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by Joe B.
June Jordan’s Legacies Live.
Wednesday, April 30, 2003 in U.C. Berkeley’s Barrow’s Hall people gather for a special night of celebration as youthful wordsmiths gather in strength and force guided by June Jordan.
June Jordan.
She was a Professor of African American Studies at the University of California at Berkeley where she directed the enormously popular Poetry For the People program. Poetry For the Peoplereceived a Chancellor's Recognition for Community Partnership on September 19, 2000.
Jordan, an award-winning poet, professor and activist, are mourning her loss.
After battling cancer since the 1970s, Jordan died Friday at age 65.
She is an award-winning poet, professor and activist, novelist, essayist.
It'll take more pages to list all that she is an has done and lives change both personally and through her powerful, lyrical works. Italics mine.
As a professor of African American studies at UC Berkeley, Jordan founded and directed "Poetry For The People," a course in which 150 undergraduates participate in marathon poetry readings
before large audiences.
They also study the poetry of African Americans, Arabs and Arab Americans and many other groups Jordan considered generally overlooked in the classroom.
Jordan is survived by her son, Christopher Meyer.
"Though the master has moved on," said Reed, "the Jordan school of poetry, I suspect, will be with us for a long time. This is her legacy,"
Thanks to: Ms. Kathleen Maclay, Media Relations.
(Taken from the June 17, 2002.
www.berkeley.edu/news/media/releases)
Jordan’s Legacy Continues.
From 1973 to 2003 30 years of evolving spoken word power.
As usual I here bits of news about it but its peripherally a micro dot way in the real of this near empty brain pan.
It’s on a Wednesday.
(wouldn’t you know it my day off after doing yoga practice in S.F.’s City College and getting a healthy African descended woman using a hacksaw to break my own lock, seems I locked the key in locker.
After that bit dodo brain wit I race home to shower and wear clean clothes, no lunch.
I’m looking forward to one on one with someone in Berkeley after the KPFA radio program.
Called and called no answer only to find out later that she and her sister were going to a baby shower later that day.
After the show wrapped close to 5 pm. called again mostly forgot that a Poor M’s intern is one of the poet’s speaking in Barrow’s Hall in U.C. Berkeley.
I decide to stay until 6 pm. Lost of youth helped setting up sound systems, food, and chairs some by the poets themselves.
I wait, get a seat and save a few for guests who said they were coming.
So many heart searing emotional/physical pain of women from family, culture, men, women, plus rumor and speculation of strangers.
One guy did a sensuous, deliriously, delicious tome on eating fruit that made the young and older women swoon and I never looking or eating fruit as just an ordinary undertaking ever again.
(I should’ve learned that from tongue lashing strawberry ice cream cones on Market and Polk Streets).
The event is worth missing some delayed physical pleasure in the night.
Only one guest shows the other is sick waiting in the car.
I wanted to stay but before leaving kissed her hand, hugged, praising Christina for her work using action instead of words conveying how her words said to me.
A place I always passe as a kid but never went in was open where people danced slow, steady, and close won’t try to pronounce the name buts in Berkeley far from my friends home as I find out by walking.
After three dances and being whipped about by a young, strong, pregnant woman (I swear she has the strength of Hera, an angry, jealous Greek Goddess, wife of Zeus who couldn't keep his godhead under his robes).
Called a last time then left Super Mother to be walking into the night toward a good time and maybe afterwards sleep.
Christina’s words came to me as I near Berkeley High School.
As shadowy figures appear I keep my hands swinging empty knowing that sudden movements, jerks, can mean bullets or a blade in my gut.
Wary, I walk slow smiling to young and old men walking or standing on the street, near bars, and bus stops.
I cannot forget for a second I’m a black man, male in America and can be killed either by accident of identity, by police or rival gang’s even a group of women can take unfocused rage out on me if I give the wrong signal while on their path.
Finally after reading R. I. P.’s on a stop sign at one the safety zones to slow down traffic I go up the door aware of two police officers male and female both white as I pass them my hands out slowly swinging.
The car is there after three knocks I leave then turn to knock one a last time. (why am I out here in the pitch black of 10:07 pm because of a chance of flesh on flesh, head knocking bed-board, high energy dehydrating rock solid body rocking soul meshing, brain numbing pleasure.)
You know the answer people.
I pass the cops seeing them, hands in pockets not looking at them as if there invisible.
‘Damn, its still a dangerous for black men in America and I’m a timid guy not basher of women or anyone else just a regular mortal man ‘walkin with blood veined swelling refusing to ease up.
Walked to bart and down on bench a small white woman.
("Don’t go sit near her, it’s late at night, she’s alone, don’t know what’s she thinking how she’ll react just stand and wait for the Colma/Daily City train).
Another white woman sits by the first and I wasn’t going to sit by them no matter how tired my feet are and besides my helmet head is still vibrating
up/down, back and forward twitching, pressing urgently this wasn’t a before bed, bathroom urge, or morning urination urge but the primal only a woman’s primal secreted flesh and juicy slick wet can help calm down but not tonight just full arousal frustration.
I’m gonna let it deflate on its own and let it/me suffer as a lesson to not do stupid things that can get me killed.
Still some things are worth missing besides it would take me and hour or so to release and sleep was beating us both.
Helmet lost the fight and the bigger brain learns to control its smaller reptile one.
Ladies, Women, Youthful Adults.
I’ve been accused of writing porn.
Please tell me if that is true and how can I avoid it if I do. Bye.
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