This Is My Name: A Conversation with Vievee Francis

I said to her: when you know me, when you know who I am, then sure! Yes, that seems fair! I wanted more and more to be inside the urban — and what I felt was the urbane. And in New England, I find there’s an odd class divide. From the beginning there’s the naming of the bird — the nightjar, the plover. Because there’s no parity. And yet I feel compelled that if anyone lists my name, I list it. Across the world, there’s a problem with colorism. The nocturne also seems connected to elegy. What I felt instead, after the initial unraveling, was a growing, a kind of understanding. You’re going to make me cry! That is, a place where that wild thing in the world and in the self feels nakedly present and abundant; one has to face it. And too vast to claim that one has tamed it. Reduced to paper. The work of the verb and the agent crisscross. And the book itself feels like it begins with a kind of molting. Your wielding and play of language are just extraordinary. When we want to want to know something, we hunger to name it. We take these things in. Her skin was so soft! FEBRUARY 14, 2018

IN FOREST PRIMEVAL, winner of the 2017 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award, Vievee Francis summons a wilderness — equal parts the wilderness of America and the wilderness of the interior — that takes us off center. However, I wanted to live in the North. I was thinking about what I take in — language, what I eat, what I have the right to eat, what I have the right to take in. The miscegenation laws in California were particularly egregious. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good. Why couldn’t I? And for me, in many ways, writing poetry is telling you my name. I want my hunger sated! I’d love to hear about this poem, this book, and all future directions. Vievee and I have both since left those mountains, and during our conversation we laughed about living in a place where there might be snakes on the porch or stinkbugs nestled in the curtains. I had decided to turn away from them, and it hurt my life to do that. And this book was my way of spitting them out. I often find myself looking toward Hirsch’s prose, his discussions about poetics. And for me, she was golden-toned and beautiful. I also want to ask you about this other extraordinary motif that moves through the book: skin. And I really wanted to write a text that pushed those boundaries. There’s the shedding of skins, being a paper hive. This is a book that seeks an understanding of the parity between us. I want to find the source.” I felt that as a through-line. A mature mouth loves language. Then I got cancer and lost my singing voice. Something has been lost that won’t return in this life. I loved my grandmother’s skin. I want my hunger met! Yes! You don’t get to make me cry. Because of my skin? I would go back and visit Texas and see my grandmother. I think particularly so here in North America. And from a woman of much melanin, I looked around the room, and there were many women who were darker, toward the door, and I said: “Not a damn thing on me is pink!”
Such an erasure. There are fables, fairy tales, the myth of progress, the time of the land, racial violence of America. How you encounter the world for the first time. And I had to confront myself in the wilderness — who I thought I was, and then there was the person I was becoming as I was there. When we think of various religions: when we want to wrest control of something, or try to, we have to wrestle the Angel in the night and name it in order to save ourselves. I held up one of the hats, and I said, Why isn’t this pink? I never once felt a sense of safety in the Appalachians. I was coming from an extraordinarily urban environment. No matter how many cities we place on it, there’s something so wild and ferocious about American nature. So we have a challenged relationship with ledger-keeping and accounting. So much of the woods are receding, because the city places its form on the woods. I see you; you see me. I’m a woman of appetites, unabashedly so, and it’s interesting because I now live in New England, and one thinks of Puritans, and one does not think of appetites! I simply could not believe I was living in such a hauntingly beautiful place. On the outside we might seem so different, but if we keep peeling back, we find those points of joy and harm where we can truly hear and see each other. I began taking walks with my friends and asking them the names of things. There’s the wonderful play, both beautiful and violent, around consumption in the book. I was thinking of this poem toward the end, “The Small Poem,” with this gorgeous word that I had never heard before: “coloratura.” And then another poem about the deliciousness of language is for your husband, Matthew. Why was it unraveling me? You feel links to other generations: climbing on the grandfather’s lap, “being a beggar for stories to counter the dusk,” and the poem “Imprint,” a memory with the father. This is not to say I have to have