Reuben Jackson: "DC is a mixed drink"

When Reuben Jackson performed at Cabaret [re]ReVoltaire May 17, the vibe in the Red and the Black shifted from boisterous commotion to attentive curiosity. The packed house quieted as Jackson’s words filled our ears and inspired our imagination.

He is both a poet and a performer and his creations intertwine sincerity and creativity. His segment was such a captivating part of the cabaret, the organizers invited him to perform again the following week. I admired the synchronicity between the images he created and the purity of his delivery; I didn’t realize at the time that Jackson was turning over a new leaf: after 21 years with the Smithsonian, he retired from his position as a curator at the American History Museum in December. Talking with Jackson on June 15, after he had spent the morning teaching university students, he disclosed some of ideas about storytelling, being a resident of Washington DC for more than 50 years, and his passion for teaching which sustains and informs his poetry.

He describes himself as “something of curmudgeon,” but this is hard to believe: spending time with him made me think of the phrase an understated grace, and I found myself wishing he had been one of my teachers – not only for poetry and writing, but for any subject.

How long have you been a teacher of writing?

I sent in a proposal for a poetry workshop to the Writer’s Center in 2000 and it was accepted, and these 10 years have flown by. It has been a lot of fun. The challenge was that I had the curator job which I considered my bill-paying job, plus I was teaching at the Writer’s Center, was working two afternoons a week at a DC middle school, and had various other kinds of poetry-related jobs. I had been with the Smithsonian for 21 years and at a certain point the air starts to leave your tires. I thought to myself, “I could stay here until I’m 60-something, but who would I be?” When the company offered early retirement, I went home that night, did the math, and decided I could be okay. I left the Smithsonian in late December and now face other challenges. At a party in DC a woman asked -“Didn’t you used to be Reuben Jackson?” This is the Washington-thing, the need for titles. When I was with the Smithsonian I was the curator. Now I’m the ex-teenager.

Did your job as a curator connect with your poetry?

No, not really, except in a broad, metaphorical sense: both require research. I was originally hired with two other people to work on the Duke Ellington Papers in 1989.  It was initially a four year appointment, but the collection was enormous and it became a 20-year term. What I say to people is the meetings are so long when you are working with the government - all the pie charts - that the years flew by. You know how life is:  you tell yourself “I am going to do this.” Then life says, “well maybe some of that and this too…” I was considered the public face of the Ellington Collection so I made appearances on tv, radio and at conferences. I was a performer in some ways, and when you are a performer, you need to keep something for yourself. My poetry was something that was my own. But the irony is that when you read poetry you are out in front of people so what are you keeping for yourself? I don’t know, maybe a brochure from a reading.

When you saw me that was the first reading I had done since the Truman administration [laughs]. I love teaching so much, there is something fulfilling about being in a room with people, watching and helping them come to a negotiation with their own vision. There is nothing like that. What I learn from my students is courage. It’s about jumping in the water and if they don’t get the backstroke the first time, then they can go back and revise. Over the years I did a couple readings here and there, but the analogy I would use is someone who takes out a violin from time to time, plays it, and puts it back in the case. I would do a reading then say “nah.” It didn’t do as much for me as teaching.

What kind of response did you receive after the cabaret?

I’ve gotten a lot of feedback, which is funny because I thought I was so rusty. When I returned the next week there were performers I knew like Holly Bass whom I tease a lot because she is busier than God. I felt what she did that night and wanted her to know, that’s why I acknowledged her performance [with a hug]. And Lisa Pegram. She is actually my former boss from DC WritersCorps. They place writers in middle schools, and I learned a lot about teaching and working with that age group at that time because I don’t draw much distinction between middle school students and adults… I think with Holly and Lisa I am older than they are, and it means a lot to me when I see them doing well.

Along with the people who inspire you, are there galleries, performances, or places in DC that you connect with?

I can think of two places: the Taft Bridge because I love walking it - this way and then the other way…. and this one is probably more nostalgic: the P Street Beach. They used to have events there and I like the greenery. Mainly those places.

How would you describe the culture of DC?

