GRASSROOTS: COMMUNITY WRITING
Reading the world, Reading the word

-- "I believe theatre can speak to the whole population. The role of theatre is to give the community an image of itself. I think of our task as being a kind of 'thinking in public', and thinking in public works most effectively when the whole public, the hoi polloi, is really there. That's why we do our theatre in parks and on the street. We save the best seats for the groundlings."
– David Anderson, Clay and Paper Theatre

Paolo Freire believed that adult literacy could only be built on a conscious awareness of the social and political realities of the world. For him, there was no separate set of skills to be mastered. Once an awareness or “conscientization” was aroused, he believed, the struggle for social justice would motivate adults to become literate. This concept is not a mainstream practice in North America where literacy is too often reduced to a commodity. Nevertheless, there are a surprising number of programs and organizations that foster innovative ways of connecting the world and the word, through community theatre, photography, music and writing.

This year’s Grassroots: Community Writing event will bring writers and performers from street theatre in Vancouver and Toronto, from adult new writers’ programs, from neighborhood writing alliances, from youth anti-violence programs, and from rural literacy programs to read and share their perspectives on writing and performing as ways of creating and reshaping their worlds.

Reclining
by Carmelita McGrath

When you are young and learn a word
you want to lie down in it
Reclining—its languid shape
suggests to me chaise
and other things we didn’t have to sit on.
I had an arm tanned and curved
that ended in a thin brown hand
that wanted to drape it self, reclining
on the curve of the old settee
in the house where I lived briefly as comfort child,
antidote to my grandfather’s lingering death.
Horsehair, that settee, or straw;
leather its cover or oilcloth
and the curve of its back a harp or heart.
First nights in the house
the present did not seem
so distant from the past.
Granda regaled us with storms
and squirting and squid,
dories tossed in the air on the big water, a great
sea-drama where a boy tore out and ate a live fish’s heart
and was cured of seasickness forever.
Then the salt, the gales, misleading fog played treachery.
Words mangled; my grandfather’s stories dissolved
into a storm that went on and on.
In the back room his bed tossed like a skiff
And he called for an end
even if it meant going under.
Those nights of pain I was away upstairs
in jungles where jaguars hid in emerald trees,
where a Pope expired relentlessly in a painting
and the weird sisters, hag and hag, laid
their bodies against mine and sucked my breath.
I was twelve then; one night I ran away
to home. They sent my younger sister in my stead.
After I thought of reclining in the parlour
on the old settee but felt
the weight of my grandfather’s death press on me.
It was there they waked him, in that corner
Where I’d imagined myself sprawled
Reading stories in leafy light.
But this afterimage clung there, as if the air
had photographed him reclining, chill and quiet.

Excerpt from:

As Long as the Rivers Flow

by Larry Loyie with Constance Brissenden

All day long, good smells came from the house as the family prepared for the gathering. As the guests arrived, Lawrence was surprised that he had so many aunts and uncles and cousins.

"Tell us about the grizzly bear," his cousins begged.

Finally the feast was ready. The table was covered with pots of moose stew and piles of freshbaked breads. Special foods like smoked fish and duck soup were cooked in honor of the elders and storytellers. Lawrence ate until he was stuffed.

After supper, family and guests settled comfortably outside on blankets around the fire. The storytelling began.

Uncle Louis stood up. He was tall and handsome. Everyone knew that he was the best storyteller around. Even the youngest children were quiet.

Uncle Louis stroked his bushy moustache before speaking.

"Once there was a man who walked in the four directions. He went north, south, east and west. He was a brave and seeking person who went from village to village learning all there was to know.

“He learned about new foods and how to cook them. In the prairies, he lived in tepees. In the cold lands, he lived in igloos.

“He saw waves of grass where the buffalo roamed. He tasted salty water where the sun rises and the sun sets. He came to dry lands where the sands were hot."

Lawrence saw himself in Uncle Louis’s story, walking every step ofthe way.

Now it was Aunty Rose’s turn. She told about three hunters who surprised a grizzly bear eating their moose.

"The hunters climbed high into the only tree around. It wasn’t very big or very strong. It started sagging until they were over the grizzly’s head. The bear took a swipe at them, but the hunters were just out of reach. They hung down from that tree like berries thick on a branch. They looked tasty, too."

Aunty Rose turned to Uncle Dave. "Weren’t you one of those hunters?" she asked.

"Oh, I was too skinny to tempt the bear,” Uncle Dave replied. “But you should have seen my cousin Otamuwin. He was sorry he had eaten so much. The bear was drooling at the sight of him."

Everyone laughed. Grandpa rose and called Lawrence to his side. "This is my grandson. Not many boys his age meet a grizzly bear or care for an owl. From now on, we will call him Oskiniko.”

