An Interview with devorah major,
San Francisco's Poet Laureate
By Jeff Troiano

devorah major (all lower case, in the great poetic tradition) is San Francisco's newest Poet Laureate. She writes poems, novels, and essays that brim with emotion and reflect a strong connection with her Western Addition neighborhood. She writes about San Francisco—or dream worlds like it, and her words strike at street-level. She addresses the guys on the corner, the grandmother remembering how things were, teenagers trying to be seen and heard, couples in love, young girls in trouble. Read a few lines and it's obvious she's not "one of those cloistered poets," entrenched in academia, writing for any sort of elite group. She's a poet of the people who believes that poetry was meant to be performed aloud, not read static on the page. An excerpt from her newest novel, Brown Glass Windows, appears in the fiction section of this site.

How did it happen that you were named Poet Laureate of the City of San Francisco?

They created a committee of various members. There was someone from the Arts Commission, someone from the Mayor's office, and several poets. I was one of more than 20 nominees. After assessing our resumes and our writing, they whittled it down to six nominees. Then I received a letter that said, "Congratulations. You are a finalist—and these are the expectations of you: If you are appointed Poet Laureate, you'll have to make a speech; you'll have to participate in the Annual Book Festival; we'd like you to do a project working with the libraries. Please write a letter as to how you'd fulfill those responsibilities—and send us more stuff," which I did. They selected three of the six: Jack Hirschman, Diane DiPrima, and me. The committee ranked the names, and I was ranked first. They sent the three names to Willie Brown, who chose me based on their decision.

Were you surprised to be selected?

Yes, I was. I'm not a typical poet. For many poets in America, it's an academic world. A typical poet goes to college, gets a writing degree, becomes a professor, never leaving academia. The professor/poet writes poetry, which is published by university presses, which might then be picked up by mainstream presses. I'm not that kind of poet. I've always been a community poet. I came up through the community as a poet, and I've always worked with young people as well as with disenfranchised populations in halfway houses, jails, and homeless shelters. I'm broad as a poet because of these experiences, and I think I was appointed Poet Laureate because of those experiences, as well as based on my published writings.

How do you envision spending your 18 months as Poet Laureate?

I want to do projects that encompass a broad population, rather than aiming for that cloistered academic poetic population. I'm not precisely sure what I'm going to do yet, but the ideas are boundless. Just in the past few weeks, I've been approached by several students who want to know about self-publishing. So I'm thinking about doing workshops through the libraries that show how to create a chapbook [a self-published poetry collection]. I'd also like to do a project that gets young people writing about what's going on in the streets, particularly for young people who are preying on each other. Many young people are dying. A lot of young people are building memorials to their fallen friends on the streets, which many older people don't really notice. I'd like to come together, across generations, to write poems and share what's happening. We all know about the beauty and the tourism of San Francisco; fewer of us know what's really happening on the streets.

How have things changed for you personally as a poet since your appointment?

This occurred at a point when I already had several projects in motion. I had a book coming out in the fall, which is still on schedule. Now that publisher is, of course, very happy. I'm working on another book right now, which is due at City Lights in July. So it's great—Brown Glass Windows came out in May; I have a second book coming out in September; and I have another book coming out in February or March. I'm also getting much more public attention. You are interviewing me, for example. This kind of attention is a dream for a poet. A lot of poets are content to talk to each other, but I really see poetry as a more open art. I want to touch more people, and I like to be touched by poetry.

What will your appointment mean to San Francisco's black community?

It is always good to be affirmed as a language-maker. Critics often describe my work as "accessible," which I like. I want my work to be accessible. If someone reads my work and it's real for them and it touches them, and they see that someone can talk about things that are real, pressing issues, not just the beautiful and the wonderful, but the ugly and the difficult, they might engage their issues as a community. It definitely will make us stronger as a community, shining a light on our issues. I read that Brown Glass Windows did not come to you easily at first, that you felt your plot was disjointed and that your characters weren't focused. But then you took a walk through the Fillmore. Yes, I've lived in the Western Addition most of my adult life. So I'm writing about the Fillmore, the picture of which is in the book. So here I was, walking around through all the new developments and all of the new businesses, and I realized that all of the black institutions are gone. I had an Arts Council residency in the late Seventies at the African American Historical Society, and it's no longer on McAllister Street. My child went to the Freedom School across the street, and it's gone. Many of the old black institutions simply no longer exist. And the sound is different in the Fillmore now. The streets are quieter than they used to be. You see, European Americans are much quieter than we are. We're noisy; we talk in movie theaters, talk on the streets. I like walking by windows and hearing music that gets me stepping that way. I liked hearing "How'ya doing," "Good evening," "What's up," interacting with people I didn't know. There tends to be more looking away of other ethnicities now. The Fillmore is not as alive for me. And I have to look at the signs to see what street I'm on. Because of the way it was developed, entire streets are gone, and others were added. These sorts of thoughts created the new backdrop for my book.

What do you lament most about the changes?

