Remembered Rapture

by bell hooks

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Epigraph 1

  Epigraph 2

  Preface: Rapture from the Deep

  Writing from the Darkness

  Women Who Write Too Much

  A Body of Work: Women Labor with Words

  Remembered Rapture: Dancing with Words

  Writing without Labels

  Writing to Confess

  Telling All: The Politics of Confession

  Writing Autobiography

  From Public to Private: Writing Bone Black

  Class and the Politics of Writing

  A Life in the Spirit: Faith, Writing, and Intellectual Work

  Divine Inspiration: Writing and Spirituality

  Intellectual Life: In and Beyond the Academy

  Catalyst and Connection: Writers and Readers

  The Writer’s True Home

  Black Women Writing: Creating More Space

  Zora Neale Hurston: A Subversive Reading

  Emily Dickinson: The Power of Influence

  The Legacy of Ann Petry

  Hansberry: The Deep One

  Writing with Grace: The Magic of Morrison

  Writer to Writer: Remembering Toni Cade Bambara

  Copyright

  words have weight—

  you bear with me

  the weight of my words

  suffering whatever pain

  this burden causes you

  in silence—

  i bow to you—

  Rosa bell and Veodis Watkins

  … when I ask you to write more books I am urging you to do what will be for your good and for the good of the world at large.

  VIRGINIA WOOLF

  preface

  rapture from the deep

  Writing these essays about writing has intensified my understanding and appreciation of the writer at work. This work was written to share the dimensions of my writing life that take place behind the scenes. Written from the standpoint of cultural critic, literary scholar, and/or creative writer, these essays probe and examine. They interrogate. Some are academic in tone, others are polemical or playful or just plain celebratory. They span a period of twenty years. Significantly, issues that were relevant and key when I first began writing are still central. Engaging these ideas through the years necessarily leads to some repetition. As a writer I come back to the same place again and again, hoping to make a new discovery or to see an old idea in a fresher light. When I am writing, when I am reading, I reflect on the process of writing itself. Like so much of my work, many of the essays in this collection emerged as responses to readers who wanted to know more about how the work came to be what it is and other less gentle interrogators who found my engagement with writing suspect.

  Pondering why it is so many people find my (a black woman writer) passion for the written word suspect, I am reminded of how recent it is that we have made our literary voices heard in a sustained way—especially writing nonfiction. I write much about that in Remembered Rapture, dwelling on diverse subjects: the issue of labels, of whether one is a black or woman writer or just a writer; talking about why I write so much; discussing the social and political implications of writing by and about women emerging in the wake of contemporary feminist movement; probing the politics of confessional writing, the rise in popularity of the contemporary memoir. In several essays I look at the link between my writing and spiritual belief and practice. I write here about class and how our class background influences both what we write, how we write, and how the work is received. And finally I write about some of the women writers whose work and literary presence influences me, shaping the contours of my imagination, expanding the scope of my vision. No writer’s work has touched my life as significantly as the work of Emily Dickinson, and it is time for me to give her praise. Two of the women writers I pay homage to, Toni Cade Bambara and Ann Petry, died in recent years; their passing was not recognized enough in the press as the tremendous loss to the world of American letters, for their work and presence illuminate very specific periods in our history as a nation—and the development of black women’s writing.

  In many of these essays I grapple with the issue of public work as an intellectual in and outside the academy and that space of writing that is always intimate, private, solitary. Again and again I return to the issue of voice—to break silence, to talk about the reality that black women’s literary voices are here to stay even as we still confront a culture that is not yet fully ready to register and recognize the diversity and range of our vision. As a still emergent group of writers, especially in the area of nonfiction work, black women grapple continually with the suspicions of a larger literary world that is still not confident we are serious thinkers and writers. And then we confront one another, finding among ourselves that envy and fear often lead us away from the solidarity that is needed to ensure our work will not be once again relegated to an abyss of silence, dismissed once more as unnecessary, as irrelevant, as not good or good enough.

  I address these issues in Remembered Rapture because the marketplace has discovered our words are a useful commodity and eagerly seeks to push our work only in the direction of profit and gain. We have visions that must be protected and cherished, for we are still claiming our space in words—still seeking audiences that can take us and our work seriously, still waiting for a generation of publishers and critics to emerge who are not blinded by biases. Again and again in these essays I respond to the question most often asked me by everyone, Why do you write so much? I recall the words of Virginia Woolf, whose A Room of One’s Own has always provided a guide and an anchor, urging us so long, so silent women to “write all kinds of books, hesitating at no subject however trivial or vast,” telling us that if we “consider any great figure of the past, like Sappho, like the Lady Murasaki, like Emily Bronte” we will find “that she is an inheritor as well as an originator, and has come into existence because women have come to the habit of writing naturally.…” Ah! but my dear sister Virginia could never imagine black women writing “naturally.” For like everyone she knew, our very existence on the landscape of Western literature was the outcome of unnatural acts.