The name meant Young Man. Lawrence stood proudly beside his grandpa. The firelight flickered on Grandpa’s gentle face. "This land has always given us what we need to live,” he said gravely. "Like they told us long ago, as long as the rivers flow, this land is ours. It is up to all of us to care for it. Now it’s your turn, grandchildren. The future is in your hands."

The stories continued long into the night. Lawrence’s eyes began to droop. Soon he fell asleep listening to the familiar voices. …

The day finally arrived. After breakfast, the children dressed in their best clothes. They stood close to Mama and Grandma. Grandpa put his arm around Grandma’s shoulders.

A big brown truck with high sides pulled up. Two men got out. They both wore black and looked like giant crows.

“Hurry up,” one of them said to the children loudly in English. "It’s time to get on the truck.”

The children pulled back, terrified of the stranger. Maruk clung to Mama’s skirt.

Papa spoke to Lawrence in their own language. “Be brave, Oskiniko. Take care of your younger sister and brothers."

The strange men lifted the crying children one by one on to the truck. Papa watched, his face angry, his fists clenched.

As the men closed up the back of the truck, Lawrence began to cry, too.

The sides of the truck were high. He couldn’t see his family. He couldn’t see Ooh-Hoo sitting in a tree. As the truck pulled away, all Lawrence could see was the sky.

As Long as the Rivers Flow, by Larry Loyie with Constance Brissenden.
Illustrations by Heather D. Holmlund.
Available from Groundwood Books, 2002.
www.groundwoodbooks.com

COLORS
By Sharon F. Warner

The flag of a country is called its colors.
The uniform of a group or gang
is sometimes referred to as colors.
Our skins in varying shades
   of darker than white
   are colors.
I have some thoughts about colors.

People are showing their colors now,
Raising, waving, wearing the flag,
Painting their houses, their cars, their lawns,
Dressing up and even dyeing their pets
Red, white, and blue.
Some of these citizens seem to be saying,
“I’m more American than you are.”
Of course I always knew,
   even before they showed their true colors,
   that a lot of people thought
   they were more American than me.

So now, in this time of ultra-conspicuous patriotism,
I will salute the flag,
I will pledge allegiance,
I will even sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” –
I can actually hit most of the notes –
But I will not display the colors.
Because I am haunted by the shades of other colors.

The first flag had 13 stars,
   the one that was flying when this nation came to be,
   the one that waved when the Constitution was written.
The Constitution said that
Non-white men were equal to 3/5 of a man.
Women, white or non-,
were not equal to anything.
Color me invisible.

I think of later colors:
The stars and bars of the Confederate flag,
The flag that represented the states that wanted
to keep people of color as a source of free labor.
The Confederacy lost the Civil War,
   but the colors still fly –
   even at government buildings
   in various parts of the South.
I don’t understand that.
No government buildings
   fly the flags of Germany or Japan
   or any other conquered nation.
Who really lost the Civil War?
I know. We did.

The 20th Century saw colors of change.
The flag of our country was transformed
From 48 stars to 49, then 50.
More people of color in Alaska and Hawaii
   became official Americans.
There are other changes that could be made.
Puerto Rico could be – some say should be – 51st state.
But how would we arrange the stars?
And wouldn’t an entire country of brown people
   be maybe too much color for America?

America, America….
So many wars, so many colors.
Vietnam-agent orange. The Gulf war – black gold.
This year, as autumn was approaching,
   men wearing the protective coloration or passengers
   and packing a hidden agenda
   boarded four planes
   and turned them into guided missiles.
Three of the planes found their mark.
One was diverted when ordinary people
   showed their true colors as heroes.
The calendar still said summer,
   but fall is what happened
   to the tallest twin towers in our nation.
The September colors of yellow and red
   were the colors of fire and blood.
The stars and stripes were flown at half-mast.

Now we are at war,
not full-scale yet, but war nevertheless,
with terrorists of color.
I abhor what these people have done,
And I know that the President does not want
us to be seen as pale cowards.
So now “the rocket’s red glare,
   the bombs bursting in air”
   will be seen in far – distant places.
Now untold numbers of men and women
   are wearing the colors of camouflage,
   the colors of sand and earth and foliage.
They are being deployed to places
   where terrorists may be.

The terrorists who wounded our country
   are people of color,
but they are not like me.
Many Americans are eager for war,
   for payback, for revenge,
but I am not like them.
I love my color,
I will honor my country’s colors.
But I want myself and my nation to be known
   for more than the color of blood.

10/8/01

Sharon Warner is a dynamic community poet and teacher in Chicago. She read this poem at a public session given by the Neighborhood Writing Alliance during the 2001 Conference of the National Council of Teachers of English held in Chicago. Sharon did not participate in Grassroots 2002 but has been invited for the 2003 event. The Neighborhood Writing Alliance has collaborated with The Centre for Literacy in other community writing events.