inclusion. And their reinventing of history through their own eyes, as opposed to what was given as history. But these woods are so powerful. If I have exclusion I will live. I was a singer and a poet. It took me off center, and I’m glad it did. Poems appear recently or will soon in the New Republic, The New England Review, Tin House, Bettering American Poetry 2017, The Best American Poetry 2016, Guernica, and elsewhere. I heard the music constantly. Oh, that’s beautiful! Every second of it, every dangerous bit of it. She was the prettiest to me. We should look through each other through humility, not through missionary stances, which I utterly detest. I saw that row of hats representing various women all together, and I started to cry. I do. My mother died two months ago. There’s a line in “White Mountain”: “Something has snapped in two. The wilderness unraveled me — those boundaries of self and the performance of the self. Oh, Vievee! And I said, This is such a rare moment — I feel you seeing me! ­­­[Laughs.] I feel this odd and false sense of safety. And she said: We’re not all pink! The higher the class, the more one seems to find hunger. They couldn’t have been more different, Detroit and outside of Asheville. And I think it’s a direct result of having my own aesthetic measure judged, erased. I want you to get it right because I’m telling the story. And you could see the women in the room did not know that. They are dark woods — thick and dense, and they hold secrets and pain and mystery, a history of lynchings. ¤
Nomi Stone’s second collection of poems, Kill Class, is forthcoming from Tupelo Press in 2019. I feel there was an imprint of the Jim Crow South on me, and I had to fight that imprint most of my life. Yes, I reject the way my aesthetic is viewed. And the woman behind the counter was actually the woman who made them, and I could barely speak. I loved bluegrass and old time, and I loved it long before I moved to Western North Carolina. For many reasons, we don’t want to speak to the census keeper. These are wild places. But she still felt dark. My life at 53 is proof of that. And I had a very high soprano, a coloratura. That always stays in mind. I mean, I sobbed. And I wondered: How does this connect to keeping a record? I think I’m really sensitive to the ways humans are tied to each other. It forced me to explore not just the natural world but the wilderness within me. And those ridiculous miscegenation laws applied to almost everyone who was nonwhite in one time or another or in one state or another. I was in Provincetown earlier this year, and my mother was still alive, and she loved hats, and I wanted to buy her a hat. I developed a Northern dream. But whenever I go on websites with pussy hats, they always insist they be pink. Wow. Recently at AWP [Association of Writers & Writing Programs], an older woman suggested a feminist motion of all women walking together hand in hand. And there was a kind of rumbling in the room, “Well, I do know you, and I love you.” And I was like, “You don’t know me.” And they said, “How?” And I said “Pussy hats!” And they said, “Well don’t we all love pussy hats?” We do, of course we do. And if I had my druthers, if I could see the world the way my mother would have seen the world … She saw everyone through parity. I’m not going to say beautiful without the word haunting. I’m an anthropologist and we talk about intersubjectivity, and how we are bound to living within a shared world. Absolutely! The world has changed enough or forgotten enough to not think, She was probably born in the colored section of the hospital. And moreover, in the book as a whole, there’s this sudden appearance of words that seize the heart amid ferocity and violence. It took me 30 minutes to say what you put so well. I had decided not to negotiate the wild places within me. [Laughs.] It took a long time for me to understand my personal beauty. Because of my skin. I determine who I am and how I am and what my name is. She felt herself to be ugly and dark. And there were these hat shops, so I walked into one, and right in the center of the store were these pussy hats, and they were all different colors. I don’t know how to explain that — it becomes rather metaphysical. And in many cultures and in some Western African cultures, spit is a powerful thing! There’s a long history that’s still to be told and that’s being told of the relationships between those who identify as African-American and record-keeping. I’m quite for anyone marrying anyone! Oh, thank you. The mouth feels so important. I also wrote songs. So how does one learn to live in one’s skin and love one’s skin, particularly when one is inside of a darker skin? Why have it all out there on paper? I was sitting there and thinking that though I have no children, there’s a trauma in a different kind of way, and I can’t find the words for it. Our names are taken from us; we’re renamed. It does. I find that when I’m out here in California, I don’t know what 70 percent of the plants are. I guess I’m wondering about