Alice Loves Me

Alice Loves Me (Or, They Have a Bad Track Record of Mass Graves)

Yes
I know
They have
A bad habit
Of
Coming
To your door
Before
Dawn;
Before even
Your littlest
Is awake
&
Waiting
For
Your
Morning
Smile;

Your scent
Of tobacco
&
Apples.

I know
Encountering
You
On
A deserted
road
They have
A tendency
To drive
Their subsidized
Jeeps
& Armored
Tanks
Into
Your defenseless
Body;
Loaded
Down
With
Firewood,
Water
In leaking
Plastic
jugs,
Old clothes
From the
Missionary
Dump,
&
Your
Broken
Heart;

Pushing you
To slow
Surrender
Of
All you
Were
&
Are.

They have
A bad
Track
Record
Of
Mass graves.

Looking at
The calm
Appearing
Spanish countryside
Of
Actual
Spain
One Sunday
Driving
To see
Grenada,
Seville,
Cordoba,
The Alhambra
& Traces
Of our
Moorish
Roots
The driver said:
Over there
& There
& There
& There
All mass graves
&
Maybe Lorca*
In
One of them.

This
Terror
Is not
New.

What is new
Is that
On the ether
Now
I can
Tell you:
I know
What is
Happening
To you.

Wherever
It is
Happening
Whoever
Is doing
It.

I want you
To know
That
& So
When you are
Facing
Your
Final
Eternal
Moment
Of
Transformation;
Whether by heat
Or cold
Uzi
Or
Machete
Or "simple"
Or complicated
By death
Rape
Or scorn;
Your tears
Causing
Much amusement;
Your efforts
To hide
Your
Shame
Hilarious
To men
& Boys
Circling
Your pain;

Remember
This -
Say it
& Know
It
Is true:

Alice loves me
Alice loves me

And I am not blamed for this.

She knows-
& is weeping
Even
In her sleep
While they laugh-

She knows
& Keeps
The record
That
This
Unspeakable
Violation

Of all of us
So briefly human

Is happening
To me.

***
©2009 Alice Walker

*Frederico Garcia Lorca, extraordinary Spanish poet and playwright assassinated by Nationalists near his home in Spain in 1936.

A Letter to President Obama re: Torture

Amnesty International is Sending Ten Letters to President Obama re: Torture, this is one of them.

To President Barack Obama
The White House
Washington, D.C.

From Alice Walker
Temple Jook House
Mendocino, CA.

June 27, 2009
--

Dear President Obama,

If word reached me that you were being tortured, I would instantly feel tortured myself, because I would be. Torture is something an entire society feels, whether we are within earshot of the screaming or not. People don't like to believe this, but there is no way human beings can remain unaffected by what is done to other human beings, or even to animals who are not human. If I heard this about you, I would do everything in my power to come to your aid, not simply because I know you to be rare and necessary to our planetary survival, but because you are simply a person, with feelings, aspirations, sorrows and dreams. And you have children. If I were a child and knew my parent was being tortured, day after day, what would I myself become?

It has already been recognized that "confessions" obtained by torture are useless. It is easy to see why. If someone is water boarding you and you think you will never see your little ones again, you would say anything. So would I. It is only in movies, I think, where the "hero" tells the torturer nothing as various body parts are cut, burned, frozen, electro-shocked or pulled out.

If one keeps company with cruel people, one loses, bit by bit, one's own compassion. This is one of the reasons living in Washington, in the White House, as leader of the United States, is so treacherous. And why I said to you when we met briefly prior to my introducing you to my community in San Francisco, that failure to win the presidency had not insignificant value: you could have a fine life living as a writer, doing and saying what you want, and traveling the world incognito and free. Leadership has its down side, and one of them is who one has to associate with in order to "get things done." When we look at the destruction, around the globe, caused by prior leaders of our country, and the terrible choices of how to behave, and we look at the White House today and see some of those folks still coming and going; what can I say? It gives us pause.

Ringing in my ears is something I thought I heard you say: America does not torture. And if this is true, now, under your watch, this letter is unnecessary. I also thought I heard you say Indefinite Detention Without Charge was gone with the wind of George Bush's administration. Was I wrong? Writers, and especially poets, don't always keep their ears to the political ground, and so we are likely to miss the daily dramas that keep others informed. I hope you are holding steady on these points, because if you are, you are right. The cruelty and injustice of holding anyone indefinitely without charge will not lead to carefree days and guilt-free nights for you or for any citizen of the U.S., and we want those days and nights in order to convince the youth of the world that there are basic human laws protecting their right to grow up without fear of endless detention.

