From the Grave: Paul Laurence Dunbar

From the Grave

W i t h

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Paul Laurence Dunbar's life is one that all other poets should take note of. He is one of the first nationally recognized poets and, perhaps, the first poet to do a world tour. I would even venture to say that he was the first poet to hustle chapbook purchases while at work. If you were to look up "full-time poet" in the dictionary, his picture SHOULD appear next to the definition. He performed his works whenever he got the chance. He was so talented that those who read or heard his poetry couldn't resist pouring into his life—financially.

He is one of the greats and a pioneer of the art form. So, it is with our great pleasure that we introduce Paul Laurence Dunbar as July's feature From the Grave. Grab a cup of coffee, tea, or whatever it is you drink—and enjoy the conversation.

Thank you for taking the time to visit us From the Grave this month, Mr. Dunbar.

I reckon I didn't have much else to do, right Nah. So, the pleasure is all mine. I appreciate you all taking the time to think of me over a century beyond the time I produced my work.

You are a great poet, Mr. Dunbar. It was just a matter of time that we connected with you.

Yes, indeed. And please, you can call me Paul. We can ease the 'Mr. ' part. It makes me feel like my father is nearby

Well, Paul, it is then! So, do you think writing chose you? Or did you chose writing as a way to express yourself?

Well, I'd say that—(pauses and looks to the left for a moment before reconnecting with me) – writing chose me. I think I was around the age of six when I wrote my first poem. I can't recall the title, but I remember writing it, and Ma took a liking to it. She thought I was messin' around at; first, ya' know? But once I continued with it and showed her more, she was completely invested in my talent.

Was she an integral part of your foundation as a writer?

She was key. I mean, I'd say that it was me that picked up the pen on account of my own will. But, once ma recognized my gift, she was all in. She assisted me with my schooling, you know? She helped me learn how to read better. I remember the days we sat up at the kitchen table, goin' over the bible. She'd read a few verses and then pass it to me, and I'd read a few. For a kid in those days, the bible wasn't the easiest thing to understand. The language was a bit different from the way we spoke, ya' know? Our dialect was different. But, she taught me the best she could, and I held on to what I could. And um (he looks to the left for a moment again), I believe that I kept reading and writing from there, and by the time I turned 9, I gave my first public reciting.

What do you remember about that?

I was nervous, you know? A little black boy in front of all them people, both colored and white folk, you know? It was a scary moment, but I spoke, and it turned out well.

So, during this time, I know that slavery was still a thing. Black folks were escaping and struggling to gain their freedom. But, with you performing in front of a few whites back then, it makes me think that your experience wasn't as bad.

Well, Nah, let me stop you right there.

"Bad" is relative. What's bad for you may not be bad for the next person, so on and so forth. I wrote "We Wear the Mask, " and in it, I said, 'We wear the mask that grins and lies, it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes—this debt we pay to human guile; With torn and bleeding hearts, we smile. ' So, did I have negative experiences with white folks? Yes, indeed. That came with the territory, and, truthfully, I met a lot more bad than I did good when it came to them. But, the ones that kept their prejudice in check and accepted me were the ones that became pivotal to my career as a poet. They helped me in more ways than I ever thought was possible. It gave me hope. And hope is tenacious. It goes on living and working when science has dealt it what should've been its death blow.

And when you wrote your poetry, initially, you stayed true to your black dialect. It was a big thing for you.

It's a part of who I was. Where I came from. You know, my parents and grandparents and great grandparents. For the most part, our people weren't taught English. You had the outliers like Phillis Wheatley and Frederick Douglas, you know? They were taught the language by, um, I guess, benevolent dictators is what I would call them. You know, the slave owners that showed benevolence to some of their slaves. Cause' , slavery was, and still is, evil. So, to call a slave owner 'good' doesn't rub me the right way, you know? But our people weren't taught English. We picked up on words here and there and then put it together on our own accord. So, 'now' became 'nah, ' and 'get' was 'git' and 'tomorrow' was 'tamarah, ' so on and so forth. So, I wrote my poetry like that. I felt I had to stay true to my experience, and as a poet, we all have to be true to our experiences. People wanted me to write in standard English, but I refused. I mean, I could, and I did at times, but I didn't want to forget what I'd gone through. What my parents had gone through. Our language is a part of us. Earlier in my career, a lot of the poetry was inspired by the stories my folks told me about their life on the plantations. See, both my parents were slaves, and they escaped shortly after my birth. Imagine that. A man and woman escaping slavery with a newborn baby to tend to. It's by God's grace that we made it out alive.