  No! Black women in the diaspora do not come to writing naturally, for there is always someone standing ready to silence the natural impulse to create as it arises in us, and so to write we must ever resist. We must ever remember that our ancestors sacrificed that we might possess the skill to read—to write. No! Black women have not come to writing naturally for we have “come over a way that with tears has been watered, treading our feet through the blood of the slaughtered.” We have come to writing through the suffering of our ancestors here on these shores. While this suffering does not sanctify us it does remind us that ours is a literary history where even the threat of death could not silence our passion for written words—our longing to read, to write, to know.

  Writing about his life and the people who influenced him, black theologian and mystic Howard Thurman often focused on his maternal grandmother Nancy Ambrose, telling how she encouraged him to be a seeker after truth: “… I got from her an enormous respect for the magic that there is in knowledge. That came from what she had observed as a slave child. Whenever her owner’s wife saw her daughter trying to teach my grandmother the alphabet or one, two, three, she would chastise the child and send her to bed without supper. My grandmother said: ‘I saw there must
be some magic in knowing how to read and write.’” Although she never learned to read or write she urged her grandson to acquire this magic and use it in the service of self-realization.

  Like Howard Thurman, I was raised in a world where many of the teachers of wisdom around me were elder black women and men who could not read or write. As part of my religious missionary service it was often my designated task as a child to be the eyes for those who did not have eyes, the hands for those who could not write. No language adequately describes what it feels like to live in a world where so much depends on the written word and be unable to grasp the significance of those marks on paper. No words can convey the sense of powerlessness before the mystery of print. I witnessed the pain and shame of illiterate elders. Yet more than their anguish of spirit what I remember most is the intensity of their longing—their desire to be led into this world of written words. They never let me forget that they could not enter this world without a guide. And that my ability to guide them was a precious gift. They never let me forget that some of them had been to school but had not been “taught right” and so they did not come away from “learning” knowing how to make sense of words on the page. They never let me forget that I was blessed. To them words were sacred. To read and write was to partake of a sacrament as holy as our eating the body and drinking the blood of the divine in communion and remembrance.

  That sense of the sacredness of words, of writing, has been inside my mind, heart, and imagination for such a long time. I can no longer remember a world without words on the page calling me, calling me to come inside and to find what Rilke named “the deeps into which your life takes rise.” I knew then. I knew when I sat at the feet of Miss Zula, who could barely move because illness had caused her dark body had grown huge and monstrous, reading—letting my tongue and breath caress written words, giving voice to passions she would never know—I knew then I wanted a life in words. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be able to enter this sacred realm at will and find there the meaning of grace.

  I did not wait for desegregation, for college, for creative-writing classes, for grown-ups to show me the way. I found my vocation. It called to me and I was determined to answer the call. I began to write in my girlhood. And I am writing still, moving swiftly into midlife with a body of words I have made into books beside me. No passion in my life has been as constant, as true as this love. No passion has been as demanding. When words call, to answer, to satisfy the urge, I must come again and again to a solitary place—a place where I am utterly alone. In that moment of grace when the words come, when I surrender to their ecstatic power, there is no witness. Only I see, feel, and know how my mind and spirit are carried away. Only I know how the writing process alchemically alters me, leaving me transformed. Other writers tell of how it works within them. Written words change us all and make us more than we could ever be without them. Still the being we become in the midst of the very act of writing is only ever intimately present to the one who writes.

  Writing about writing is one way to grasp, hold, and give added meaning to a process that remains one of life’s great mysteries. I have not yet found words to truly convey the intensity of this remembered rapture—that moment of exquisite joy when necessary words come together and the work is complete, finished, ready to be read. I do know that I return again and again to that place, to that moment—to the rapture. That written words offer me this gift is an endless blessing.

  writing from the darkness

  I remember childhood as time in anguish, as a dark time—not darkness in any sense that is stark, bleak, or empty but as a rich space of knowledge, struggle, and awakening. We seemed bound to the earth then, as though like other living things our roots were so deep in the soil of our surroundings there was no way to trace beginnings. We lived in the county, in a space between city and country, a barely occupied space. Houses stood at a distance from one another, few of them beautiful; always a sense of isolation and unbearable loneliness hovered about them. We lived on hilly land, trees and wild honeysuckle hiding the flat spaces where gardens grew. I do not remember darkness there. It was the blackness enveloping earth and sky out in the country at Daddy Jerry’s and Mama Willie’s house that gave feeling and meaning to darkness. There it seemed textured, as though it were velvet cloth folded in many layers. That darkness had to be confronted as we made our way before bedtime to the outhouse. “No light necessary,” granddaddy would say. “There is light in darkness, you just have to find it.” That was early childhood. From then on I was terribly lost in an inner darkness as deep and thick as the blackness of those nights. I could not find my way or see the light there.

