Reflections by Alexis Jones
“Long day?”
These are the words that greeted me when I walked into the Tressider Oak lounge and fell into my seat, exhaling with such audible force that it elicited a response of humorous inquiry from the fellow attendee beside me. “Yes,” I laughed, feeling slightly embarrassed that my exhaustion was so obvious, but also feeling deeply seen, not only by the friendly stranger, but by myself.
Yes, it had been a long day. From the moment that my alarm went off at 6:30 am, I had been running around campus, going from building to building, class to class, meeting to meeting, working incredibly hard to keep up with the schedule that I had inexplicably stuffed with margins of error of less than ten minutes. Of course, this is no anomaly at Stanford and here in Silicon Valley more broadly, but when I took a moment to recognize the relentless rushing, the constant eyeing of the time, the unending need to present my best self in every new situation, and the reality that I had made it successfully to my last event of the day, one in which I could sit, relax, and take in whatever wisdom that the speaker had to share…when I stopped long enough to reflect on all of that, I just felt relief.
And I felt grateful for the words of the person beside me, with whom I had a wonderful conversation as we sat and waited for the programming to begin. As we spoke, I shared something that I realized yesterday in a similar moment of pause and reflection – I am not only feeling physically exhausted by the incomprehensible speed of the new quarter, but I have been trying to push through an experience of emotional depletion as well. It finally dawned on me that the pillars of the courses I love – my history classes – are composed of scholarship that can be shockingly traumatic and difficult to read. Consuming detailed, visceral accounts of historical violence, often directed against women and people of color, has become a part of my everyday experience here at Stanford, and often, when I take a break and raise my eyes from my history books, my phone lights up and I turn to see five new articles about contemporary upheaval, tension, and struggle.
Amidst these dual forces of input and information, I found myself losing touch with some of the energy, hopefulness, and sense of orientation and purpose that I brought with me from my months of summer research that inspired me to think about a future in the archives, in museums, in libraries, in theaters, in these places of preservation, storytelling, and public engagement. Opening myself up to potential futures in academia, scholarship, and cultural institutions is what brought me to this event with Hanif Abdurraqib in the first place.
What is a public intellectual…and could it encompass my future trajectory? To be completely truthful, I was not familiar with Abdurraqib when this event popped up in my email, but I was so excited to be present for the stories and knowledge that he was going to share with the Stanford community.
Now, as I reflect on everything that Abdurraqib brought to this event – all of the vulnerability, humor, authenticity, anecdotes, artistry, and deep thoughtfulness that animated his responses to the excellent questions and promptings of Associate Professor Matthew D. Morrison (African and African American Studies) – I feel strengthened and alivened by his expression of humanity. I am in awe of his skill and power as a poet and performer, and I held onto every word, every twist and turn, of the overarching story that he brought to life for the audience – a journey of being intimately shaped and inspired by writers, poets, musicians, and family members as he has honed his own way of molding language into works of art that have shaped and inspired others.
I hope that everyone has a chance to sit, relax, and receive Abdurraqib’s gift of reflection and insight through the recording of this event, but for the sake of attempting to articulate and preserve a few of the key themes and messages of his conversation with Professor Morrison, I have listed a handful of my specific takeaways here:
What Is A Public Intellectual?
In response to this question, Abdurraqib referred to the perspective of Toni Morrison, one of his most prized influences, and her rejection of the “genius” concept, especially when people speak of the “rarity” of the Black genius, which is treated like a “comet across the sky.” Instead, Abdurraqib pushed for greater appreciation of the “abundance” of critical thought, sense-making, and pursuit of understanding that exists all throughout our society, where “people are working out problems out loud.” Are they not engaging in public intellectualism?
Formative Childhood Experiences
Abdurraqib spoke about several distinct memories from his childhood that are particularly meaningful to him, including the nights when he would secretly watch his mother sit in front of her typewriter, laboring over every page of the novel she was writing; or when his mother gave him Gloria Naylor’s The Women of Brewster Place when he was ten years old and he continues to feel amazed by the epilogue, its engagement with “the aftermath of liberation,” and the question it poses: “what is required of us” on the other side of a moment that feels like triumph?
