Nicole Sealey, born in St. Thomas, U.S.V.I. and raised in Central Florida, holds a Master of Liberal Arts from the University of South Florida. She is the Readings/Workshops (East) and Writers Exchange Program Manager at Poets & Writers, Inc., as well as a Hedgebrook alumnae and Cave Canem Fellow. I had the true pleasure of meeting her through Cave Canem in the summer of 2009, and since then her intelligence, wit and style has been a great source of inspiration and admiration for me. Sealey writes with a surgeon’s exactitude, seeming to carve out of the ordinary language that surround us narratives or, as is often the case, linguistic games that are themselves far from ordinary, are quite masterfully strange and seductive. In the conversation that follows, Sealey discusses her formal and aesthetic choices in regard to one particular poem, “Legendary, Harlem 1987,” which first appeared in Callaloo. Her other work can be found in a number of journals, including Torch, Sou’wester, and The Drunken Boat.
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Legendary, Harlem 1987
You want me to say who I am and all of that?
—Pepper LaBeija
LaBeija, my house, is kept gold, swept clean—
fronts fantasy from top to plump bottom.
What I want to be, I be: crew-cut queen,
middle sex owed to manicured pink thumbs.
Catwalk as fierce as the fiercest real bitch,
I am high like fashion. And fame. I am
a man who likes men and a good cross-stitch,
whom homesick kids crowned legendary. Ma’am
of the ball, been walking now two decades
and got more grand prizes than all the rest.
The long and short: I’m a one-man parade,
elaborate drag, from manner to breasts.
Within ballrooms I am most opulent.
Inside this house I am most relevant.
Though not unheard of, it’s still not everyday one encounters an author deliberately writing “outside herself.” Jake Adam York, a white, Southern male does this, for instance, in his A Murmuration of Starlings, a book everywhere concerned with the history of Civil Rights, race and racism in this country. And you also do it in this poem, assuming the voice of Pepper LaBeija, notorious drag performer and personality who’s probably best remembered for her feature in Paris Is Burning, and you do this as a black, heterosexual woman. What lead you to this subject matter, which many might characterize as far removed from your own experiences?
As writer David Shields wrote in his manifesto, Reality Hunger, “Every sound we make is a bit of autobiography.” I don’t believe anyone can write outside his or herself, as what is written is always a product of experience—lived and imagined. And, when it comes to race and racism, white people should be as much a part of the dialogue as people of color; so, too, should “straight” people enter into conversations about sexuality and homophobia, as homophobia is usually an illogical heterosexual fear.
I’ve always loved performance and fashion—I was homecoming queen in high school and, as a freshman in college, ran for Ms. [insert black fraternity] and lost. Before ever seeing Paris Is Burning, which documents the gay ball scene in late 1980s Harlem, I competed in and patronized pageants. This work is very me and is meant to celebrate the seemingly auxiliary. (Aren’t we all auxiliary to some extent?) Richard Hugo wrote, “Never write a poem about anything that ought to have a poem written about it.” Check.
This poem is clearly a sonnet. It adheres strictly to the Shakespearean rhyme scheme, and each of its fourteen lines is exactly ten syllables. What lead you to this particular form? Was there any connection between form and content that you felt, either before or after writing this poem?
Marilyn Nelson once told me the sonnet is queen of poetic forms. How fitting, a queen for a queen. But, “Legendary” is really passing as a Shakespearean sonnet—it is not a love poem to the narrator’s beloved nor is it in iambic pentameter. Its form (rhyme scheme, syllable and line count), as I determined during the creative process, allows the sonnet to appear real regardless of its content, and the idea of realness is to look as much as possible like your straight counterpart.
To no surprise, I keep gravitating toward the poem’s ending couplet: “Within ballrooms I am most opulent. / Inside this house I am most relevant.” I am particularly interested in the double interiority the lines suggest, how “within” a ballroom—that is itself a sub-section of an already marginalized community—there is perhaps another ring, which is “inside this house”. Threaded through these circles are ideas of opulence and relevance, and one begins to wonder if there exists a certain hierarchy. Then again, the couplet is constructed nearly identically, its nucleus being around the phrase “I am most”. This might suggest, instead, a sort of democracy or at least no particular bias between ballroom and house. Could you speak a little on this? What were your thoughts while constructing these lines?