DC is a mixed drink. I am fond of so many people here, but five or six years ago I started to see the city in a different way. I think my writing addresses this. Maybe these things existed before, but at a previous juncture, I did not notice them. I even say to myself “how did you not see this?” There is economic stratification and racial stratification. All places are provincial but DC is incredibly provincial. My work has always addressed the kids who are figuring out how to dance in this place. There is a piece I have about a young man from what people call “an under-served neighborhood.” He calls Georgetown “normal.” And describes things like going to “west normal.” It’s true. When you look at the stores and merchandise and sit-down restaurants, there are lines in the city. I have to go to a bookstore in a certain neighborhood if I want to get a particular book. This means I have to literally cross the tracks to get different places. When you are constantly border crossing how does this impact your outlook? Is it possible to create a community where people are not so fragmented? I remember seeing Rock Hudson and Doris Day's films as a child, enjoying the escape they offered, then choosing which of six paths I would walk home so I could savor the images a little longer. Not having to see the environment, the reality around me. How does our internal life intersect with quadrants of the world around us? Washington is more southern than we realize. Growing up here, one of the weird things for an African-American was everything was black or white. Now the demographics have shifted and people are from all over the world. It’s not the world I knew 20 or even 10 years ago. I can get on the bus and I may be one of 2 people whose native tongue is English. For DC, which my mother called a big small-southern-town, this rattles the shutters. So many people don’t go anywhere else, they have been here a long time. It’s a small town… For example, when I would travel for the Ellington Collection and go to Denmark for a conference, I did not mention this in certain groups of people. It was considered uppity. I think I’ve held my tongue for a long time, and the writing serves as an outlet of sorts.

What else draws you to writing?

Writing is way for you to figure out how you really feel about something. The poem is a negotiation between what you want and what the poem wants. It’s like fish or chicken for dinner. You may think you are having fish, but the poem tells you it will be chicken. I really love this process. I often tell my students to “move the furniture around.” The work, the writing, the revising will help you get through to what you are trying to do. I write less now but I enjoy it more. When I was in college, I hated revision: it was literary Gitmo. Writing poems now makes it possible to see things which I did not see before.

I also tell my students to “embrace the thing that is you.” I compare this to Wilson Pickett or Janis Joplin. They each had their stamp. It’s about individuality. Growing up I loved Verdi and Sam Cooke. The analogy I make is of a fan waiting by the stage door: I listened to my radio, holding it by my ear. I held it like a lover. A favorite song was Cooke’s “Cupid.” Marvin Gaye affected me in a similar way. These really great balladeers… The irony concerning Michael Jackson was that he had become a tabloid topic but he was a big deal for me when I was growing up. I remember seeing him with the Jackson 5 on The Ed Sullivan Show in 1969.

It makes me realize that poetry and music have things in common: the singularity of the artist. A poet brings their work to life like a vocalist or instrumentalist makes a unique sound. And this is gone when these people die. The death of Michael Jackson impacted me the same way as when Frank Sinatra died. In some ways I am driven by emotion, which is not always a good thing. I struggle with this romanticism. I am a little better with it now, but it’s painful. When something matters so much to you, and you want to share it with others, it’s like the dish you slaved over and when you present it your guests you slide it cautiously onto the table….

There’s no end of stuff to write about. It’s about being stubborn enough to do it. I am indebted to my students because I think of them when I work on a draft.

You have a great line in this video which describes storytelling as “an opportunity to corral a variety of experiences some of which – hopefully – resonate with people listening…”  

This is how I define it: what you come up with as a writer is a singular story – I don’t think the methodology changes at all between poetry and storytelling. You are still trying to draw upon your experiences. I always say to my students don’t be afraid to imagine things. Two years ago a former student who now teaches middle school asked me to visit her class. Her students had read my poems and wanted to meet the poet. One of the poems they had read is called Waukegan. They asked “why did you use this title?”

I had never been to this town in Illinois. I like its name for its sound and because it was a metaphor for a distant place. The poem was about living in one place and being okay with it… Their question made me think about corralling, about gathering, about dreaming or not dreaming….

The students who inspire me the most get up to the plate and swing. I see my role as a teacher being like a good personal trainer: you push people beyond their comfort zone.

There’s a lot of truth to glean from these places. Writing itself is the end result of a lot of things: not just having lived through things, but thinking, rethinking, getting angry, throwing things out, and then coming back to it. In some ways it is the antithesis of life today where people want things instantly. I warn students that writing is not an instant affair, and you can’t fix it by snapping the fingers. Technologies today accelerate the speed of our interactions, but I’m a 20^th century child. I’m analog.