Thursday, January 16, 2014

Baraka's Blues Destroying Double Consciousness

Amiri Baraka in Maine
By Aldon Lynn Nielsen
January 15, 2014

When the National Poetry Foundation series of conferences held at Orono, Maine, came to American Poetry of the 1960s, I was asked by the organizers to provide an introduction to Amiri Baraka's poetry reading. This was the second of three times I've introduced Baraka at an event, the second of three times I had the task of introducing someone who used to grade my papers.

Below I reproduce the remarks I made in bringing Baraka to the stage at the University of Maine.

"In the 60's, there was emotion to go around barreling explosions, at and against, waves of running, the world itself was feeling, all feeling. I felt that.
Those shadows haunt us now in various ways."

Three decades further on, we meet again. Amiri Baraka titled the poem from which I've drawn these lines "Courageousness. The poem ends,

"There was no reason to be square, that's what
we felt. We could do anything, be anything, even free. That's
how young we were. That's now long ago, that was."

Those too young to recall just how that was may not know the price that was exacted for such exacting measures. The end of the decade witnessed a flurry of memos within the Federal Bureau of Investigation outlining plans to send poison pen letters, forged in the name of the Black Panthers, denouncing Baraka. A similar plan had been put into murderous effect already, leading to violence between members of the Panthers and Maulana Karenga's US organization in Los Angeles.

We can still read the glee with which the FBI addressed itself to these operations. One of the memos predicts that "This proposal will cause disruption not only within Jones' group but also in the Black Panther Party, since Jones has an appreciable following in New Jersey who will resent this statement."

Few American poets have had to withstand this mode of critical attention. Few American poets have received a postcard, like the one sent to Baraka in 1981 signed by the "Polish Catholic War Veterans of America" :

"A vicious treasonable enemy of the U.S.A. like you needs to be put in jail NOT for just 90 days but FOREVER! We will petition the F.B.I, and President Reagan to see to it that you are removed from positions where you can brain wash our youth. You belong in Iran NOT in the U.S.A."

On the other hand, Paul Van Ness, who had been one of Baraka's teachers at Central Avenue School, recalled the young Leroy Jones years later in a letter to William Kunstler: "He was a good student, a quiet, philosophical boy, and we had long discussions."

And there was a moment, in the sixties, when America's media establishment hoped to enlist Amiri Baraka in their swelling ranks. Following the remarkable success of the Obie-winning play “Dutchman,” even the New York Times came calling. Baraka recollects in his “Autobiography”:

"It was as if the door to the American Dream had just swung open, and despite accounts that I was wild and crazy, I could look directly inside and there were money bags stacked up high as the eye could fly."

But Baraka closed that door. When the same play was performed in Harlem the white press read the text differently, took it personally, and the phone started ringing in J. Edgar Hoover's offices.

But the work never stopped coming. Some readers, looking at the title of Baraka's “Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note” through the lenses of a retro-Beat ethos, seem to have overlooked the words "Preface" and "Twenty Volume."

I took a census of my bookshelves before coming here and noted that the volumes have now exceeded forty in number, and that's not even counting all the play productions, recordings, opera and broadsheets. The books of poetry include “The Dead Lecturer,” “Black Magic,” “In our Terribleness.” “Spirit Reach,” “Reggae or Not,” “Transbluesency.” “Funk Lore and Hard Facts.”

The prose volumes, which one of his publishers oddly lists all under the rubric of fiction, include “Home,” “Blues People,” “Black Music,” “Daggers and Javelins,” “Raise.” and “The Autobiography.” The newly published “Fiction of LeRoi Jones / Amiri Baraka” includes “Tales.” “The System of Dante's Hell” and his second novel, “6 persons,” which until now could only be read in manuscript form among his papers.

Then there are the genre-defying works such as “Eulogies” and “The Music.” “The Music” includes important work by both Amiri and Amina Baraka, and any accounting of Amiri Baraka's works would have to include such significant collaborations with Amina Baraka as the anthology “Confirmation,” their 1982 collection of writings by African American Women.

The plays extend from 1964's “The Baptism” and “Dutchman,” through “A Black Mass,” “The Toilet,” “Madheart,” “Slave Ship.” “What Was the Relationship of the Lone Ranger to the Means of Production” and “S-l.”