I truly lament the loss of music on Fillmore Street. The Boom Boom Room and Marsalis's place are there, thank goodness, but when I first moved to the Fillmore, there were several great places where you could really be in the culture: Connie's, In the Beginning Soul Food, Leonard's Barbecue, Minnie's Can Do Club, which I reference in the book. That's where I could go as a black woman and read my poetry and become a stronger performer. You see, people went there to shoot pool and talk trash; they didn't think too much about the poets. These were the places that supported me in my growth; that's a huge loss.

What does the future hold for black youth in the Fillmore, like Sketch in your book, who still have the "noise"?

It's certainly a problem. I wrote a poem recently about the guys hanging out on the corner. Every time someone sees three or four young men on a corner, it's assumed they're slinging drugs. Often, they're just getting together, meeting up, talking. They're not really welcome to go to too many places, and they need a place like that where they can just chill, relax in an unsupervised setting. Sketch, the young man in my book, is a very talented artist, and he wants people to know he exists, which is why kids tag and do graffiti. They are not just vandalizing; they're trying to be seen. If we see them and we acknowledge them, and we affirm the good, instead of dismissing them, then the future can hold a lot. We need to engage the potential of our youth, and not just dismiss our youth. It's our choice as adults.

Does the spirit narrator in your book have an opinion of Sketch's tagging?

She doesn't take a position, because she's a ghost. That's simply what he does. She thinks it's good when he's effective with it. But in terms of the whole issue of private property, she has no interest in that. You must remember that she came culturally from Africa where that didn't exist. She's 300 years old. That's the whole problem with it; it's fine when it's on your own property, but you can't do it on somebody else's property. And the ghost has no interest in private-versus-public space.

Are you trying to open eyes about specific issues, like graffiti, with your work?

Yes, though I'm not trying to be didactic. I think people should look at graffiti differently. See it. Feel it. Realize that there is a creative human behind it who wants to be acknowledged. That doesn't mean you have to agree with the idea of people defacing private property. That's the role Sketch plays in the book. He's living proof that there's a sensitive, creative human behind the tag, and not just some demon.

How did you learn so much about graffiti and tagging?

I taught poetry at Larkin Street Youth Center as a guest artist for a short time. There were some taggers there. I just asked them about it, and they were excited to explain all about tags and pieces. They told me about "the heavens," which is when you see a piece that's been painted way high up on a wall, and you say, "How did they ever get up there?" When I created my character, I filled him with this knowledge that I'd learned from these young people. Also, my daughter told me about a young woman who really did paint beautiful horses on walls around San Francisco. I wanted that memory to be in the book, because the horses were so wonderful. I made up all of Sketch's tags, but the horses were real.

Where do your characters come from?

They come. They just come, and I accept them. They wake me up at night, or they introduce themselves to me as I'm walking down the street. Even if I tell them I'm busy, to come back later, they're rather insistent. I've often pulled the car over, written down a few lines, and asked, "Can I go now?" The characters just arrive, and I tell their story. Tell me about the "woman in white." She's a bit of an exception. I made her up, but at one time there was a "woman in white" in San Francisco. I haven't seen her for years now, but there was a black woman who used to paint herself white. I was fascinated by her, and then I saw her in Atlanta while I was writing the book. And then someone told me they saw a "woman in white" in New York as well. I began to think about this malaise that some black women have that they paint themselves all white. What does it mean? I don't believe it's skin color that people have a problem with — it's culture. Why else would people try so hard to tan their skin, to become as dark as me? So Victoria, my "woman in white," is the result of my exploration into the phenomenon of these women who paint themselves white.

Who is Victoria's friend in Brown Glass Windows? Who is she talking to?

What happened was this: I was stuck writing the book. I knew I was missing something, something to do with the woman in white. So one day, I drove with my daughter to my P.O. box to get my mail. I sent my daughter inside, and who should appear but the woman in white. I looked up, and there she was. She spun around, and she looked at me, which she'd never done before. And then she turned and started fussing over her shoulder, talking away to somebody I couldn't see. Then she wandered away. After this experience, I decided that Victoria, my woman in white, would have conversations with a wonderful invisible spirit. Your new book will obviously revive memories for those who lived in the old Fillmore, as well as for those who made it back from Viet Nam. So, in a way, you're rekindling the past. I'm hoping that I do justice to them, and I'm excited to offer their insights to others, which will broaden the understanding of readers. For example, African American men were asked to do horrible things during that war, and they want people to know. Maybe they drive a bus now, or maybe now they're homeless, or maybe they're just not verbal in that way, so they can't tell the story themselves. I didn't fight in Viet Nam, nor have I ever been homeless. But I can share what I've learned from others who have experienced these things first-hand. I honor them when I tell my story. You write poetry and prose.

Do these words come from different places?

Poetry is pure feeling, emotion. Poems are acts of love. Writing fiction is very different. It's telling a story; it's creating people. I like the art of storytelling, but I think you hold onto history with a story. But with poetry you hold onto heart and essence. And I don't think I've evolved that far as a poet yet, but ultimately I think great poetry transcends time, 50, 100, 200 years. Poetry for me comes from a timeless place, the center of things, the essential.

Is poetry a respite for you, after laboring over plot and character?

I'd say that poetry saves my life. Again and again and again. If I'm stuck, I go to the poem. If I'm in love, I go to the poem. If I'm in pain, I go to the poem.