 |
| Nikki Giovanni by Mark Mahoney |
In the early 0’s I drove a limousine to supplement my meager, state-employee wages. More than just the extra jingles, I found refuge in mindless driving that evaded me in writing. Town car work, airport runs, and events—it got me out of the house that I made hostile.
Of all the work, I preferred the town car—short trips and short money—to the stretch limo and orchestrated chaos of prom season. Yoda, save me from bachelorette parties. And fuck me if I wouldn’t rather drive a funeral than a wedding. Neither “party” tipped so why not go for the better behaved, if not happier one?
Mostly, I simply took comfort in driving. Mirror, speed, temperature, mirror. Check the distance from the car in front and behind. Watch for drunks and street racers. Most people didn’t care to chat or they did, it was basic info.
Where is the nearest liquor store to the airport? Can we stop at Taco Bell on the way?
Easy money.
My dead-end job? The agent who stopped returning my emails? The fellow crit-group member who landed my dream agent? The QueryTracker buddy who published a best-seller right out the gate? All in my rearview mirror.
Airport to the hotel, hotel to some conference, conference to the bar—and back again—I drove. They didn’t have to hustling for a cab, (Uber was still a novel concept) or ride in a rickety rental with that one creepy coworker. I got paid, no thinking involved.
That money covered my part of the bills for the month. The part of the month that my state pay did not, could not, never would cover. There was usually enough to also cover my smoking and book habits. It was a good side-gig.
Jafar, my boss, only had slim prospects for me that weekend. There was an early-AM, hotel-to-airport run. Then an airport-to-mini-mega church trip in the middle of the day. Jafar offered a 50/50 split on the both runs to cover the dead space and since xians don’t notoriously don’t tip.
N. Giovanni
By 3PM, I arrived at IAH, (Houston Intercontinental Airport) crazy early and drew up my sign. Then I saw the name on my airport manifest. I did honestly laugh at the very idea of a world famous poet coming (voluntarily) to Houston. Imagine my utter shock when Nikki goddamn Giovanni, walked up to me in the C terminal of IAH, to claim her driver.
“Jesus Christ, you’re Nikki Giovanni. I cannot tell you how honored I am to get your bag…”
Of course people stared at my bumbling. If Nikki Giovanni was embarrassed by my fanboying, I couldn’t tell it. She dealt with my yammering, the blast of swamp-heat between the terminal and town-car parking, and then the long drive into town with the same placid, above-it-all demeanor.
I struggled to understand WTF happened to my professionalism. At that point I had driven some D-list celebs, a reality TV “star,” a couple of athletes, and at least one rapper. They were clients just like the engineers in town for the OTC or the pimply-faced kids going to prom. I uttered not a “peep” to them unless they asked a question.
But none of them were poets. None of them were poets I had read. None of them wrote work that sparked my imagination.
“So, you know my work or just my name?” She asked once we exited the IAH slalom for roads that made sense.
This time, I metered my breathing and response. “Those Who Ride the Night Winds, was one of the books that saved me from going full-on-non-verbal despondent while living in redneck hell.” Realizing that I could only cite one of her books, I qualified. “My Missus has Spin a Soft Black Song, Ego-Tripping, and Vacation Time, from when she was a kid.” And I buttoned up, professionalism restored.
Then she asked me who else I read. All professionalism went out the window and it was as if I no longer needed to even inhale as I vomited all the books and authors that mattered to me. Somewhere in there I mentioned how I had been scribbling since I was 13 or 14 but meeting Walter Mosley, talking with him, had spurred me to actually finish my first novel.
In my cursory glance at the rearview mirror, I saw Nikki Giovanni smile. “Isn’t Walter great?”
Dumbfounded, I nodded. I could not call him “Walter.” You don’t call Marcus Aurelius, “Marc” or William Faulkner, “Bill.” He was Walter Mosley, both names together ideally, in reverence. Otherwise, it would be like calling god by her first name.
Holy shit, did I just say all of that out loud?
Apparently, I did because Nikki Giovanni sighed in glad-it-wasn’t-me delight. After a few minutes she spoke, really more commiserated, about writing and writers and the people behind both that are just that—people.
“Writing the book is just the start, Nikki Giovanni said. Then you have to deal with the industry assholes between you and getting your work in print.”
Exactly how much did I say? It was like she zeroed in on the challenges that plagued me.
Nikki Giovanni spoke candidly about self-publishing her first collection Black Feeling, Black Talk. How she willed it into being only to be met with ridicule from some of her contemporaries. She said when the book was picked for mainstream release, she was criticised for publishing with a white publisher.
She said other writers, (male) took to lecturing her on what she should do and how she should write. As if anyone could tell her how to write what moved her. As if anyone could tell her how to be a black woman. All the strife fueled intense feelings of imposter syndrome—on multiple levels—even though they didn’t have that term for it then.
“You’ll have to get tough. No one’s gonna take you there and it never gets easier,” Nikki Giovanni said. “In fact the people who profit most from your book are the ones you’ll have to fight to see your story through. But it is always worth it.”
I felt considerable shame for my resentment toward other writers. And, I felt stupid for getting beat-up scared of a process that clearly daunted better writers than me.
“Publication won’t save you either,” she continued. “A book-deal won’t reliably pay your rent, much less make you a great and respected person.”
That stung. Like most truth does. My schtick was supposed to be about using little genre stories to ask big questions. Somewhere I packed far more ego onto it than it could support.
“It’s work and it’s not glamorous. Publishers will gut your words to meet sales matrices,” she said. “Agents, editors, and marketers are about the business. The writer, the person behind the words, has to fight for them.”
We drove the last 20-ish minutes in silence, (Houston is big, yo). What she said coursed through my brain like electricity. And everything seemed new and fresh from a slightly elevated perspective.
When we arrived at the church and I returned her bag to her, Nikki Giovanni stopped me from leaving.
“When you publish, don’t forget why you did it all. Don’t lose sight of why you started writing. The rest of it is temporary at best. The work, your words are what will endure—but only if you care enough to fight for them.”
Last week I read of Nikki Giovanni’s passing. It’s probably been 20 years since that conversation. These days, I’m healthier and happier. I still haven’t published but I’m inching toward the leap of faith that she made in 1968 with Black Feeling, Black Talk.
Thank you, Maestra Giovanni. You gave us riches beyond gold. Your words live on. So does your inspiration. I’ll never forget you.
The photo above, Nikki Giovanni by Mark Mahoney, does not belong to me. It is used here for instructional/educational purposes as covered by the Fair Use Doctrine.