I think about people in prison, being tortured, being bombed, being frightened and starved and humiliated, every single day. Voting for you was one way I felt I could reach out to them, fiction and poetry writing, even protests and arrests, having their limitations. You are the world's hope for a better, a fairer, day. You have what few leaders of this country ever had: genuine affection and love from the people who elected you. We are good people, too, for the most part. And even if we weren't, we can be improved by a leadership of compassion, a leadership whose basic human instincts of fairness and decency we can trust to look at the whole story, the entire state of affairs, and not close off any portion of it. A leadership unafraid to hold accountable those responsible for torture and abuse. This is our only hope, actually, to begin to soothe a little of the sorrow in the world. It isn’t a desire for vengeance, because we know vengeance, a karma, is created by Itself; it is instead a need to make right, to make whole again, by demonstrating to an injured and insulted world that we, as Americans, care about the harm other Americans, in our name, have done. We must show above all that we wish to understand our own madness in order not to continue growing and exporting it.

We know your plate is full. And I am always happy to hear of you and Michelle going off somewhere out of town for dinner. (No pun!) Any complaint about the cost is ridiculous: what your time away from your desk does for the world is priceless. You are a Leo/Ox and only someone with your combination of strengths could handle the presidency, which you do with grace. (What can I say? I love astrology!) Even so, it’s too much for one person, or two; I myself favor a council for leading the country, but that is far in the future. Maybe not too far! So, delegate. We need the world to know we don’t accept the behavior as usual of American presidents and others who do horrible things to people, and then retire, wealthy, into memoir writing and golf; as if the disasters inflicted on a vulnerable world never happened. I applaud and deeply appreciate all the good work you are, in fact, doing. It is huge. And beautiful, which I personally resonate with in world leadership. It has a beat. It has a heart.

In closing, I send this poem about torture that I wrote a few weeks ago and posted on my blog, http://www.alicewalkersblog.com


DYING
For those who with our taxes die of torture

What is it like
Dying?
Is it like
Sinking
Into a bath
Of warm
Milk?

Is it like
Lying naked
In the
Sun
Those first
Truly
Warm
Days
Of Spring
After
A winter
That
Froze
Your teeth?

Dying
I think
Can be
Like that.
Above all,
It
Is yours.
It is
A safe
Place.

They may
Be
Electrocuting
Your
Toes
At
The time
Or
Pulling out
Your
Finger
Nails
Or
Causing
Your terrified
Heart to stop
In
Other
Ingenious
Ways.

But
Dying
You
Escape
Them
Into
Peace.

They will
Never
Know
Something
Only
You
Can have.

Dying
Is yours.

Precious
Human being;
Whatever you
Have done.

Dying
Is
Your secret.

***

©2009 by Alice Walker

With loving kindness,
& despite the gravity
Of the subject, Joy,

Alice Walker

From the Ten Against Torture Campaign

http://www.amnesty.org/
http://takeaction.amnestyusa.org/c.jhKPIXPCIoE/b.5273371/k.673C/10_Against_Torture/siteapps/advocacy/ActionItem.aspx?ICID=T0907A01&tr=y&auid=5071354
http://www.womenforwomen.org/

Evolution - Dedicated to the Honorable Cynthia McKinney

Dedicated to the Honorable Cynthia McKinney and Everyone from the Free Gaza 21 Movement now incarcerated in an Israeli jail. Your bodies are imprisoned but you demonstrate to the entire planet the joy and wonder of minds and hearts as free as the finch parents below, whose caring for their young reminds me this morning so much of what you are doing for the world. I send this to you through the air,
a meditation on peace and the possibility of co-existence, with all my love and respect. May we all be free. May we all speak our truth. May we begin to know, whatever the hardship, that punishment is sometimes part of our reward.

