Photo 1: Pat Parker, photographed by Lynda Koolish, circa 1972. Photo 2: "Gente Gospeliers," Oakland, California, 1975; Left to right: Joanne Garrett, Anita Onang, Pat Parker, Linda Tillery, and Jay Casselberryv. ©San Francisco Public Library.
Pat Parker (1944-89) was a Black lesbian American poet, activist, Black Panther, parent, member of the Combahee River Collective, the Black Women's Revolutionary Council, and founder of the Women's Press Collective. She was a staunch LGBTQ+ activist and campaigned against gender-based, racist, and domestic violence. She was involved in the U.S. Civil Rights movement and, alongside close friends like Audre Lorde and Barbara Smith, she pioneered intersectional Black feminist activism and thought. She released five poetry collections: Child of Myself (1972), Pit Stop (1975), Movement in Black (1978), Woman Slaughter (1978), and Jonestown and Other Madness (1985).
Here is a recording of Pat Parker reading her own poem, "My Lover Is a Woman," as recorded on the now out-of-print LP "What Would I Do Without You: The Poetry of Pat Parker & Judy Grahn" (©Olivia Records 1976). Read the poem below.
If we had to fit Parker's history on a postcard, this is how we'd remember her: as the Black Panther, the lesbian poet, the uncompromising activist. Of course she was all of those things. She was all of those things fiercely. But: though we might fall in love with someone's portrait on a postcard, when we stay for love, it's because we dare to tread into the deep rivers of a person, and let them both surprise and challenge us.
I live for Parker's political poetry. Pieces like "My Lover Is a Woman" (read in her voice above) or what are possibly her most famous poems, "Movement in Black" and "Womanslaughter," are anthems of Black, lesbian, and women's liberation. They breathe the trauma and defiance of Black, queer, and female existence. They give us the words and the fury to demand justice, and to write our own histories accurately. Who cares what the white supremacists, the homophobes, or the academy, for that matter, think or know, or want to know? Poets like Parker--OUR poets--have all the language that we need for righteous rage, conviction in the true meanings of justice, self-recognition, self-humanisation, and self-love against the odds. And our poets show us by example that we can make our own languages of truth, too.
But there is another side to Parker: a tender, complicated, troubled and troubling side. We don't yet have a definitive biography of her, so what we know, we know from listening to her own voice (in her poetry and letters) and then from what her friends, partner, daughters, and past lovers have recorded and remembered. The portrait of her that made me fall for her completely is in her published letters with Audre Lorde. In this marvelous little book, we get to know Parker as an extremely dedicated and loving parent; an affectionate friend; a flakey correspondent; an anxious artist (like the rest of us!), sometimes completely unsure of herself and whether her writing was any good, while at others she raged at the establishment (which included some feminist publishers and readers, too) for not getting how brilliant she really was. She demanded to be paid fairly for her work: she wouldn't write or perform for free, not even for feminist or activist events. She played baseball. She had a drinking problem and was sometimes abusive to her lovers (not physically as far as we know, but it seems pretty clear she was a mean and messy drunk). She knew this and worked hard on herself to do better. She understood that her drinking was one of those things that was inflicted on her by all the racist, sexist, and homophobic violence (visible and invisible) that she'd known her whole life--who wouldn't have a drinking problem, growing up in that system?--but she also knew that was no good reason to pass the trauma down to the people who loved her.
She had a tendency to cheat on her lovers (surely the drinking wouldn't have helped), but especially for Martha "Marty" Dunham, her wife and co-parent of their two daughters, Cassidy and Anastasia, she worked on that. And it seems she kicked both of these bad habits--drinking and cheating--by the end of her life.
It may be because of the darkness and depth of her emotional rivers that Parker's love poetry might be my favourite love poetry of all time. She wrote the kinds of affectionate, kinky, jealous, furiously loving poems to her lovers that I can only dream a lover would write to me. Parker didn't write about her lovers; she wrote to them. Even at her most emotionally violent, there was none of that "objectifying masc gaze" nonsense there. She gave her lovers the tender and brutal, uncompromising truth. That, to me, reads like respect.
I can hardly pick a "favourite" Parker poem, whether political or romantic. I'd have to sit you down for days and days of reading. So I've plucked out just a handful of favourites below. You should definitely check out her Complete Works when you can!
Listen to Pat Parker reading:
Listen to me reading:
My Lover Is a Woman
1.
My lover is a woman & when i hold her--
feel her warmth--
i feel good--feel safe
then/ i never think of my families' voices-- never hear my sisters say-- bulldaggers, queers, funny-- come see us, but don’t bring your friends-- it’s okay with us, but don’t tell mama it’d break her heart
never feel my father
turn in his grave
never hear my mother cry
Lord, what kind of child is this?
