Lesson 5: Ethnic Voices

Objectives:

The student will be able to:

Analyze ethnic poetry and interpret its meaning.
Identify the central themes of ethnic poetry.

Materials:

Student Handout: I Ask My Mother to Sing
Student Handout: Remember
Student Handout: The Dancing
Student Handout: at the cemetery, walnut grove plantation, south carolina, 1989
Student Handout: Indian Blood
Student Handout: Hermandad
Student Handout: The First Book
Student Handout: How I Got That Name
Student Handout: Blink Your Eyes

Procedures and Activities:

Write the term “double consciousness” on the chalkboard.
1. Review with students the meaning of the concept.
2. Share with the class the comment by poet Quincy Troupe that “ . . . people want to hear the voice. They want to hear you sing. They want to hear something that connects to their life. You have to write where you come from.”
3. Ask students to interpret his comment. What do they think he means by “You have to write where you come from.”
4. Ask students to hypothesize how literature can provide ethnic minorities with the opportunity to give voice to their true selves.
Divide the class into small discussion groups.
1. Give one of the student handouts to each group. (Depending on the size of the class and the number of discussion groups, you may wish to give more than one handout to each group.)
2. Direct each group to read the poem and interpret its meaning. Explain that the group should attempt to reach a consensus about the message of the poem, but that it is perfectly acceptable to have differences of opinion. (Note: Some groups may wish to research the ethnic backgrounds of the poet in order to place the poem in context.)
3. Encourage the groups to evaluate how the poems reflect the concepts of double consciousness, push-pull effect, national identity, voluntary vs. involuntary migration, and stereotyping as discussed in previous lessons.
Once the groups have completed their discussions, direct each group to share the poem and the group’s interpretation of the poem with the rest of the class.
1. Begin by having a volunteer from each group read the poem aloud.
2. Ask the group to share what they believe the message of the poem to be. Does it reflect any of the concepts discussed in previous lessons? If so, which one’s and how?
3. Encourage the class as a whole to ask questions of the group and to share any insights they may wish to add concerning their interpretation of the poem.
Culminating Activity
- Using available library and Internet resources, assign each student a research project on a specific writer of ethnic poetry. (Note: It may be helpful to provide students with a list of poets whose work you have previously reviewed. The sources listed in the handouts accompanying these lessons may be helpful in that selection process.) Instruct students to:
  - Research the life and times of the poet.
  - Analyze the poet’s writings for central themes and messages.
  - Evaluate whether the poet’s writings reflect any of the concepts discussed within these lessons.
  - Select a specific poem that is indicative of the writer’s central themes and messages to share with the class.
  - Give an oral report to the class in which the student reports on the life and times of the poet, reads the indicative poem, and explains the poet’s central themes and messages.

I Ask My Mother to Sing

She begins, and my grandmother joins her.
Mother and daughter sing like young girls.
If my father were alive, he would play
his accordian and sway like a boat.
I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,
nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch
the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers
running away from the grass.
But I love to hear it sung;
how the waterlilies fill with rain until
they overturn, spilling water into water,
then rock back, and fill with more.
Both women have begun to cry.
But neither stops her song

Source

“I Ask My Mother to Sing” by Li-Young Lee as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.

Remember

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is. I met her
in a bar once in Iowa City.
Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point or time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother's, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin or this universe. I heard her singing Kiowa war
dance songs at the corner of Fourth and Central once.
Remember that you are all people and that all people
are you.
Remember that you are this universe and that this
universe is you.
Remember that all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember that language comes from this.
Remember the dance that language is, that life is.
Remember.

Source

“Remember” by Joy Harjo as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.

The Dancing

In all these rotten shops, in all this broken furniture
and wrinkled ties and baseball trophies and coffee pots
I have never seen a post-war Philco
with the automatic eye
nor heard Ravel’s “Bolero” the way I did
in 1945 in that tiny living room
on Beechwood Boulevard, nor danced as I did
then, my knives all flashing, my hair all streaming,
my mother red with laughter, my father cupping
his left hand under his armpit, doing the dance
of old Ukraine, the sound of his skin half drum,
half [gas], the world at last a meadow,
the three of us whirling and singing, the three of us
screaming and falling, as if we were dying,
as if we could never stop—in 1945—
in Pittsburgh, beautiful filthy Pittsburgh, home
of the evil Mellons, 5,000 miles away
from the other dancing—in Poland and Germany—
oh God of mercy, oh wild God.

