Class Note 2012
Issue
September-October 2020
For this month’s issue, the class of 2012 wanted to take a pause from our regularly scheduled programming to discuss the role artists can be playing in the current global movement for change. Our guest columnist is classmate Joan Leslie, spoken word artist and nonprofit fundraiser based out of Atlanta. To join this journey, consider looking into your local Black Lives Matter movement and your city’s vendor database of independent artists to follow their work.
Every movement illuminating issues facing Black Americans has had a soundtrack. During and post slavery we had spirituals. During the Jim Crow era we had freedom songs, and today we have a plethora of genres that share the sentiments of the people. Music is one art form that has always had that power, and as a poet, I’m proud to say poetry has had a seat at that table as well.
It all comes down to how words move us and speak life into dead situations, systems, and ideologies. As an artist, it is not just my responsibility to deliver the poems to a people seeking inspiration. It’s my job to be a connector. Artists have a responsibility to have our ears to the ground so we are giving the people what they need during turmoil. Some days I may not have the words, but on those days I share the art. I share the graffiti, the portraits, the animations, the pottery. I share reminders that there is no struggle we are facing that the generations before us have not seen.
We have the privilege of social media and lightning fast communication (depending on the wi-fi provider). And what a privilege it is to share clips of Amber Riley singing Beyonce’s “Freedom” in the streets of L.A. so my West Coast friends can follow her and the movement on the ground there. The power of sharing stories of injustice is in this generation’s hands right along with their cell phones and social mediums.
Our stories as a nation are art no matter how tragic they may be, and it’s our duty to share those stories with as many people as we can through our various gifts. In the spoken word community, we often embrace the notion that when a poem comes to you, it is no longer yours. We go even further to suggest that we are required to give it to the world because someone is waiting to hear it. I’ve accepted that when the world gives me tragedy, I am allowed to grieve first, but then I am also required to give others tools to help them grieve as well.
How many times have you heard a song or read a poem or analyzed a piece of art and been amazed that someone managed to capture your exact sentiments in a language foreign to you? It happens to me daily. At a time when we all need some encouragement and inspiration, it is crucial that we elevate artist voices in this movement for national policing reform and drastic changes to infrastructures built on systemic racism.
I also urge artists to practice self-care first and foremost. But know that when your healing comes, you can use your powers for good. Heal others. I don’t have all the answers, but I do know how to convert pain into poetry. It will continue to be my toolkit for publicizing a revolution our ancestors predicted would not be televised. If there is one thing I’m proud to say they didn’t get quite right, it is that.
—Liz Sullivan, 1811 Wyoming Ave NW, #44, Washington, DC 20009; elizabeth.a.sullivan.12@dartmouth.edu
Every movement illuminating issues facing Black Americans has had a soundtrack. During and post slavery we had spirituals. During the Jim Crow era we had freedom songs, and today we have a plethora of genres that share the sentiments of the people. Music is one art form that has always had that power, and as a poet, I’m proud to say poetry has had a seat at that table as well.
It all comes down to how words move us and speak life into dead situations, systems, and ideologies. As an artist, it is not just my responsibility to deliver the poems to a people seeking inspiration. It’s my job to be a connector. Artists have a responsibility to have our ears to the ground so we are giving the people what they need during turmoil. Some days I may not have the words, but on those days I share the art. I share the graffiti, the portraits, the animations, the pottery. I share reminders that there is no struggle we are facing that the generations before us have not seen.
We have the privilege of social media and lightning fast communication (depending on the wi-fi provider). And what a privilege it is to share clips of Amber Riley singing Beyonce’s “Freedom” in the streets of L.A. so my West Coast friends can follow her and the movement on the ground there. The power of sharing stories of injustice is in this generation’s hands right along with their cell phones and social mediums.
Our stories as a nation are art no matter how tragic they may be, and it’s our duty to share those stories with as many people as we can through our various gifts. In the spoken word community, we often embrace the notion that when a poem comes to you, it is no longer yours. We go even further to suggest that we are required to give it to the world because someone is waiting to hear it. I’ve accepted that when the world gives me tragedy, I am allowed to grieve first, but then I am also required to give others tools to help them grieve as well.
How many times have you heard a song or read a poem or analyzed a piece of art and been amazed that someone managed to capture your exact sentiments in a language foreign to you? It happens to me daily. At a time when we all need some encouragement and inspiration, it is crucial that we elevate artist voices in this movement for national policing reform and drastic changes to infrastructures built on systemic racism.
I also urge artists to practice self-care first and foremost. But know that when your healing comes, you can use your powers for good. Heal others. I don’t have all the answers, but I do know how to convert pain into poetry. It will continue to be my toolkit for publicizing a revolution our ancestors predicted would not be televised. If there is one thing I’m proud to say they didn’t get quite right, it is that.
—Liz Sullivan, 1811 Wyoming Ave NW, #44, Washington, DC 20009; elizabeth.a.sullivan.12@dartmouth.edu