the relationship between naming and the wilderness; and also, relatedly, naming and love. But why? I wanted to understand the world around me. My decision to strip myself of my rurality and live only as an urban person was dangerous; it was profoundly unwise. Part of that is a child’s curiosity. What a blazing book you’ve made. It’s terrible. From this ledger you talk about, refusing colonial and slave ledgers — spaces of erasure and management and ownership of bodies — to one’s own joyous self-naming and self-accounting! How do you see these parts working together? I wondered if that resonated with you, and how you feel about the nocturne. And I was reexperiencing the world and not giving myself any conventional boundaries. In parts of the African-American South and the rural South, there’s a resistance to the listing of items the way one would list people. And I said, if you don’t know me on that level, if you don’t even see my body, if you can only see it through your own filter of yourself, then how will walking together work? At this point, I want you to have the humility and grace to ask me who I am. I love that a tune in your ear, your feeling about music helped make the moods of this book. I know and love that particular North Carolina wild that Vievee has described, having lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains myself for a stint, too. So language itself is a playground for me, but it’s a playground I walk cautiously. Without these false boundaries. Then through the book we see skin in all sorts of ways — there’s the softness of skin and the violent impressions that are left on it in “Taking It” and of course the poem “Skinned,” which is just extraordinary. And saying this is my name. How do we forge out of and look at difference and give it its due? This is why I had to go beyond the persona poems and face my own personhood. And the women in the back of the room were snapping. I’m going to do something that terrifies me. Which is why I say nature in the end has its way. Amid this un-taming, you write about falling from a dream of progress and into your own nocturne. And for a child, it’s also the space of experiment, the mouth. “A Song of the Ridge” was actually a song, there were two songs in the text. The part where you say “[I] fell down your knee was scraped; I stuffed the yellow cake into my mouth and your stomach / cramped” devastated me. I had a teacher who committed suicide who found herself to be very dark inside of her culture. The book is very much telling others to reject these conventional boxes. The wilderness is so much larger than man. I don’t give it up. Yes, how do we eject violence? And I love it. Never before have we had such a time when African-American poets are speaking about who they are and how they negotiate this world and their right to negotiate this world. And you can see how bluegrass would move out of them. I’m discussing America, womanhood, and race. A growing strength. How do we do that but through the mouth? And I think I carry it. The mouth is the measure. I’m thinking about the word “coloratura,” to go back to something you said earlier. I’m hoping this book encourages us to be okay with our differences and humble about them. This book is full of these deep forms of time and imprints: of love and of violence. I sang all kinds of music and studied opera. Just last night I was having a conversation listening to women discuss having their children and where their children were born and various traumas. So, I claim myself. I sang until I was about 24. I had to negotiate what the wilderness was doing to me, and there was no pretense that I was taming it. Naming is a powerful thing, and, for me, it’s a spiritual thing. What are these called! And then on top of that, accents and dialects. Oh, I’m so sorry. The nocturne: as a child, I lived off and on in the piney woods of East Texas. So that I couldn’t have married my husband. And why not? How insane is that? There was no one above or below; her vision was particularly gorgeous to me. We buried her in those Piney Woods — a few feet from where she was born. To really see what we share and how we share. And I was thinking of the palpability of language and the mouth when you were just talking right now. The forest you make in this book is a forest of broken lamps, it’s an already ruined world, and an already ruined America. And no one talks about the black female aesthetic except in incredibly egregious terms. I think this next book is going to be an attempt to do that. Everything we do impacts the other. I’m wondering now about structure — you have these six parts, and the third part is a song, and it’s much shorter than the others. Those mountains are haunting! So I keep taking pictures of these trees and asking, What are these called! When I read the title poem in Waxwing, I was completely floored. I have not had a day of my life when my skin was not looked at and judgments made about me because of it. It was un-taming me! We still have a lot of work to do to know each other as