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Kentucky Letters: Why You Should Know About Frank X.
Walker
by Joe Schmidt
The sad truth is that
I’m probably best qualified to offer the reader a nostalgic
gazetteer of the Louisville bar scene about five years
ago, but
that’s what happens when one hides away for a while to read and
write seriously. Last I heard, bourbon is still the rave local drink,
and if you can’t afford the good stuff, there are plenty of
toothless underpass squatters willing to let you take a slug of
Kessler’s Whiskey. The danger of
bourbon, regardless of the
quality, is it has the evil effect of making one imagine
he or she is a poet.
So for starters, I would
warn literary travelers to beware of the potent local distillation,
and as well, our prestigious racetrack Churchill
Downs, as these
Derby City institutions have probably destroyed many would-be
talents. If those attractions don’t suck you in, the killer
home-grown marijuana will. Be careful when you come to the Bluegrass
-- this is not exactly a civilized place. Don’t let the
southern accents and hospitality fool you. Hunter S. Thompson grew up
here.
Louisville, despite its
temptations, is an arts friendly city complete with an orchestra, a
ballet, a small but long tradition of blues and jazz music, is a
Mecca for bluegrass musicians from around the world, and is home to
several respected theaters, particularly Actor’s Theater where many
Broadway shows have found their first public audience. It’s not a
bad place to be a poet, though many local poets would complain that
there isn’t much of what one might call a “poetry scene.”
Certainly, the cultural dominance of college basketball makes it
difficult to distract many folks from fast breaks and three pointers,
but there exists solid and dedicated communities of poets in
Louisville.
Frank X.
Walker, a
graduate of the new MFA program at Louisville’s Spalding
University, is an exciting poet and a founding member of the
Affrilachian Poets, a group of African-American Kentucky writers who
have cut out a new identity for Kentucky letters that transcends the
traditional Southern Pastoral work of writers like Wendell Berry. In
a state that likes its art White-Protestant, Frank X. Walker affirms
a repressed but growing cultural pluralism. Though Frank is from
eastern Kentucky, he makes his home in Louisville, which has
experienced the recent immigration of various Latino groups,
Sudanese, Bosnians, and Vietnamese, to give an incomplete list. This
has begun to change the culture in Louisville, a city still marked by
de-facto segregation some four decades after the Civil Rights
Movement. If nothing else, Louisvillians have had to acknowledge the
existence of a world view that is more complex than Black and White.
Walker, writing of
a Bosnian refugee eager to embrace a romanticized notion of American
diversity, recognizes the challenges of a European Muslim
assimilating to American culture, yet also recognizes, “she would
not understand our own un civil war.”
she
immigrated into our classroom
seeking asylum
carrying her own wounds
and none of our
ever present racial baggage
or our painful history
of abduction, slavery
rape, lynchings, castrations
our own north American
apartheid-flavored democracy
Aside from teaching,
I work sometimes in a kitchen near the site of the old slave market
in Louisville, near the Clarksdale projects. Living in inner-city
Louisville, you have to be a damn fool not to see the way economics
break down along lines of race. I also
should mention the shooting of a fifty year old man by the Louisville
police last year. The intoxicated man produced a box cutter while in
custody, handcuffed in fact, and was shot eleven times and killed.
The officers were cleared of any charges to the chagrin of many
citizens, particularly those in the Black community. These sorts of
incidents -- white cops shooting Black men under questionable
circumstances -- has been a regular and disturbing part of Louisville
life for years. Oddly -- people, even much of the African American
community it seems, are complacent about such
events. This is not
exactly a civilized place, though politeness, reservation, and a
Biblical patience with archaic injustice pervade the culture here.
So it is with a hope
that I see kids from “Little Vietnam,” a south-end neighborhood,
playing hoops in ghetto-fantastic gear with killer cross-over
dribbles, or blue-eyed Bosnian Muslim women in full veils riding the
bus with bow-tied Nation of Islam activists, or any kind of social
anomaly for that matter. As a native of New York City who has long
resided in Louisville and proudly call it home, I am always saddened
when Louisville lives up to the stereotypes of the Old South. Sadly,
this city often does.
Omnipresent in
Louisville’s daily bustle are the descendants of American slavery,
who despite centuries of social subservience in the Louisville
economy either by the slave institution, Jim Crow, or market
manipulation by the wealthy white establishment, have had little
voice in the arts in Kentucky. The
J.B. Speed Art Museum in Louisville, for example, is named for
the Kentuckian who held more slaves than anyone in the history of the
state, and its collection and programs clearly reflect a white middle
class orientation -- this cultural institution is punctuated by the
obelisk across the street that commemorates Louisville’s
confederate dead.
Frank X. Walker’s work offers hope that the projected image
of the Kentuckian, and by extension, the Louisvillian, will be more
than of the now over-emphasized white, Protestant agrarian, as
crucial as that image is to a complete picture of this state. As much
as I enjoy a measure of Wendell Berry’s work, he has cast a long
shadow over the poetry of Kentucky. Joe Servant, another white man, a
fine writer of rural themes, is the current Kentucky poet laureate.
The late Jim Wayne Miller (the husband of feminist writer and teacher
Mary Ellen Miller who taught me so many writerly virtues when I was a
student at Western Kentucky University) is a former Kentucky
poet-laureate who wrote great poems of Appalachian life. Frank X.
Walker’s first book, Affrilachia
deals extensively with rural life, but its people have, for too long,
been rendered invisible by the great white wash of history. Yes,
Virginia, there are Black folks in rural America.
No established
Kentucky publication would print my words, I suspect, since I have
been, perhaps, too irreverent to too many revered Kentucky cultural
treasures. The great thing about being a Kentucky Fried Yankee,
however, is that if I can’t be part of positive cultural change in
Kentucky, I can always go back to New York City, or take root
somewhere else. I’m a rootless poet, I guess. Frank X. Walker’s
roots are so deep in Kentucky, and to hear his voice read his poems
in a lovely, rich Affrilachian
accent, it has occurred to me and to many others that his career in
the poetry of Kentucky is one of destiny. He has worked with hundreds
of students, and has helped many poets (including this one) find
public space to read their work, whether they are academic writers or
street poets. Reading at Lincoln Center in New York in August of
2003, with a second book of excellent historical poems on the way, he
seems pointed towards becoming Kentucky’s future poet-laureate.
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