 I'm lucky that I was the opening act for Pat Parker for the last three and a half years of her life and it was an amazing thing because Pat and I came from Two whole different scenes. I have always been part of the Chitlin and Kuchifrito circuit and she was definitely part of the lesbian feminist circuit and never the twain did meet until we got together and It was really interesting One of the reasons that I love Pat's poetry is because she had guts Enough not to be in anybody's closet. You see there's there's different kinds of closets And one of those closets happened to be that if you happen to be a lesbian like we were That is all you were And I'm very lucky. I'm the proud daughter of a gay man who said probably the worst thing they ever did to us Was to convince us that we're all Sexuals and Pat knew more than that She also had courage enough to step out on a limb and talk about some of the stuff that some of us other writers poets even myself would not talk about Things that need to be talked about like Jonestown Like lynchings right here in California Like conditions that will drive you so completely insane that you will do in Some very strange things like run people over With your car because they take your children away and all kinds of the crazy stuff And I was very grateful. So one of my favorite poems by Pat is the one I'm going to do is called Jonestown I got hit really hard by that and I go to the celebration every year they have but they all those ancestors are buried over there in Oakland by the way if you've never been and I Knew people who actually went there thinking they were going to get salvation from this this place that we live in and I love this poem and I love Pat and for writing it and I love her for having the courage to be who she was and Jonestown as a child in Texas Race education was simple was subtle was sharp The great Lone Star State sharply placed me in colored schools with colored teachers and colored books and colored knowledge I Shopped in white stores and bought colored clothes keep the colors loud and bright so they jadazzle in the night No matter where niggers bred they love yellow orange and red I Used colored toilets and road colored buses home I went to colored churches and prayed to a white God begging forgiveness for Cain His sins his sins and his descendants are slowly colored sinners and the message was simple was sharp There is a place for niggers, but not among good white folk at home Race education was simple was subtle fact-gleaned by differences The white man who jumped free fall in the sky was quietly dismissed white folks are crazy The white man who turned summer starts on sports spectacular skis was quietly dismissed white folks will do anything for money the white man who shot and killed his wife and children and then himself received a head shake and a sigh and the simple statement white folks are crazy and The messages fell into place white folks went crazy black folks got mad and went to jail White folks started wars black folks died in them white folks owned America black folks built it and I grew into adulthood Many messages were discarded many were forgotten But one returns to haunt me black folks do not commit suicide black folks do not black folks do not commit suicide November 18 1978 More than 900 people Most of them black died in a man-made town called Jonestown Newscasters word slapped me in my face people's tears and grief emanate from my set and I remember the lessons Rehear childhood message black folks do not commit suicide. I Thought of my uncle Dave. He died in prison Suicide the authority said boy just jumped up and hung himself And I remember my mother Her disbelief her grief then white folks killed my brother Dave did not commit no suicide in the funeral a Bitter quiet funeral his coffin sealed from ciders and we all knew Dave died not by his hands Some God decided that nigger should die and I stare at the newscaster He struggles to contain himself as a big big story and we must not seem too excited American troops made a grisly discovery today in Jonestown, Guyana my in its scream as the facts unfold a Communist preacher and I see old black women my grandmothers communists no Little old black ladies do not believe in communists. They believe in God and Jesus yet The newscasters words a commune a media storm of words and pictures interviews with ex-member survivors city officials the San Francisco Chronicle had a problem with its presses erratic delivery of the morning paper in two days the Chronicle publishes a book eye witness account By a staff reporter who survived the airport attack and the story grows Step right up step right up ladies and gentlemen have I got a tale for you. We got this men Two men a congressman and a preacher and a supporting cast of hundreds The congressman went to investigate the preacher and wound up dead the preacher wound up dead the Supporting cast wound up dead and all the dead are singing to me black folks do not black folks do not black folks commit suicide My phone rings Newscaster mistakenly says Patricia Parker Not parks died on the airstrip a friend wants to know are you alive? Yes, I Am here Not there festering in the jungle with bloated belly not a victim in a dream deferred Not a piece in a media puzzle not a member in the supporting cast yet. I am there Waiting walking with souls the souls of black folks Crying screaming why why why black folks? Why are you here and