol of any kind was strictly forbidden in their faith.
“Aren’t you tired, Amiri, don’t you just want to lay down and rest a bit?” the woman suggested, perhaps a bit too strongly.
“No,” Amiri retorted, somewhat forcefully, “I’m not tired, I just want a beer.”
When the woman persisted in attempting to dissuade him, Amiri finally said, “Look, I know you don’t approve of alcohol, but I’m not of your faith … as you know, I’m not even particularly religious … and I want a damn beer!”
Things were quickly turning tense, so I piped up and said, “I’ll take you to get a beer, Amiri.”
As soon as the words escaped my lips he had me by the elbow and was ushering me towards the door, saying, “Let’s go,” obviously delighted to be escaping the clutches of the religious clan.
When we got outside I offered him two options: We could go to a nearby bar, or we could stop and pick up some beer and go to my home, which was a few miles away. He opted for the latter, and that’s how I got to spend a life and career-changing long afternoon, sitting on my deck, drinking beer and talking with the keenest writing mind I’ve ever encountered.
He admitted that while he had glanced at my book after he’d received it, he’d soon put it down because he felt something was missing from my work. Then he almost causally said to me, “Technically you know what you’re doing, Mansfield, but if you’re really going to write, then you’ve got to just write, you can’t be afraid of shit.”
My life as a writer changed the instant he uttered those words. Indeed I had — for some reason — been holding back. Perhaps it was due to the fact I initially honed my craft in prison, I’m not sure. But Amiri was encouraging me to do what he had done his entire, illustrious career … speak truth to power. I listened, and pray I’ve not let him down.
He then slumped back in the deck chair, took a swig of beer, smiled impishly, and repeated the words he’d said while portraying a homeless sage in the 1998 Warren Beatty film Bullworth: “Man, you got to be a spirit … don’t be no ghost.” Indeed, Amiri, I’m trying … I’m really trying.
R.I.P.
From Cool Cleveland correspondent Mansfield B. Frazier mansfieldfATgmail.com. Frazier’s From Behind The Wall: Commentary on Crime, Punishment, Race and the Underclass by a Prison Inmate is available again in hardback. Snag your copy and have it signed by the author by visiting http://NeighborhoodSolutionsInc.com.
2 Responses to “MANSFIELD: Amiri Baraka – He Spoke Truth to Power”
jeff donnelly
Mansfield,
Right on. I envy you getting to spend time with one of my drama heroes! Honesty is the only thing that will make as all equal and Amira Baraka clearly knew how to get to that quick. Cheers and keep up the good work!
-Jeff Donnelly
Peter Lawson Jones
Mansfield, you haven’t let him down. By the way, last week’s entry – masterful. A story eloquently rendered. Both the times and the people artfully resurrected. Took a bit of chutzpah to share.