I cleaned out my office at Aurora’s Santori Library Monday, April 23, after resigning my position as communications manager for the Aurora Public Library the prior day.
I took down my sign that says “THINK” in big red letters and packed it up with family photos and my tennis shoes for lunchtime walks.
Tuesday, April 24, I was back at the library as a “civilian” for “Waxing Poetic,” an open mic poetry night sponsored by A-Town Poetics and the Library. It was a lovely gathering of 14 individuals who like to write, read, and/or listen to poetry.
All this was on the heels of the unfortunate incident of the philosophy professor’s provocative photo-poem.
I saw the poem, “Hijab Mean(s) Jihad,” soon after it was put on display in the Library’s Dunham Atrium for National Poetry Month. The image of a Confederate flag caught my attention. I read the accompanying poem in its entirety, and I understood that the voice in the poem was not the author’s. My interpretation was that the Confederate flag was pictured to add a layer of explanation, because many see it as a symbol of oppression. Therefore, any person who believed it was an act of Americanism to steal a classmate’s hijab might have the mindset of a person with an allegiance to the Confederate flag.
So, I got it. Would I write a similar poem? No. Did it make me think? Yes. Did the poet display other poems that I liked? Yes. In the context of the display, it was apparent to me that this poem was not advocating a hate crime, but was aiming to shame a slice of the population which believes that it can hate people just because they look or dress differently.
Back to the “Waxing Poetic” program April 24. We read, we listened, we applauded. One gentleman prefaced his reading with a brief lesson on the poetry of his home country, Pakistan. The poems he read made me think. I even asked him to read one a second time because it was so intriguing. We were all together, in a room, baring our souls for our fellow poets. It is a luxury we don’t normally have with poetry. Usually, one must read a poem and mull it over in his or her own mind without the benefit of the author’s explanation.
Take the poem “We Real Cool” by Gwendolyn Brooks:
Published in 1960, Gwendolyn Brooks wrote “We Real Cool” for her book, The Bean Eaters. It recalls the attitudes of a group of rebellious young men who leave school to “lurk late” and “Sing sin.” Although Brooks was already historically significant after having won the Pulitzer Prize in poetry in 1950 (the first African-American to do so), this poem was banned in West Virginia and Nebraska schools, presumably over the line “We Jazz June,” which some believed to be a reference to sex.
Brooks maintained that that interpretation was erroneous. As she was quoted as saying in Conversations with Gwendolyn Brooks (University Press of Mississippi, 2003): “I didn’t mean that at all. I meant that these young men would have wanted to challenge anything that was accepted by ‘proper’ people, so I thought of something that is accepted by almost everybody, and that is summertime, the month of June. So these pool players, instead of paying the customary respect to the loveliness of June—the flowers, blue sky, honeyed weather—wanted instead to derange it, to scratch their hands in it as if it were a head of hair. This is what went through my head; that is what I meant.
“However, a space can be permitted for a sexual interpretation. Talking about different interpretations gives me a chance to say something I firmly believe—that poetry is for personal use. When you read a poem, you may not get out of it all that the poet put into it, but you are different from the poet. You’re different from everybody else who is going to read the poem, so you should take from it what you need. Use it personally.”
In the case of Dr. Miller’s poem on display at the Santori Library until it was taken down recently, boy, did people take it, and use it, personally. Individuals all over the world, literally, chimed in about the poem on Facebook, many with despicable language and the mindset of those on a witch hunt. One said he would like to see the library burn down. Another said he was being satirical when he advocated punching Aurora librarians in the face. Many of those who commented and/or gave Aurora Public Library a one-star Facebook rating had never set foot in Aurora, let alone the Santori Library.
I resigned from my job as a result of being directed to send out a press release that I did not write and did not agree with. It doesn’t mean I’m a racist. It means that even when things are going downhill fast, I can’t immediately take sides with the masses. And I don’t think the Library should have, either.
The woman who posted the original photo of the poem on Facebook was invited to come into the library to have a one-on-one conversation about her concerns. Instead, she went to social media.
I guess there will not be a next time for an exhibit at the downtown library to cause such a stir, because there now will be committees approving them. But if there were, I would hope it would end with a lot more compassion for everyone: The author, the Library staff members, and the people who were upset. There’s always more than enough to go around, in my experience.
I had another sign in my office besides the “THINK” sign. I gave it to a coworker when I left. It read: “Kindness is free. Sprinkle that s..t everywhere.”