By Jewelle Gomez–
Audre Lorde’s voice was both imperious and seductive. At poetry readings, the music of her Caribbean and New York City tones drew me toward her as her cadence signaled she was saying something that must be remembered.
Over time, I came to know her through her teaching at Hunter College where I audited her poetry class and then through her work as a co-founder of Kitchen Table Women of Color Press. I was proud to become her student and colleague among the poets, lesbian/feminist community activists, and educators who surrounded her.
When I self-published my first chapbook of poetry in 1979, I boldly mailed a copy to her home on Staten Island (NYC). (Back when you could just look up someone’s address in a phone book!) Several days later, I came home from work, turned on my telephone answering machine, and her voice stunned me as it floated from the speakers. I played the tape repeatedly before I could hear her message: she liked my work and had editing notes! This was the beginning of my listening to every message Audre shared, no matter the circumstance.
One bitterly cold NYC afternoon, Audre gave me a ride home following a meeting and I told her of the vampire stories I was writing and wondered if she’d read them. She announced she didn’t care for short stories much or vampires at all; but said I could mail them to her. After she’d read them, she declared my collection of stories was really meant to be a novel and told me what was needed to make it work. I turned the collection into The Gilda Stories, which has been in print for more than thirty years.
After she’d seen a photograph of me with my then girlfriend at a launch party for the novel, she shared, “Don’t ever stand behind anybody when the story is about you.”
She always introduced herself as a poet, mother, lesbian, warrior, and delivered her message filtered through the prisms of her identity with a certainty that both comforted and challenged. Utilizing those many facets of my identity is a practice I’ve always sought to emulate, sometimes more successfully than others.
The last time I saw Audre I was in her Manhattan hospital room. Having battled cancer for a number of years, she was about to make her final return to her home in St Croix. Not surprisingly for Audre, who was always working, we were picking the winner of a poetry contest together. Audre had more energy and clarity in her final weeks of life than most people I know during their prime. The discussion of which poet should win and why was like a master class in poetry.
I stood to leave and leaned in to kiss her cheek and Audre asked what was the scent I was wearing. I told her, “White Ginger, from Hawai’i.” “Lean over here again, I like that,” she said with that seductive sparkle. I then remembered I had a small vial of the oil in my purse, so I dotted her pillow with it and left the vial on her bedside table. “Oh good, you can haunt my dreams,” she teased. “Believe me I will,” I said laughing, even though I knew it was the last time I’d see her.
Nothing does justice to her legacy, even the list of her accomplishments from teacher, to human rights activist, to New York State Poet Laureate. Thirty years after her passing, I still conjure up her mellifluous tones as she shared a laugh or a secret or advice. In addition to her steady rhythm when speaking of lesbian power, the melody of flirtation and the eagerness of curiosity wrap themselves around me.
One of her quotes comes to my mind when her February birthday rolls around: “Each time you love, love as deeply as if it were forever.” With Audre’s words and voice in my head, it truly is forever.
Jewelle Gomez is a lesbian/feminist activist, novelist, poet, and playwright. She’s written for “The Advocate,” “Ms. Magazine,” “Black Scholar,” “The San Francisco Chronicle,” “The New York Times,” and “The Village Voice.” Follow her on Instagram and Twitter @VampyreVamp
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Published on February 8, 2024
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