Thoughts on Ishmael Reed

 

Around noon on a brilliantly sunny Tuesday, I sat in the back of an auditorium awaiting our guest writer in the 29^th Annual Writer’s Series at the University of North Alabama.  He walked on the stage slowly, cool, and suave, aged well for seventy-eight years.  He had on a white suit, looking like a modern day Mark Twain, and when he began to read, he had all of the charisma “America’s greatest satirist” should have. 

            Ishmael Reed began to read from his newest novel “Juice.”  Though I haven’t read the book myself, the chapter he read gave me some insight to his prose style.  I liked the insight the narrator of the book had about his own feelings towards the O.J. Simpson trial.  I can’t remember exactly what the line was, but it was something like: I was wondering whether I thought it was for my own selfish reasons I wanted him to kill himself, or if I actually thought it was better for him.  But I knew what kind of trouble lay ahead for my brothers because of him. 

            Though his prose was well developed and funny, it was his poetry that revitalized my love of writing.  I loved how he uses humor in his writing, even when dealing with serious topics.  I liked how he had fun with his writing.  I had an epiphany when he said “poetry can be fun sometimes too.”  I think I forgot that while reading all my Modernist favorites like T.S. Eliot.  I remembered why I started writing: because I liked it.  Some of my classes have made me forget why I chose this major.  But old Ishmael helped me remember what it was I love about literature.  Ishmael also talked about his parents thinking he had wasted his life writing and teaching because he came from a blue collar house hold.  I can relate-- I think my parents think I’m wasting my time getting an English degree instead of majoring in business or computer software.  He made me feel like I wasn’t.    

            After his reading I got a chance to meet Ishmael Reed and have my book signed.  He talked with some people in my Contemporary poetry about seeing Tennessee Williams in a bar in New York.  He said the people he was with called him a hayseed because he couldn’t contain his excitement. After he signed my classmates books, he started talking about New Orleans and Jimmy Swaggart getting caught down there with pants around his ankles.  I told him I saw an ad selling holy water the night before that promised financial security if you bought it at prayed over your bills.  He laughed, even thought I don’t know why I said that.  It made me nervous to be around someone I respected.