2.
my lover’s hair is blonde
& when it rubs across my face
it feels soft--
feels like a thousand fingers
touch my skin & hold me
and i feel good
then/ i never think of the little boy who spat & called me nigger
never think of the policemen who kicked my body & said crawl never think of Black bodies hanging in trees or filled with bullet holes never hear my sisters say white folks hair stinks don’t trust any of them never feel my father turn in his grave never hear my mother talk of her backache after scrubbing floors never hear her cry-- Lord, what kind of child is this? 3. My lover's eyes are blue & when she looks at me i float in a warm lake
feel my muscles go weak with want feel good--feel safe
Then/ i never think of the blue eyes that have glare at me-- moved three stools away from me in a bar never hear my sisters rage of syphilitic Black men as guinea pigs-- rage of sterilized children-- watch them just stop in an intersection to scare the old white bitch. never feel my father turn in his grave never remember my mother
teaching me the yes sirs & mams
to keep me alive--
never hear my mother cry
Lord, what kind of child is this?
4.
And when we go to a gay bar
& my people shun me because i crossed
the line
& her people look to see what's
wrong with her--what defect
drove her to me--
And when we walk the streets of this city--forget and touch or hold hands and the people stare, glare, frown, & taunt at those queers--
I remember--
Every word taught me
Every word said to me
Every deed done to me
& then i hate--
i look at my lover
& for an instant--doubt--
Then/ i hold her hand tighter And i can hear my mother cry. Lord, what kind of child is this.
Poem for Ann #2
If it were possible
to place you in my brain,
to let you roam
around in and out
my thought waves--
you would never
have to ask--
why do you love me?
This morning as you slept,
I wanted to kiss you awake--
say "i love you" til your brain
smiled and nodded "yes"
this woman does love me.
Each day the list grows--
filled with the things that are you
things that make my heart jump--
Yet, words would sound strange;
become corny in utterance.
Now, each morning when i wake
i don't look out my window
to see if the sun is shining--
I turn to you--instead.
A Small Contradiction
It is politically incorrect
to demand
relationships--
It's emotionally insecure
to seek
ownership of
another's soul
or body &
damaging to ones psyche
to restrict the giving and
taking of love.
Me, i am
totally opposed to
monogamous relationships
unless
I'm
in love.
love isn't
I wish I could be
the lover you want
come joyful
bear brightness
like summer sun
Instead
I come cloudy
bring pregnant women
with no money
bring angry comrades
with no shelter
I wish I could take you
run over beaches
lay you in sand
and make love to you
Instead
I come rage
bring city streets
with wine and blood
bring cops and guns
with dead bodies in prison
I wish I could take you
travel to new lives
kiss ninos on tourist buses
sip tequila at sunrise
Instead
I come sad
bring lesbians
without lovers
bring sick folk
without doctors
bring children
without families
I wish I could be
your warmth
your blanket
All I can give
is my love.
I care for you
I care for our world
if I stop
caring about one
it would be only
a matter of time
before I stop
loving
the other.
I Have
i have known
many women
& the you of you
puzzles me.
it is not beauty
i have known
beautiful women.
it is not brains
i have known
intelligent women.
it is not goodness
i have known
good women.
it is not selflessness
i have known
giving women.
Yet, you touch me
in new,
different
ways
i become sand
on a beach
washed anew with
each wave of you.
with each touch of you
i am fresh bread
warm and rising
i become a new-born kitten
ready to be licked
& nuzzled into life.
You are my last love
And my first love
You make me a virgin--
& I want to give myself to you
From Deep Within
Nature tests those she would call hers;
Slips up, naked and blank down dark paths.
Skeletons of the sea, this we would become
to suck a ray of sight from the fire.
A woman's body must be taught to speak--
Bearing a lifetime of keys, a patient soul,
moves through a maze of fear and bolts
clothed in soft hues and many candles.
The season's tongues must be heard & taken,
And many paths built for the travelers.
A woman's flesh learns slow by fire and pestle,
Like succulent meats, it must be sucked and eaten.
gente
It's difficult to explain
a good feeling--
my world has become colorful--
a rainbow of hues
now--a part of my living
and it feels good.
it feels good
to listen to people
talk about the streets
& know
it's not a vicarious experience.
it feels good
to sit and be loose
to talk, without worry,
about the racist in the room.
it feels good
to hear
'we're gonna have a party'
& know it's really
going to be a party.
it feels good
to be able to say
my sisters
and not have
any reservations.
But best of all--
it feels good
to sit in a room
and say
'Have you ever felt like...?'
and somebody has.