Source

“The Dancing” by Gerald Stein as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.

at the cemetery, walnut grove plantation, south carolina,
1989

among the rocks
at walnut grove
your silence drumming
in my bones,
tell me your names.
nobody mentioned slaves
and yet the curious tools
shine with your fingerprints.
nobody mentioned slaves
but somebody did this work
who had no guide, no stone,
who moulders under rock.
tell me your names,
tell me your bashful names
and i will testify.
the inventory lists ten slaves
but only men were recognized.
among the rocks
at walnut grove
some of these honored dead
were dark
some of these dark
were slaves
some of these slaves
were women
some of them did this
honored work.
tell me your names
foremothers, brothers,
tell me your dishonored names.
here lies
here lies
here lies
here lies
hear

Source

“at the cemetery, walnut grove plantation, south carolina, 1989” by Lucille Clifton as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.

Indian Blood

On the stage I stumbled,
my fur boot
on a slivered board.
Rustle of stealthy giggles.
Beendaaga’ made of velvet
crusted with crystal beads
hung from brilliant tassels of wool,
wet with my sweat.
Children’s faces stared.
I felt their flowing force.
Did I crouch like groh
in the curious quiet?
They butted to the stage,
darting questions; pointing.
Do you live in an igloo?
Hah! You eat blubber!
Hemmed in by ringlets of brass,
grass-pale eyes,
the fur of daghooda-aak
trembled.
Late in the night
I bit my hand until it was
pierced
with moons of dark
Indian blood.

beendaaga’ mittens
groh rabbit
daghooda-aa caribou parka

Source

“Indian Blood” by Mary Tall Mountain as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.

Hermandad (Brotherhood)	Homenaje a Caludio Ptolomeo Soy hombre: duro poco y es enorme la noche. Pero miro hacia arriba: las estrellas escriben. Sin entender comprendo: también soy escritura y en este mismo instante alguien me deletrea.	Homage to Claudius Ptolemy I am a man: little do I last and the night is enormous But I look up: The stars write. Unknowing I understand: I too am written and at this very moment someone spells me out.
Source	“Hermandad” by Octavio Paz as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.

The First Book	Open it. Go ahead, it won’t bite. Well . . . maybe a little. More a nip, like. A tingle. It’s pleasurable, really. You see, it keeps opening. You may fall in. Sure, it’s hard to get started; remember learning to use knife and fork? Dig in: you’ll never reach the bottom. It’s not like it’s the end of the world— just the world as you think you know it.
Source	“The First Book” by Rita Dove as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.

How I Got That Name

I am Marilyn Mei Ling Chin.
Oh, how I love the resoluteness
of that first person singular
followed by that stalwart indicative
of “be,” without the uncertain i-n-g
of “becoming.” Of course,
the name changed
somewhere between Angel Island and the sea,
when my father the paperson
in the late 1950s
obsessed with a bombshell blonde
transliterated “Mei Ling” to “Marilyn” . . .
Nobody dared question his integrity given
his nice, devout daughters
and his bright, industrious sons
as if filial piety were the standard
by which all earthly men were measured.
Oh, how trustworthy our daughters,
how thrifty our sons!
How we’ve managed to fool the experts
in education, statistics and demography—
We’re not very creative but not adverse to rote-learning.
Indeed, they can use us.
But the “Model Minority” is a tease.
We know you are watching now,
so we refuse to give you any!
Oh, bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots!
The further west we go, we’ll hit east;
the deeper down we dig, we’ll find China . . .

Source

Extracted and adapted from “How I Got That Name” by Marilyn Chin as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.

Blink Your Eyes

I was on my way to see my woman
but the Law said I was on my way
thru a red light red light red light
and if you saw my woman
you could understand,
I was just being a man.
It wasn’t about no light
it was about my ride
and if you saw my ride
you could dig that too, you dig?
Sunroof stereo radio black leather
bucket seats sit low you know,
the body's cool, but the tires are worn.
Ride when the hard time come, ride
when they're gone, in other words
the light was green.
I could wake up in the morning
without a warning
and my world could change:
blink your eyes.
All depends, all depends on the skin,
all depends on the skin you're living in
Up to the window comes the Law
with his hand on his gun
what’s up? what's happening?
I said I guess
that’s when I really broke the law.
He said a routine, step out the car
a routine, assume the position.
Put your hands up in the air
you know the routine, like you just don't care.
License and registration.
Deep was the night and the light
from the North Star on the car door, deja vu
we’ve been through this before,
why did you stop me?
Somebody had to stop you.
I watch the news, you always lose.
You’re unreliable, that's undeniable.
This is serious, you could be dangerous.
I could wake up in the morning
without a warning
and my world could change:
blink your eyes.
All depends, all depends on the skin,
all depends on the skin you're living in
New York City, they got laws
can’t no bruthas drive outdoors,
in certain neighborhoods, on particular streets
near and around certain types of people.
They got laws.
All depends, all depends on the skin,
all depends on the skin you're living in

Source

“Blink Your Eyes” by Sekou Sundiata as published in The Language of Life: A Festival of Poets by Bill Moyers. Doubleday. 1995.