Amiri Baraka has been, as he has remarked, one who is loud on the changing of his ways, but some things have remained constant. The search for a populist modernism that he announced in his introduction to the anthology “The Moderns” back in the sixties can be found at the heart of all his endeavors. In an early essay looking back to his work on the magazine “Yugen.” Baraka said:

"I found myself publishing that writing which I thought was the most valuable. Not the writing that reflected those tired white lives again, but necessarily those people, those white and black people who were talking about a side of America that was more valuable because it hadn't been talked about."

This is the same impulse he addresses in his later poem "The Rare Birds":

“Williams writes to us of the smallness of this American century, that it splinters into worlds it cannot live in. And having given birth to the mystery splits unfolds like gold shattered in daylight's beautiful hurricane"

And the one thing that is most easily traced through all of the works of Amiri Baraka is an absolute adherence to "The Aesthetic" as he describes it in a poem of that name included in “The Music”:

"If you can understand the complexity, of an African mask, the tense ambiguities of Black Blues then my work should be clear to you, what I say easily understood."

To which I always want to append a line from Williams: "But you've got to try hard." Note that "The Aesthetic" begins in a conditional tense and in the second person. America has not always responded well to complexities and ambiguities, particularly to its own complexities and ambiguities, but there are always those among us willing to enter into a sentence beginning with the word "if," willing to inhabit "you," willing to attend to the myriad subtleties mouthed by the Blues. There are always those ready to believe they can be anything, even free. Now that's tense ambiguity.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince
and Flights of Angels Sing Thee to Thy Rest
A Few Notes on Amiri Baraka
By William J. Harris

January 16, 2014

"If my letter re your poem sounded crusader and contentious I’m sorry. But I have gone deep, and gotten caught with images of the world, that exists, or that will be here after we go. I have not the exquisite objectivity of circumstance. The calm precise mind of Luxury. . . . I can’t sleep. And I do not believe in all this relative shit. There is a right and a wrong. A good and a bad. And it’s up to me, you, all of the so called minds, to find out. It is only knowledge of things that will bring this ‘moral earnestness’.”—Amiri Baraka to Edward Dorn, 1961


He shits
And doesn’t
Even notice

He has
His mind
On the stars

Let him
On your head

--William J. Harris

It is hard to believe but the great poet, Amiri Baraka’s funeral will be on this Saturday, January 18 in Newark. It is hard to believe he has left us so soon. Each time I saw him he was so alive and vital, especially in performance. He was a fighter and an artist to the end.

Since the mainstream never understood Baraka, it surprises me that there has been such a mainstream response to Amiri’s death, including the front page of “The New York Times.” It seems like they realized something important had happened whether they understood it or not. But what really heartens me is the insightful comments by such people as Ishmael Reed, Questlove, Greg Tate and Richard Brody and in such strange places as “Ebony,” “The New Yorker,” and “The Wall Street Journal.”

And Ish Reed is right, the mainstream has ignored all the great work after the Sixties. In spite of the narrow-minded dumbness that has been floating around about Baraka, he has made his mark on the minds of our time.

Baraka has been a great artist in many areas, including poetry, music criticism, the novel and nonfiction. But I want to talk about him as an anti-colonial writer, a man who wanted to see the world from his point of view and not the master’s. Perhaps this is on my mind because I am just back from India.

But what I have always loved about Amiri was his superiority (we were supposed to be the inferior ones, not them) to the white power structure or any power structure. In short, he was doing the judging, not them.

To fully understand Baraka’s project, we need to revisit W. B. Du Bois’s famous concept of the double consciousness. Du Bois: “It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.”

This is a profound insight into the minority mind—or perhaps any mind which does not control the world. Amiri’s art has tried to destroy the double-consciousness, has tried to see the world through his own eyes—eyes placed in a particular body and place (culture).

There is much of Baraka’s work which is not well known and I would like to make a few suggestions. See his recent, “Digging: The Afro-American Soul of American Classical Music” where he continues to both write about music and use his words like music, and “Tales of the Out & Gone,” also recent, where he continues to write “gone” stories, relatives to free jazz, Also on the internet check out Baraka in performance on Penn Sound. A real treat.

Ah, after thinking about Amiri I feel he is right here in the room with me.

Always, William J. Harris

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