THE UNEXPECTED PAYOFF OF POETRY

INTERVIEWED BY REGIE CABICO

he catchphrase for A Gathering of

Tthe Tribes is “Where revolutionary artists come together.” And where else in the East Village might you have caught the Sun Ra Arkestra, master satirist Ishmael Reed, artist David Hammons, and experimental poet Anne Waldman in its heady early days? Founded by the late novelist-poet-publisher Steve Cannon, the organization has lost none of its steam either. Cannon protege and current Executive Director Chavisa Woods is keeping Tribes' flame burning bright as recently evidenced at The Whitney Biennial where the organization is represented by a major installation on the sixth floor as part of the Quiet as It’s Kept exhibit. Regie Cabico, a National Slam Poet with his own rich history with the Tribes, spoke to Chavisa about her mentor's legacy, the current Whitney homage, and the wildest party to come out during her early days at Cannon's side.

PERSONAL HISTORY

Regie Cabico: My first experience with Gathering of the Tribes was in 1993. I was reading at every open mic in New York City, after graduating with my NYU theater degree. I did cabaret open mics, stand-up comedy and at St. Mark’s bookstore, all I could see were anthologies by Gay & Lesbian (the Queer term was just being birthed) Asian American anthologies and while I never wrote poetry, I decided to write about my Asian American experiences growing up in Southern Maryland. The Nuyorican Poets Cafe, which stands adjacent to Tribes Gallery, had its Wednesday night open poetry slam. Steve Cannon and Bob Holman would gather before the Friday night poetry slams to workshop poems before performing at the Cafe. I believe Indigo, the official unofficial gay poet scorekeeper for Friday Night Poetry Slams, told me about the workshops Steve Cannon and Bob Holman held before the slams. This was my first time at Tribes being in the camaraderie of poets who appear in Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe anthology edited by Miguel Algarin and Bob Holman: Diane Burns, Jessica Hagedorn, Patricia Spears Jones, Paul Beatty, Willie Perdomo, Edwin Torres, to name a few. What was your first memory of Tribes and meeting Steve Cannon?

Chavisa Woods: You’re talking about The Stoop. Those workshops were literally held on the stoop of Tribes, at the 285 East 3rd Street space. They were open to anyone who wanted to attend. The theme was, “If it works on the stage, it should work on the page,” as Steve always said. The stoop informed the work of so many downtown slam poets when slam was big in NYC.

I heard a lot about The Stoop when I came to Tribes, but it was over by then. I came in 2003. I’d been living in a queer anarchist collective in Saint Louis called C.A.M.P. (Community Arts and Media Project). I’d moved to Saint Louis when I was 18, from a small, conservative farm town in Southern Illinois.

For someone like me, at that time, a queer, punk leftist from a working-class family; well one side is working class and one side has struggled with dire poverty for generations, Saint Louis cut two ways. I was able to find other queer leftists, many of whom also came from rural poverty, and we lived in a subcultural community, and supported each other in really innovative ways. I’ve never found another community like that, actually. But, at the same time, there was definitely a glass ceiling as far as what I would be able to achieve professionally or as an artist. Missouri is a southern, red state.

I was introduced to Steve by a poet I met in Chicago. I wanted to move to New York, but didn’t have any money, connections, job prospects, or anything but an old car and a cat. I came on a train for a week and met Steve. He told me he was looking for a live-in personal assistant, to help with everything Tribes related, and more. Because he was blind. He needed someone to read him the paper in the morning and work in the office and help with events and the magazine. I sat across the couch from him and talked to him for a few hours. He asked me everything about my life I could imagine anyone ever asking. He had me read him some of my poetry. He asked me to describe the art on the walls in detail. Then he told me I could live at Tribes for free as long as I needed, as long as I worked for him from nine to five every weekday and helped out as needed. And so I went back to Saint Louis, packed up my car, and drove it to East 3rd Street.

It felt like home. It always felt like home. What I’m saying here probably sounds strange in today’s world, and this wasn’t so long ago, just 2003, but that’s how it happened. I told him who I was and what I needed, and he told me who he was and what he needed—we introduced ourselves—and he invited me in. That’s how he was. RC: For those of us who were living the 1990s Friday Night Poetry Slam at The Nuyorican Poets Cafe, you would never forget Steve Cannon’s heckling, READ THE GODDAMN POEM! Can you tell me what Steve Cannon was like when he critiqued your writing?

CW: Oh wow. This is a really emotional question for me. A few weeks after he died, I finished a short story, and when it was done, I laid my head on my desk and cried, because I realized that for nearly twenty years, every single piece I finished, I would immediately read to Steve. Every piece. I didn’t even think about it until it was gone. It had become such a natural part of my process.

What was he like? It’s hard to put into words. It’s such an intimate thing. He was often the first person who read my stories and essays after I finished, which is when you’re most vulnerable, that first day you believe something is done, and therefore, good. I would read aloud to him, of course, because he’s blind, and when I read aloud to someone, I can feel them experiencing the piece. I knew without him telling me which parts worked for him and which didn’t. I could feel him responding while I read it. So, often, when I was done, he’d just say, “You know what I’m gonna say, don’t ya?” And I’d say, yeah, like “this one character isn’t flushed out,” or whatever, and he’d nod, and say, “exactly. You gotta fix that.”

He was a very clear editor. He was never shy about telling me when something didn’t work, so when he really loved a story, I knew it was actually good and he wasn’t just sparing me feelings. His honest criticism was one of the most valuable gifts he ever gave me.

Left: Chaivsa Woods