Why We’re All Here

The venerable Austin Clarke was a reader at Guernica Editions's Black History Month Celebration.It’s funny, the things that stick with you.This past February 23rd, Guernica Editions held a Black History Month celebration at Ben McNally Books, and it would be hard to have found a more prolific line-up of writers for the occasion: George Elliott Clarke, Toronto’s Poet Laureate; Austin Clarke, often billed as “Canada’s First Multicultural Writer,” with a career that spans well over fifty years; as well as activist, essayist and poet Orville Lloyd Douglas, and academic Camille Isaacs.From the outset, the event was a memorable one. Having never set foot in the bookshop before, and being a Toronto transplant from a city where I can name almost as many scuba diving supply stores as independent booksellers (and that’s in the middle of the land-locked prairies), the carefully organized and immaculately clean shop was striking to the point of being disorienting. Far from the typical backroom bars that I was used to standing in at readings, Ben McNally Books helped to create an appropriately refined atmosphere for such a well-known line-up of readers. Near the back of the store, a modest seating area had been arranged, along with a small display of Guernica Editions books. As a man who has both attended and organized a fair number of readings, it was easy to see just how much care went into the organization.The evening offered few surprises. As anyone who has seen George Elliott Clarke read before can imagine, he delivered an impassioned and energetic reading from both Illicit Sonnets and Illuminated Verses, interspersing the pieces with a rapid-fire string of commentary. Camille Isaacs gave an informed introduction to the evening’s final reader, Austin Clarke, which also served to introduce Austin Clarke: Essays On His Works, Guernica’s new collection of essays on the esteemed poet and novelist, which Isaacs has edited. Austin Clarke gave a charmingly endearing reading; having trouble making out his notes as he read his first piece, he quipped, “the eyes are the first to go, I think.” Though one of his colleagues eventually took over reading his work for the audience, as Clarke’s voice simply wasn’t up to the task of projecting to the back rows, the strength of the work itself was clarion. It was a reading featuring some of Toronto’s most talented writers, finely executed and intimate despite a crowd which grew until it eventually spilled onto the floor, with people sitting on the hardwood to catch the performance.The poetry was only one facet of the reading, however, and I found myself moved most by the introductory words of Orville Lloyd Douglas. As the youngest of the reading’s three poets by a sixteen-year margin, Douglas was also the least prolific poet, having just released his second collection of poetry, Under My Skin (which was available at the event, although it is to be officially released on the 15th of May). That said, it came as no surprise to learn that Douglas is also an activist and essayist, that he has been published in places as diverse as The Toronto Star, The New Zealand Herald, and The Guardian (with the latter being the home of Douglas’s semi-infamous article, “Why I Hate Being a Black Man”). Introducing his first poem, “Dear Langston Hughes,” he took a moment to address Black History Month as a whole, worrying that although educating people about black history was an important cause, there was perhaps not enough being done to connect with black youth, leaving them alienated and dispassionate. He also worried that members of the LGBT community have been overlooked throughout history, especially black members. Before he read his poem “Alberta,” he brought up the issue of Canada’s treatment of our Indigenous peoples. And before reading his poem “Still Standing,” he spoke to the issue of gun violence, specifically among black youth. Douglas did not confront the crowd with these observations, nor did he present them in anger. They were simple, honest points which deserved to be made. I don’t think I was the only one there ruminating on them long after the reading was over.After a few thank-yous and a last collective picking over of the snack table, the crowd began to mingle and migrate out onto the street. Before I left, though, I bought Douglas’s book—I couldn’t help it; I wanted to see what else the man had to say. The title “Under My Skin,” of course, houses an important double meaning: there is both the appeal for readers to see beyond the physical, and also a cry to acknowledge the continued social ignorance which frames Douglas’s concern—indeed, the palpable outrage in many of his poems was, for me, the most striking aspect of the work. Take this passage from the aforementioned “Alberta”:

There is only one Cree man and he is on the visiting teamHe stands out like a sore thumb, skates fast like SidneyCrosbyGets the shit kicked out of him on the rink He shoots, he scores!The announcer’s jubilant voice criesThe knockout goal gives the visitors their victoryThe marauders spit on him In this oil-drenched place to the westSoaked with billions upon billions of surplusNo one moves

The juxtaposition between Canada’s national game, an activity which (especially in light of the advertising surrounding the recent Sochi winter Olympics) theoretically “brings us together” as a nation, and the passivity of the spectators who watch the angry violence perpetrated against an Indigenous person is apt. Reading the piece after that evening’s show, I couldn’t help but think about Tracy Kyncl’s recentTown Crierpost on the Indigenous Women reading from the week before. A pattern began to emerge, whether I liked it or not: that there are members of marginalized communities, living within Canadian borders, who feel that the Canadian dream of equality is only a dream, and nothing more. Whether it’s a matter of funding, of popular interpretation of “the canon,” or simply lack of exposure, I couldn’t say— but it seems that despite our aspirations toward multiculturalism, we have a major problem with diversity in our artistic communities.It has taken me a while to decide what exactly I mean to say here. In no way am I trying to take away from the rest of the reading. The Clarkes, both Austin and George Elliott, are extremely talented writers who deserve all the accolades afforded them, and Camille Isaacs’s work in helping to cement the reputation of a Canadian as prolific as Austin Clarke is as important as any. But it seems to me that the most important thing that could have happened that evening was for Orville Lloyd Douglas to make the comments he did, especially regarding the potential alienation of black youth. Because in the middle of a celebration of Black history, the most dangerous thing we could do was to be lulled into a false sense that “everything’s fine.” As his poetry reminds us again and again, we are not even close to perfect, not as a literary community, and not as a nation. To celebrate the storied history of our black artists and authors is beautiful and necessary—but it needs to come coupled with awareness and commitment to further change. Black history isn’t a thing of the past only, and it is by engaging with men like Orville Lloyd Douglas that we can inform ourselves of what that history holds, and encourage it to grow independently.