dead? Tell me how you willingly died did the minister sing to you cool a cool a taste great I like Kool-Aid tastes great can't wait. I See black people beautiful black people in lines in front of a tub of 20th century hemlock I see guards with guns guns guns wide guns and the pictures continue to flow images of a man a church man He cures diseases. No, he's a fake hired people treated liver. He loves God. No He's a communist. He talks many messages revolution to the young God to the old. He believes in the family. No He destroys the family fucks the women fucks the men and the media continues to tell the tale And interview with a live one you were a member of people's temple. Yes. I was Why did you join? Well, I went there a few times and then I stopped going But the Reverend Jones came by my house and asked me why I quit coming. I was really surprised No one had ever cared that much for me before No one had ever cared that much about me before and it comes home The messages of my youth came clear the black people in Jonestown did not commit suicide They were murdered. They were murdered in small southern towns. They were murdered in big northern cities They were murdered as schoolchildren by teachers who didn't care. They were murdered by policemen who didn't care They were murdered by welfare workers who didn't care. They were murdered by shopkeepers Who didn't care. They were murdered by church people who didn't care. They were murdered by politicians who didn't care They did not die at Jonestown They went to Jonestown dead Convinced that a Merik and Americans didn't care. They died in the school rooms They died in the streets. They died in the bars. They died in the jails. They died in the churches. They died in the welfare lines. Jim Jones was not the cause. He was the result of 400 years of not caring. Black folks do not, I say black folks do not, black folks do not commit suicide. Pat Parker. Pat, like most people was a lot of different sides of her and she had a biting sense of humor. I told you she was a closet Caribbean girl. There's a thing that happens, black folks in Caribbean. We've turned sarcasm into a fine art form. This particular poem, very short poem by Pat, it's called For Willis and she said, it wasn't Willis was not her lover, but Willis loved it. When she first did it, I was there and Willis just fell out in hysterics. So this is For Willis by Pat Parker. And I know most of you is too saintly. You have never been here so. When I made love to you, I try with each stroke of my tongue to say I love you, to tease I love you, to hammer I love you, to note I love you and your sounds drift down. Oh God, oh Jesus. And I think here's some guy, dude's getting credit for what a woman has done again. And last but not least, when Pat made her transition, there was a big thing that we did and Marty asked me to write a thing to do something. And I was gonna do a poem that Pat liked of mine. And I am one of those superstitious kind of black folks that we're supposed to be. And I believe that the ancestors talked to us. And that night as I'm trying to read the poem that Pat liked was too proud to sing the blues. I heard her voice, girl, you better write me a poem. So I wrote this one and did it at that event. We used to do interviews with these creatures. These are really interesting. Oh, by the way, and I don't just work at KPO or I work at KPFA as well. But we do these interviews and these very polite folks which say, and from whence do you get your inspiration? 30 seconds or less of course. And we got so many, what is a poet? And so this poem is called What is a Poet? And it's dedicated to my friend Pat Parker who is a bigger friend than anybody can imagine for me. And I miss her every day. There's certain artists that I will never get over than making transition. Pat Parker, Pity Tomas, Wayne Corbett, certain people that I will never stop missing. And folks, please buy her book and support her work because if you don't support her works then she goes down and disappears. And I don't want that to happen. That's why we do a big tribute to her every year. Please support her work and make sure other people know who she was. So this is What is a Poet? A poet will never be allowed the luxury of blindness. A poet is a receiver, an antenna, and a transmitter all wrapped up in one. A poet sees it all and hears it all and is obligated to tell everything. A poet is at best a storyteller, a griot, a historian, the keeper of the flame where walking pen cushions who can even feel tomorrow breathing down our backs. We can taste yesterday's laughter and see the tears you've yet to cry. A poet goes to sleep with words dancing all around their head where sound junkies who don't know how to be quiet. A poet can't stop it. We just can't stop it. We can't turn it off. It's like an avalanche of word. The beauty, the beauty, the tear, the power of sound. It's all around us. It's everywhere and everything all the time. We don't have to go looking for a poem. Poetry follows us like a shadow. It just keeps on coming and it won't go away. We're driven people. Call it a gift, a healthy obsession. Call it a poem. A poet is everything and nothing, a lover and a liar, a Gossiper and a gift-breaker and a gift and a light at the end of the tunnel. A poet is as new as the morning and is older than dirt and a good poet, just like good poetry is forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever. Thank you, Pat.