So, by age 14, you were in high school, and you had poems published in the Dayton Herald in Dayton, Ohio.

Yes, indeed. I um (snaps his finger to recollect) I had a good friend by the name of Orville Wright. He had a brother named Wilbur, and they went on to do great things. But, Orville was one of my classmates, and he published a black newspaper called the Dayton Tattler. So, my work appeared in the Herald and the Tattler as well. And, see, this goes back to the few white folks that were very influential and helpful to me and my writing career. I was the only colored boy in the school, um, Central High in Dayton. And, like I say, I had problems cause' everybody wasn't as tolerant, you know? But, with Orville's help, I became well-accepted in the school. I was

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elected as president of the school's literary society and became the school newspaper editor and a debate club member. I reckon that, if it wasn't for my talent as a writer, I might not have been as accepted there.

So, after High School, you were unable to attend college because of financial shortfalls. So, you had to take a job as an elevator operator. How did that affect you mentally?

I know why the caged bird sings. When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore. When he beats his bars and would be free, t is not a carol of joy or glee but a prayer that sends from his heart's deep core. A plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—I know why the caged bird sings. That is what comes to mind. I was a caged bird. I was unhappy because I have all this talent as a writer, but I'm working a job makin' $4 a week. It was humbling, and I was ready to give up, but I remembered my good friend Orville Wright. I asked him and his brother if they could publish my dialect poems in book form, but they didn't have a print book facility. So, I subsidized the book's printing, and after that, I ended up selling copies of my book to passengers on the elevator. I always kept a satchel with a few of them on me, and I made small talk, and about two weeks later, I'd earned my investment back. You It was were well worth it. hustling your books at work!

That's dope!

I'm sorry? I reckon I don't quite understand what ya' mean.

My apologies. That's some 20th century, urban dialect. In other words, You were selling your books while you were at work. That is a brilliant and amazing move on your end.

Well, yes. I suppose that is, dope, then. Thank ya' , kindlay.

So, shortly after that, you started to gain more recognition for your poetry. One of your high school teachers invited you to read your poems at a meeting of the Western Association of Writers, and you were being recognized all over the city. How did that feel?

I hoped there is something worthy in my writing and not merely the novelty of a black face associated with the power to rhyme that has attracted attention. Back then, you could never be too sure. Am I some kind of zoo animal that people look at because 'the monkey can speak well, ' or is it truly because of my gift? People take it for granted that the negro ought not to work with his head. And it is so easy for these people among whom we are living to believe this; it flatters and satisfies their self-complacency.

But I think you shifted the narrative completely. Shortly after you moved to Chicago, you connected with Frederick Douglas, and through that friendship, he arranged for you to read a selection of your poems. He said that you were 'the most promising young colored man in America. ' You had your poems in the New York Times. You were poppin'! I mean, you were the man at that time.

Poppin'? Did I hear you correctly?

Yes, sir!.

I see. The 20th century has an exciting new dialect. In any case, yes, things were happening for me so fast. I was able to embark on a six-month reading tour in England. Fully funded. It was an amazing time for me, and I felt like I was on top of the world. When I came back to America, I received a clerkship at the Library of Congress in D.C. and married Alice. She was indeed an inspiration and a great writer herself. She wanted me to focus on writing full-time and, after a bit of convincing, that's what I did. We wrote poetry together, and I published Lyrics of Lowly Life and regularly performed public readings. It was a great time for me. For us. I hate that it was cut short.

Is there anything you want to say before I let you go?

Live. Live your truth, and don't waste time. You won't live forever, and once it's over, it's over.

Photo cred: aaihs.org