Dear Ms. Giovanni,
I am doing that thing that we all say that we’ll never do- giving flowers to a loved one after they are dead and gone. I’m grateful that I got the chance to sit among audiences- big and small- to hear you speak while you were still here. The first time in 2022, when I left my 9-month-old behind and was newly pregnant with my second daughter, I took the opportunity to chaperone a field trip to POCC in San Antonio. I loved that I would be spending time with the few Black students from the school, and I also got to know my fun Black colleagues. But the real reason I jumped at the chance to go to the conference was to see you. I knew your name. I knew your work. I hope that you saw the winding line to get into the auditorium as people stood waiting for the chance to sit as close as possible to the stage- for the chance to hear you.
I sat next to a colleague who had no idea who you were. I gasped when she told me. How could you not know who Nikki Giovanni was? And I equated it to the way I had only recently discovered the genius of Edwidge Danticat. You- a Black Southern American woman- who spoke with the likes of James Baldwin about love and relationships- were a foreign entity to Black people who hailed from many other corners of the world. I was honored to sit alongside someone who was new to your mind, your words, your cussing, and your bold unapologetic wisdom. You spoke with a casual candidness that still embraced urgency as you shared with the young and old about everything from your son and granddaughter to the far reaches of space.
At the end of that talk, you read a couple of poems. “Ego-Tripping” was a hit, of course. You read it with a cadence that only you could. But you reminded me of my grandmother. She was always honest, and she had a similar southern twang despite having lived in the northeast for decades. I only heard her curse while living in Buffalo, but every once in a while when she lived with us in Boston- if you got her angry or passionate enough- a 4-letter word would slip and you would know that it was time to back off. She was one person who always encouraged me. She took me to Blick for art supplies when I took an interest in painting. She told me to travel- to just go- and she was proud of the way that I was always out somewhere with my older sisters.
She died in 2016, but as you read “Ego-Tripping”, I held back tears because of the memory that you brought so clearly back to mind- one that I thought I had come to grips with years ago. It really has nothing to do with the pride and self actualization that the poem speaks of, and everything to do with the lasting power of those words and the way that no Black woman who reads a poem like that can feel- if only for a moment- like they are nothing. My grandmother made me feel like I was something remarkable. Whether she was calling me out for wearing skirts that were too short for church or applauding me for successfully making a few hundred dollars at my first art show, she made me feel as important as the queen that I was named after. Nothing I did was inconsequential. And as I heard you read those words, I thought of her for some reason. I had teachers read me that poem, I memorized parts for recitation. My daughters will hear and know that poem, and so on and so forth.
After your talk, I retired to my hotel room, and flipped through a couple of your books that I bought that day. You wrote poems that were so simple yet profound, and they reminded me of a quilt. Quilts are not made for just one purpose- yes, they provide warmth and comfort, but eventually they become valuable for the memories and legacy that they hold as they are passed down and used over and over. I thought about how a quilt that grandmother made for me now provided warmth and comfort to a grandchild long after she was gone. Like you, she was diagnosed with cancer, and hers spread and advanced to a stage that required treatment that she refused. I want to share this memory with you because the quilt that you have left behind through your poetry, speeches, and honest sharing will warm generations in the same ways.
I came home from grad school as a young woman, and I spent the last six weeks of my grandmother’s life with her at home. The day I arrived from Austin, I came up to her room, and there she was lying in bed. Still strong enough to speak and sit up on her own. Still lucid enough to hold a conversation with me as I sat in front of her. We talked about unimportant things like school, boys, and how long my locs had grown.
Before she got too sick, she had been working with the quilting group at church, and they made quilts for the newlywed couples. After every quilt presentation, we would come home from church, and I would remind her that when it was my turn, I wanted to choose the fabrics for my quilt. I was always particular like that, and she always understood.
In a lull in our conversation, she pointed to some boxes by her desk.
“Open that box, there.”
I pulled out a large quilt front made from squares of African and floral prints.
“That one is for you.”
“Can we finish it together?”
She chuckled.
Ms. Giovanni, you used to chuckle when you spoke. It was usually after you said something that surprised or shocked your audience. You would laugh a bit- and I’m not sure if it was at the ridiculousness of anyone thinking that you were going to hold back or to reassure your listeners- and then say something like “it’s just the truth!” I loved your chuckle. It reminded me of your humanity. My grandmother’s chuckle, like yours, was always followed by a sobering truth.
“Yes, baby. But if we can’t, just bring it to the ladies at the church. They’ll finish it for me.”
I sucked my teeth and nervously chuckled back.