There are definite class and caste implications in these lines. In an impartial world, Pepper LaBeija would have lived the fabulous life he both fakes and flaunts in Paris Is Burning; instead, his high-ranking status is limited to ballroom only. The couplet acknowledges LaBeija’s restricted authority and, in so doing, is as much an assertion of his power as it is commentary on his lack thereof. Also at play is the idea of one-upmanship, “I am most,” despite marginalization—most people don’t get the chance to experience fame, however marginal it may be.
Another line, or I should say half-line, which pulls at me occurs near the beginning: “What I want to be, I be”. I am struck immediately by its audacity, its straightforwardness and utter lack of hesitation. As a gay, black man myself, I am empowered by this line. This line also seems to empower the poem, for there is no identifiable victim’s narrative anywhere present. Was this a conscious decision on your part or was it inspired more so by the figure, LaBeija her and himself?
I was similarly taken with LaBeija’s charming pomposities and overall fabulousness. He was brilliantly aplomb, and “What I want to be, I be” is a conscious attempt at capturing this spirit. Richard Hugo wrote, “If you feel pressure to say what you know others want to hear and don’t have enough devil in you to surprise them, shut up.” What Hugo calls “devil” is, simply, nerve. And, LaBeija had nerve enough for you, me and your entire blog community.
Before his death in 2003, LaBeija had been walking the balls for more than 30 years. In 1987, when Paris Is Burning was being filmed, it was much too late in his career for modesty, diplomacy and uncertainty.
The title of the poem was originally published as “Legendary #1,” and this to me reads purposefully ambiguous. It could suggest that LaBeija is, in fact, and as she declares in the poem, the #1 legend—“[m]a’am of the ball.” But it could also suggest that this poem is one of a series, just as Paris Is Burning documents a series of such personalities. So, are there more Legendary poems forthcoming? If so, what are your plans for those poems?
Let LaBeija tell it, he was the legend. Any mother, father or member of a house—a community who collectively competes in drag balls—would say the same about him or herself. Let me tell it, they’d all be right.
Though I’ve since dropped “#1,” it initially signaled that the poem is the first in a sonnet cycle entitled “Legendary.” Thus far, the cycle includes a foreword, an afterword and five personae poems, which introduce Dorian Corey, Octavia Saint Laurent, Willi Ninja and Kim Pendavis as well as the art of insult or shade.
Finally, are there any books you are currently reading that you’d recommend? Movies? Music? What new releases are you most anticipating?
I’d recommend Daniel Menaker’s A Good Talk, a funny take on what makes for a good conversation and the four stages thereof: Survey, Discovery, Risk and Roles and, as always, Richard Hugo’s A Triggering Town—as you may have guessed by my trigger-happy answers to your first and forth question.
I’ve seen several movies in the last month. Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work lived up to its title, while Salt, on the other hand, lacked all flavor. Rivers may not have invented shade, but she certainly has a handle on the art. I took my little sister to see Step Up in 3D. I said, “This movie ain’t nothing but Breakin’ with less black people.” She said, “Breakin’, what’s that?” …I’m looking forward to hating the remake of The Last Dragon with Samuel L. Jackson rumored to play Sho’nuff, aka Shogun of Harlem.
And, both Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No. 1 and Erykah Badu’s Out My Mind, Just in Time stay on “repeat.”
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RICKEY LAURENTIIS manages CAYENNE.
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SAMIYA BASHIR is the author of Gospel, a 2009 Lambda Literary Award finalist, and Where the Apple Falls, a Poetry Foundation bestseller and finalist for the 2005 Lambda Literary Award. She is also editor of Black Women’s Erotica 2 and co-editor, with Tony Medina and Quraysh Ali Lansana, of Role Call: A Generational Anthology of Social & Political Black Literature & Art. Her poetry, stories, articles, essays and editorial work have been featured in numerous publications including: Ms. Magazine, Essence, Curve, ColorLines, Callaloo, Obsidian III, Poetry for the People: A Revolutionary Blueprint, and more. Bashir has been honored with awards, fellowships, grants, and residencies from a variety of organizations, is an alumni fellow with Cave Canem and a founding organizer of Fire & Ink, a writer’s festival for LGBT writers of African descent.