  I was a child and his words had given me confidence. I believed with him that there was light in darkness waiting to be found. Later unable to find my way, I began to feel uncertain, displaced, estranged even. This was the condition of my spirit when I decided to be a writer, to seek for that light in words. No one understood. Coming from country black folks, seemingly always old, folks with the spirit of the backwoods, odd habits and odd ways, I had no way to share this longing—this ache to write words. In our world there was an intense passionate place for telling stories. It was really some big-time thing to be able to tell a good story, to as Cousin Bo would say “call out the hell in words.” Writing had no such place. Writing the old people could not do even if they had been lucky enough to learn how. Folks wrote only when they had to; it was an awesome task, a burden. Making lists or writing letters could anguish the spirit. And who would anguish the spirit unnecessarily?

  Searching for a space where writing could be understood, I asked for a diary. I remember early on getting the imitation-leather red or green books at holiday times, with DIARY written on them in bright gold letters, and of course there were those ever-so-tiny gold keys, two of them. Keys that were inevitably lost. Whole diaries gone because I refused to pry them open, not wanting what was private to be accessible. Confessional writing in diaries was acceptable in our family because it was writing that was never meant to be read by anyone. Keeping a daily diary did not mean that I was seriously called to write, that I would ever write for a reading public. This was “safe” writing. It would (or so my parents thought) naturally be forsaken as one grew into womanhood. I shared with them this assumption. Such writing was seen as a necessary stage but only that. It was for me the space for critical reflection, where I struggled to understand myself and the world around me, that crazy world of family and community, that painful world. I could say there what was hurting me, how I felt about things, what I hoped for. I could be angry there with no threat of punishment. I could “talk back.” Nothing had to be concealed. I could hold on to myself there.

  However much the realm of diary-keeping has been a female experience that has often kept us closeted writers, away from the act of writing as authorship, it has most assuredly been a writing act that intimately connects the art of expressing one’s feeling on the written page with the construction of self and identity, with the effort to be fully self-actualized. This precious powerful sense of writing as a healing place where our souls can speak and unfold has been crucial to women’s development of a counter-hegemonic experience of creativity within patriarchal culture. Significantly, diary writing has not been traditionally seen by literary scholars as subversive autobiography, as a form of authorship that challenges conventional notions about the primacy of confessional writing as mere documentation (for women most often a record of our sorrows). Yet in the many cases where such writing has enhanced our struggle to be self-defining it emerges as a narrative of resistance, as writing that enables us to experience both self-discovery and self-recovery.

  Faced with the radical possibility of self-transformation that confessional writing can evoke, many females cease to write. Certainly, when I was younger I did not respond to the realization that diary writing was a place where I could critically confront the “self” with affirmation. At times diary writing was threatening. For me the confessions
written there were testimony, documenting realities I was not always able to face. My response to this sense of threat was to destroy the diaries. That destruction was linked to my fear that growing up was not supposed to be hard and difficult, a time of anguish and torment. Somehow the diaries were another accusing voice declaring that I was not “normal.” I destroyed that writing and I wanted to destroy that tormented and struggling self. I did not understand, then, the critical difference between confession as an act of displacement and confession as the beginning stage in a process of self-transformation. Before this understanding, the diary as mirror was a place where that part of myself I could not accept or love could be named, touched, and then destroyed. Such writing was release. It took the terror and pain away—that was all. It was not then a place of reconciliation and reclamation.

  None of the many diaries I wrote growing up exist today. They were all destroyed. Years ago when I began a therapeutic process of retrospective self-examination, I really missed this writing and mourned the loss. Since I use journals now as a way to engage in critical self-reflection, confrontation, and challenge, I know that I would be able to know myself differently were I able to read back, to remember with that writing. Those years of sustained diary writing were crucial to my later development as a writer for it was this realm of confessional writing that enabled me to find a voice. Still there was a frightening tension between the discovery of that voice and the assumption that, though expressed, it would then need to be concealed, contained, hidden, and ultimately destroyed. While I had been given permission to keep diaries, it was writing that my family began to see as dangerous when I began to express ideas considered strange and alien. Diaries provided a space for me to develop an autonomous voice and that meant such writing, once sanctioned, became suspect. It was impressed upon my consciousness that having a voice was dangerous. This was reinforced when my sisters would find and read my diaries, then deliver them to our mother as evidence that I was truly a mad person, an alien, a stranger in their household.