“Don’t say that, grandma. We’ll finish it.”
She laid back down and closed her eyes. Our brief conversation had worn her out. I suddenly felt tired, too. I remember going to my parents’ room afterward and sobbing. Grandma had lost weight, she was clearly ill, and no one had any real idea of how much more time she had on earth. During the last couple of weeks of her life, I asked her again about that quilt. I told her that we had to finish it. Ms. Giovanni, we never got the chance to do that. Shortly before she died, I went to the fabric store and chose a fabric for the backing. Once she was gone, I brought it to the ladies at church- her friends- and they finished the quilt for me.
That quilt, the one that brings me so much comfort as I still grieve the loss of my grandmother, is now a mainstay in my little family’s living room. My own daughters- her great grandaughters- love to be wrapped in that quilt on cold winter nights while we cuddle on the couch to watch movies. They squeal with joy when I spread it out on the floor for them to play with their blocks or sit to read books. They look at me like I’m crazy when I tell them that their great-grandmother made that quilt, but one day they will understand.
As you read that poem aloud, I was reminded of how much that quilt carried- how much memory, love, and legacy it held. You said “I am a gazelle so swift so swift you can’t catch me”, and I mouthed along because that was always my favorite line. I hadn’t revisited that poem in years, but here you were in front of me, and since I was a little girl, those words held the power to lift me up, remind me of how much I could do, how bad I was, and that’s how I remember my grandmother affirming me.
Ms. Giovanni, I never saw you tired. I never saw you looking like your health was failing. You stood behind podiums, and sometimes leaned on them with a coolness that only comes from the knowledge that no matter what you say, it is truth, and it doesn’t matter who likes it or not. You often wore shirts and ties- the thick blocky kind that looked a bit cartoonish- but it was your style. It was almost an intentional mockery of the arbitrary formal requirements of speaking in front of expectant audiences. I always wondered who tied your Windsor knots- if you stood in front of the mirror and tied them on your own or if Ginny helped you while sharing encouraging words before you stepped out on stage. Here came this small older woman, with a short grey afro, in an almost dandy outfit who had the nerve to speak about race, privilege, and Mars- making us feel both affirmed and comically uncomfortable with her prose.
The first time I heard you speak, I envied those who were new to you. I wished that I could have been one of those first-timers who decided to buy your books and delve into research after hearing you. During that talk, you mentioned not-so-random bits of information that you somehow always seem to work into your conversations. You shared why so many Black people can’t swim, which made some people laugh nervously, and others say “mmmm” in the way that only we Black people know how. You left swiftly after your talk. I know because I waited for most of the audience to quickly exit the auditorium, and snuck to the backstage area, where I ran into the organization president, asked of your whereabouts, and she told me that you were already gone. I prayed for another chance to see you in action, and hopefully at least meet you to let you know in person of your impact on me.
I’m glad that I got the chance to speak with you at UMASS this year. Questions from the audience are always hit or miss, but in the middle of my campaign for office, I asked you a sincere question about how to gain support from people who don’t seem to see or understand my value in a space. You reminded me that I would find my people and not to worry about who doesn’t like me. Like a child, it resonated. That night, I came home to even more hatred being spread in an online forum about me and my writing, but your words helped me realize that not everyone understands. You once said “You have to be careful of letting people who not only don’t know you, but don’t understand you, don’t like you… you can’t let those people determine who you are.”
I’m glad that I got the chance to hear you speak at times when I needed reminding to not place too much weight on what other people think of me. First, as a child, when I didn’t even know what an ego was to be tripping about. I thank my parents for making sure that I attended Black schools as a child, where your work was introduced to me. Today, I’m taking my 2-year-old to visit a preschool in our suburb, and I fear that we will see not one child in the room who looks like her. I’m comforted knowing that your books live on my bookshelves among all of the other constant reminders that I have to share with my children to value their Blackness in a world where they may feel unseen.
I’m sure that you know that you have inspired many- from your readers to your students- but I hope that you also know that your words will live on and your existence is the foundation of so many thoughts and spaces that will keep you alive. You inspire women like me not to take our words for granted- whether they live in our minds, notebooks, or the safety of other hidden spaces. You refused to play it safe, and we love you for it.
In your poem “Quilts”, you ask to be taken as a square to be part of one “that might keep some child warm”, but you have been a bright and vibrant part of my quilt for more years than I can remember. From me, my daughters, Feminessay, and the world, thank you for all that you gave and all that you will continue giving to this world far beyond your lifetime.
May you rest in peace,
Tiye
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