R-E-S-P-E-C-T (to authors)

Getting an MA means that you get to hang out with English people all day long. This is always a pleasure, but one of the most delightful things about it is the expectation to go to all of the English activities that you would never do in undergrad because it wasn't cool and you had friends other then those in your program. Well, now things have changed and I am very pleased and surprised at the exposure to great authors that USU has been able to attract.

Of the many speakers we have had come I have particularly liked two. I read How the Irish Saved Civilization years ago (thank you dad for being the historian that you are, and for keeping Boarders in business with all of your purchases). Cahill's presentation was about his books in the series about the hinges of history. It's really interesting to hear authors talk about what they love and their perspective on their writing. Cahill is very religious and his talk was very political, particularly about creating a world of hope and faith by stopping war (which he claims has never helped any country). He's also a little profane...which keeps the audience engaged.

Today the speaker we had is the poet of South Africa. She's legit. Think of any award and she's won it. Think of any conference and she's presented there. She lived during the apartheid system and the bantu education act and many of her poems are about growing up in that system. After apartheid was abolished and South Africa was slowly redefining itself HIV struck, and with poor governmental reaction AIDs got incredibly out of hand (with currently 1 in 10 individuals having HIV--most women and mothers). This is particularly interesting to me because I am in a class that is very centered on African writers and their connection with Langston Hughes.

Here is a taste of her writing, and the context of the poem is a reaction against the AIDS epidemic and the young children who are forced to quickly become adults and help to sustain the family.

The head of the household

is a girl of thirteen
and her children are many.

Left-overs, moulting gulls,
wet unweaned sacks

she carries them under her arms
and on her back

though some must walk beside her
bearing their own bones and mash

when not on the floor
in sickness and distress

rolled up in rows
facing the open stall.

Moon and bone-cold stars
navigational spoor

for ambulance, hearse,
the delivery vans

that will fetch and dispatch
the homeless, motherless

unclean and dead
and a girl of thirteen,

children in her arms,
house balanced on her head.