He also painted a picture of himself as a young person who grappled with “the ache of isolation,” something that led to him spending a lot of time next to the radio, waiting for his songs to be played as he honed the patience and skill that were required to construct a mixtape. When thinking about these moments, Abdurraqib framed them as an enduring lesson in “building towards something,” but also as a situation with great significance to him in the moment as the manipulation of the radio and the making of the mixtapes offered an arena in which he could exercise power and control over his life – a rare occurrence as the youngest of four children.
A Look into A Poet’s Philosophy
Throughout the evening, Abdurraqib reflected on different stages of his journey as an artist, writer, and poet – his time writing zines that documented the Midwest punk scene of the early 2000s, which he saw as an opportunity to proclaim the presence of Black punk artists and encourage others to feel a sense of belonging in those spaces; or his time in the Black slam poetry community, the “immediate embrace” that he received as a growing writer, and the motivation to “show out for your friends” that continues to drive him today; or his dedication to reading books of poetry as a self-taught writer in the genre, which he accomplished by flipping to the acknowledgements pages of his favorite books, seeking out the poets that inspired different writers, and then striving to produce his own work.
As Abdurraqib drew from these captivating anecdotes with each new question and answer, I cherished the life lessons, artistic point of view, and personal perspectives that he built into his biographical storytelling. Here are a few of my favorites:
- Each time that he sits down to write, he asks himself: “What thing am I most afraid of right now?”
- One of the lived experiences that he has tried to articulate is the feeling of “bewilderment” that comes from “surviving yourself,” from grappling with the fear “of being alive for a very long time” or the magic of a childhood friend caring for their own child when you both had never imagined living to have these experiences
- He is intrigued by “works of accumulation,” by artists who approach a piece from the perspective of, “I could be finished, but I’m not,” a way of returning again and again; for Abdurraqib, he applied this methodology to his own point of view: “I could be gone, but I’m not. I could be gone, but I’m not.”
- He reframed the popular idea that a word loses its meaning when you repeat it too many times; instead, Abdurraqib argued that a word doesn’t lose its meaning, “it loses its form,” which empowers poets to “play with it.” And he shared an example from his work in which he intentionally repeated the word, “gang,” over and over until he could erase the violent associations from the readers’ minds and introduce his own reclamation and definition of the word – one of affection and family.
- Abdurraqib referenced his history of playing sports and his realization that some of the cliche “coachisms” that he heard as an athlete actually function as substantive principles. One of the examples that he shared – “the way you do the smallest thing is how do you everything” – connects to his love for “process” and “fulfilling my routine,” and to his belief that our culture is exhibiting a preference for “aesthetics” in ways that undermine and devalue “precision” and practices of artists embodying “care” for their audiences
- Finally, Abdurraqib ended the event with an observation of the contemporary “desire to move through the world as fast as possible,” to develop technology that is designed to make tasks easier and quicker, and what these social norms are actually doing to us as human beings. You are “extracting your heart from the process of living,” he said, expressing his concern about social isolation (“the toll we pay for isolation is cruelty”), as well as “the future of our atrophied hearts.”
Embracing the Practice of Honoring Artistic Lineage
Lastly, as the student archivist here at IDA, I would be remiss if I didn’t return to one of the recurring themes in Abdurraqib’s words and reflections – his way of engaging with “forms of lineage reproduction” in the artistic community. Abdurraqib introduces this theme with a discussion of how significant liner notes were to him as a young music consumer; they kindled his curiosity and drove him to find the original songs that had been sampled in a piece of music, leading to his lifelong commitment to “seeking out root causes” when developing his poetry and commentary.
As the night advanced and Abdurraqib continued responding to questions, he consistently centered his stories and insights around specific references to artists, songs, books, and communities that have remained with him over time for the lessons they taught, feelings they evoked, and eye-opening moments of growth they prompted. Naming everything from Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s The last time I saw Amelia Earhart to Maxwell’s cover of “This Woman’s Work” by Kate Bush to Fela Kuti & Africa 70, Abdurraqib organically showcased the liner notes for his body of work and his artistic identity, encouraging audiences to seek out these sources for themselves, just as he has done throughout his career.