Once I made it…actually just as the ceremony was starting and directly after the musical interlude….. I settled into a spot after awhile and stood in frigid weather to see (mostly hear) the President Obama take his Oath of Office. And of  course I was anxiously awaiting the Inaugural Poem read and composed by Elizabeth Alexander.  (Actually, I thought that perhaps, I’d missed it because it took me soo long to get to and go through the security check points.  You might remember my earlier post on Dr. Alexander.

Unfortunately, I was in the minority and once the Oath of Office was done the crowd of thousands started to slowly shift to the exit…..trailing behind them was noise and picture snapping. Needless to say it was impossible for me to follow Dr. Alexander’s presentation (or Rev. Lowery’s benediction for that matter) and almost wouldn’t have known it was over if it were not for a few sporadic hand-claps waving through the audience.

Although, there has been much criticism of Dr. Alexander’s Inaugural Poem…….. I think the text is beautiful and wise. Wise for her to stay herself and share with us words that evoke History (the ancestors are beaming and stomping Thank You’s), Voice, Movement, Love, Light….and importantly the reminder that we hold the power to Create and Inspire tomorrow’s praise. I found the language to be simple yet stimulating; creating  (and evoking) lasting, lingering images of people….people loving and moving towards peace…people we all know, have known, or will know at some point in time. How brilliant of Dr. Alexander to allow us along on this journey….

Praise Song for the Day by Elizabeth Alexander

A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues. 

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, 

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

I’d written a group of my friends about a month ago sharing what I knew of Favreau’s story with a discussion point specifically about Favreau’s age and how great (and scary), that at 27 (our age!) he has this amazing (and I’m certain stressful) job of helping to shape the President’s words. Wow! It got me thinking about my passions, where I am now with 12to28, and the importance of being ready when opportunities come. It created just enough envy to set my fire to an intense blaze again.

Well, MSJ gave me the Post so that I could read the front page article on Favreau titled “Helping to Write History” and below it I spot an article on The Inaugural Poet titled “Selection Provides Civil Rights Symmetry“.  Although first I spotted the picture, noting someone familiar, of Dr. Elizabeth Alexander, Poet and Scholar of African American Literature and Culture. The article, which is a lovely read, introduces Dr. Alexander by sharing the story of her parents taking her to the March on Washington when she was a tiny toddler of 1 years old and makes the obvious connection to the enormity of her January appointment to breathe words of purpose during the Inauguration.

I’d met Dr. Alexander back in undergrad when I served as President of the Honor’s Student Cabinet at Dillard.  The Honor’s Department hosted a special colloquium where 4-6 artists/writers/creators were invited on campus to share their gift with students and faculty. Honor’s students were treated to special intimate 2-4 hour sessions with the special guests where we in groups of 6-8 had time to discuss, debate, talk, chat and laugh with the creators about their work…and what ever else the conversation landed on. (Of course, we did our homework ahead of time! We were all given copies of and read the guests’ work to aid in that lively discussion weeks before their anticipated arrival.) The guests’ week long visit ended with a University-wide (Open to the public) reading/dialogue.

Dr. Alexander and I at DU circa 2002

In addition, to being fortunate enough to be in her small group discussion, I was Dr. Alexander’s student host.  I welcomed, escorted and assisted her with getting to her campus destinations and just did my best to make sure she had a comfortable, enjoyable time. My memory about that time is clouded with how warm and approachable, yet reserved and slightly shy….maybe a pleasant melancholy?…sober thoughtfulness?….Dr. Alexander appeared to me.

I remember her voice being light, again, warm and inquisitive in our Honor’s small group discussion. And I remember myself and classmates being more reserved than normal….hesitant with our thoughts, as if we were writing  and reviewing the final draft for the third time before we would allow our professor to read our creations.

Dr. Alexander was patient  and kind. She asked lots of questions when we as students reverted to our shy, self consious selves…trying to become invisible in the room. Now that I think of it, I wonder how many of us first, read, and then, digested Dr. Alexander’s work. I know that we discussed in some part the Venus Hottentot...but nothing remarkable about the dialogue exchange has stuck with me. I remember thinking or feeling not as impressive as usual.

What has stuck with me….what I keenly remember is the thoughtful space and the sometimes silence Dr. Alexander seemed to occupy during my time and exchange with her (walking along the Avenue of the Oaks or in the Honor’s Seminar Room) and the 21 year old college student that was me trying to interpret what that meant and where I fit into it.

Today, I feel I’m closer to finding out.  I think it begins when my pen hits paper and begin to compose what is my poetry…and just not a fulfillment to or for 12to28. Although, I love, Love, LOVE Marvelous Maya and Sweet Sonya and the other well known scribes in my community I am so utterly awash that Dr. Alexander’s light will shine in this way…during that January 20th spotlight.  So that Saartjie’s and the other stories may reach more & more unknowing minds.