Part Four

Family Heirlooms

 

                                                                                                The connection between two generations, or

                                                                                    the thread that runs through a family, can be conveyed

                                                                                    in a poem by using an heirloom that symbolizes continuity.

                                                                                    There are a wide range of heirlooms: objects of value, history,

                                                                                    or nostalgia; recipes; songs, dances, or lullabies; family

                                                                                    stories, rituals, or customs; books or photographs; a

                                                                                    special talent for music, art, or language; a special name.

 

                                                                                                In “Legacies,” Nikki Giovanni writes about some-

                                                                                    thing that might be passed along from the grandmother

                                                                                    to a granddaughter who resists receiving it.

 

                                                                                    Legacies

 

                                                                                    her grandmother called her from the playground

                                                                                                “yes, ma’am”

                                                                                                “i want chu to learn how to make rolls,” said

                                                                                                    the old

                                                                                    woman proudly

                                                                                    but the little girl didn’t want

                                                                                    to learn how because she knew

                                                                                    even if she couldn’t say it that

                                                                                    that would mean when the old one died she

                                                                                                would be less

                                                                                    dependent upon her spirit so

                                                                                    she said

                                                                                                “i don’t want to know how to make no rolls”

                                                                                    with the lips poked out

                                                                                    and the old woman wiped her hands on

                                                                                    her apron saying “lord

                                                                                                these children”

                                                                                    and neither of them ever

                                                                                    said what they meant

                                                                                    and I guess nobody ever does

                       

                                                                                                ----Nikki Giovanni

 

 

 

Born in Knoxville, Tenn., and raised in Ohio, Giovanni received her bachelor's degree from Nashville 's historically black Fisk University. After organizing the first Black Arts Festival in Cincinnati, she entered graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania. Her first two collections of poetry, Black Feeling, Black Talk (1968) and Black Judgement (1969) gave voice to black consciousness and revolutionary impulses and established her as a major figure in the Black Arts Movement, a loose coalition of African-American intellectuals who produced politically and artistically radical work. Her lifelong determination to tell the truth as she sees it and her prolific output in a variety of genres have ensured her enduring prominence in the world of letters as well as the black consciousness movement. In addition to poetry, she has published children's books, essays and conversations.

 

 

 

ASSIGNMENT:                    Consider all of the objects, talents, customs, names, or family traits that have been passed along in your family. Choose one to write a poem about. The poem should tell something about what you carry forward, what connects you to your past. In the poem, describe that heirloom using the appropriate sense images and similes or metaphors to clarify your subject. From whom does this heirloom come? What does it mean to you, where do you keep it, or how do you use it? Has it changed your life in any way? Do you think you might pass it on eventually?

                                                If you cannot think of any quality, custom, or object passed down to you, you might consider something you value, such as an old teddy bear or a well-used hockey stick or a signed baseball. You might pass along such a treasure to one of your own children someday.                                                    

                                    FOLLOW THE REQUIREMENTS GIVEN IN PART ONE TO COMPLETE THIS ASSIGNMENT.

                                    SAVE YOUR POEM IN YOUR POETRY FOLDER LABELED “PART FOUR-HEIRLOOMS”

 

Student Example                   My Recipe Box

                                                Each one is a story wanting to be told.

                                                In between the eggs and butter is my great grandmother’s soul.

                                                Next to the half cup milk are grandmother’s hazel eyes.

                                                They shine out at me like stars filled with love and dreams.

                                                From inside the apple dusted with cinnamon my mother smiles at me.

                                                We call to each other through the haze of the steamy, living kitchen.

                                                We look at each other from behind the Kosher oven door, trapped by time and tradition.

                                                I stir the batter, one hundred strokes.

                                                I inhale the light gooey smell.

                                                I feel my family.

                                                And as I cut the completed hot cake I find myself,

                                                as I will someday find my children in the walnuts and chocolate chips I sprinkled on top.

                                                We have been stirred with a blade of steel.

                                                We have been grated by gnarled fingers that are somehow smooth.

                                                We have been smooshed and loved in countless children’s palms as we learned.

                                                But we have always been kneaded by hands that love and live.

                                                And we are still whole.

                                                And my recipe box is still complete, continuing and ageless

                                                And each recipe is a story waiting to be told.

                                                                        ----Jennie Weinberger