© 2009 by Alice Walker

When we arrived at our place in the country this summer we discovered a family of house finches had made a nest in my old Kikuyu market basket that hangs on a nail beside the back door. When I was in Kenya in the mid-Sixties I practiced carrying things in such a bag, made of raffia or sisal, the way the market women did: suspended by long straps from my forehead. This didn’t work for me, and later when I bought the one I have now, in the Seventies, I made sure it had shorter straps that meant I could wear it as a shoulder bag. I used it that way, off and on, for over thirty years. Carrying lip gloss, keys, sunglasses, shopping lists and candy bars, all the trivia of the handbag, in its capacious elegance. Gradually its vibrant colors faded but it seemed as sound as ever, so I continued to use it to carry books and a portable typewriter, journals and lunches, finally even my first computer. Eventually, in its old age, I found the perfect use. Because it is light and sturdy, with leather straps as firmly attached as when it was made, I was able, by placing my arms through the straps, the bag on my back, to use it as a backpack. As a backpack it is ideal for going down to the garden for a quick collection of whatever’s ready to pick, and then an energetic climb back up the hill to prepare whatever I’ve found for lunch or dinner. Or even for breakfast, since I enjoy spinach and collard greens in my morning smoothie.

I had counted on being able to use it this summer too. But no. It is occupied. The first day here, as we dragged out the deck furniture and snapped the tablecloth onto the table, I thought I heard an unusual amount of chirps and cheeps. I noticed two adult finches across from where I stood watching me closely, hopping up and down, running back and forth, and shrilly calling each other’s attention to the fact of intruders. I have to say that alarmed birds always make me feel outlandishly huge. I soon realized I must be between them and their nest. But where was it? Years ago barn swallows had made a nest just above the door, raising a family and eating at all hours of the day and night; their droppings made a grayish pile just as one stepped outside and so we all stepped quickly, coming in and out, hoping not to be hit. Understanding they preferred their location, I had a platform built for their nest that made a kind of porch, hoping that would catch the droppings. Instead, they were insulted by my gesture and, after they’d hatched their brood, never chose that spot again. It took a moment to realize the finches had found, for them, the perfect spot to hatch their eggs and raise their brood until they are big enough to fly away. My old market basket, hanging faithfully there on its nail, where it had hung throughout the winter. Sure enough, peeking in, and I’m sure giving their parents an awful fright, my companion and I saw a ragged little nest made of mud and straw at the bottom of my basket and in it, several pebble size birds.

We decided to wait them out, and made an elaborate show of disinterest in the doings of the hatching basket. My cat, Surprise, was of course very interested, and was caught more than once too close for comfort to the basket, her watchful tail doing its slow, about to pounce, dance. We moved the table, and the chairs, to a distance she could not negotiate. We were more concerned then about the safety of the tiny parent birds who were forever bringing food to their young. Hardworking and wary, they would hover for a long time, waiting for a chance to bring food to their babies, while Surprise was obviously thinking about bird chops for herself. Miles the dog was not a problem. He seemed to enjoy watching the parent birds and other visitors that came to drink water from a fountain shaped like a woman holding a bowl of overflowing water in her arms. We refer to her as The Goddess, and sometimes she is surrounded by dog, cat, humming birds, lizards and dragonflies, as She, Goddess incarnate, benignly smiles and holds out her bowl of ever-flowing water to whoever comes.

One evening we noticed a wonderful quiet. Next morning, too. The baby birds have been taken by their parents, we said, peeking into the empty basket. They have flown away! We were happy for them. I was happy for me. Now I could have my basket back. Two days passed; cold days that made going down to the garden uninviting. On the third day we saw our old friends, the finch parents. Were they the same parents, or different parents? We couldn’t tell. They were parents. They had that look of anxious industry we remembered from years ago, rearing our own young.
Oh oh, we said. Sure enough, when we peeked into the basket, another set of eggs!

I didn’t think this was possible. My companion said.

I didn’t think it was likely. But there they were. A second set of eggs.

And today, lots of cheeps and chirps, which means another set of baby birds. And there are the parents hopping onto the railing every five minutes with another bit of seed or wriggling creature in their beaks. We have been so hospitable, too hospitable, maybe. Yet, I really like it. That they’ve found my market basket hanging empty and made themselves a home in it. The air feels filled with flying creatures that take us for granted as part of their landscape; involved in their own dramas and journeys, they aren’t particularly bothered by us. Maybe this is what co-existence feels like.

Alice Walker ©2009

Cynthia McKinney and the Free Gaza 21 were released from jail in Israel and deported, June 30, 2009.