women. I allowed that craft to take me places that I was still afraid to go! I’m hoping my vulnerability will allow others to do the same. I had a little tune in my head — every single day going down the mountain on this twisty little road, and coming back, I would gasp! And I wanted to talk about my own birth, about the hospital divided into the colored section, what is it to be born into a section just for you because you’re less than. So beautiful I can’t take it. Sometimes we walk right into things we don’t see as dangerous, but they are. I have friends who live such lives; they live in Boston and New York, and they have potted trees. Oh my gosh, thank you for saying that. I was just in those woods recently. And yet that’s exactly what I did without realizing it. I love it and want to see myself as part of it. The wilderness was so rich with animals, so rich with things that were going to have their appetites met. I want to address danger and how we see danger. And I found my life renewed when I left the idea of safety behind, and just embraced the interior wilderness. Because I want to get the story right, I want to get my story right. Thanks to her, I have unusually soft skin, and I know it! But what does this mean for each of us? But there is a song inside poetics. But instead, you say that nature “will have its way” — that we “build only way stations.” How do you think about wildness or wilderness? I want to talk now about your forthcoming collection, Shared World. I was thinking of that idiom of the white male poet who stands on top of the mountain, taming it and painting it and writing verse about it. Yes! I think the language of music moves into the words, and I section the book through moods, and the kind of music each section presents to me in my inner ear. When I was in Ghana, I’m looking around at this sweep of bodies, and it was too much for me. I actually have a problem taking in the beauty of people. They leave traces, and we decide to not negotiate those wild places at our own risk. Yes! And when one carries the melanin I do, erasure is the call of the day. And I think part of the reason why the wilderness undid me was because the city I built within me was fragile, and it could easily fall. Being in the mountains again in parts of the South, it drew me back to my childhood — a childhood I had run from. That really was the starting point. Indeed. VIEVEE FRANCIS: What I was thinking about while living in the mountains of Western North Carolina is how vast the wilderness is — too vast to truly tame. It’s such exciting and crucial work you’re doing. So, why would I write and move outside the safety of orality, the space where secrets can be kept? And something happens around naming in this book that feels so crucial amid the wildness of nature. Absolutely, it resonates with me! Thank you for taking those risks. ¤
NOMI STONE: The first line of this wonderful book is: “I want to put down what the mountain has awakened.” When I read that for the first time, it felt to me almost like an undoing of the romantic sublime. Well, I love that notion. And it is so, in this book: a segue from Vievee’s vivid persona poems, those extraordinary masks, into an articulation of her own personhood — a speaking of the black female body, this marvelous, terrified, joyful assertion of her name in a broken country that would otherwise un-speak it. [Laughs.] I think the Southern predilection for well-spiced food and generous portions, and food that the eye lands on that one may not immediately think edible has everything to do with Slave culture and hunger and cessation of hunger. It was quite a treat being there. Historically, we come into this country as a number. And I can’t say I don’t feel marvelous there! In the year I was born, and the state I was born in, and later, I couldn’t have married my husband legally! Honestly, I have a hard time finding anyone less than gorgeous: I can actually faint at people and their beauty. I will not be erased. And this is so gorgeous and necessary to remember. This is the kind of thing that moves me; that we see each other in parity and inclusion. At this time in African-American history it’s particularly important that we people know who we are. As you might say — the nighttime of the childhood. You say your grandmother “is skinned, so to speak” and that “her skin was so often examined and found wanting.” I want to hear more about how violent scrutiny is a kind of skinning. We have to be skinned in some ways — we have to find out what and who we are. And it moves through these many registers. The mountains gave me the strength to face the childhood I had turned from. This is so powerful amid the violence of uniformity that the pussy hat represents. My husband was with me. My grandmother was very much lighter than me. And with extraordinary results. Ed Hirsch talks about the nocturne as a kind of threshold genre: being on the edge between worlds. It’s dramatic. In my unraveling, I really wanted to discuss appetite and desire and not hunger but satiation.