Pat Parker: The Black Panther Who Came Out Because We Had Become Too Quiet

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:

• "Poem for Ann #2"

• "A Small Contradiction"

Listen to me reading:

• "love isn't"

• "I have"

• "From Deep Within"

• "gente"

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.