New World Coming

Afterlife: Realizing Essex Hemphill's poetry of collective liberation

- Danez Smith

FORGIVE ME, BUT LATELY I find myself unable to write anything that doesn't sound like prayer, screaming or manifesto. Whatever hypnosis many Americans fall victim to in times of Democratic rule - or in times of an older, less fascist Republican party - doesn't seem to have the same juice. We are awake and aware. Good. When Donald Trump was running for his first presidency, a friend's then-partner - a smart and involved community activist - predicted his win in a room full of folks who couldn't conceive it. She said we needed to hit rock bottom to wake up, that the American public needed to witness the inhuman wrath and stupidity of the man who would become the 45th president, to awaken to our country's dire need for redirection. Maybe we missed the lesson the first time. Maybe we are too far down the road to turn around now. Now, at the bottom of America's soul, is the perfect time for us to read the work of Essex Hemphill.