7:30am --Pretoria Hotel, The WanderersThe hotel phone jolts me out of a stiff dream. I am stunned and bleary eyed. I had a devil of a time falling asleep. The night before, I had spent hours watching and analyzing British News and South African music videos, comparing them to the news and music videos back home. Perhaps not the best way to try falling asleep.
Teba is on the phone. He says he is downstairs in the hotel lobby. I am scheduled for an interview at SABC; we’re supposed to be there at 8am. I overslept. The alarm clock on my cell phone hadn’t gone off; I'd set it wrong. No worries. I'm downstairs in seven minutes.
8:00am
This is the building where all Johannesburg television and radio takes place. SABC-South African Broadcasting Company. I was to do a live interview on a show called 180 degrees—an arts and culture talk show. Jo’burg is cool this morning, similar to autumn in New York. An unusual cold front hovered over Johannesburg for the entire time I was there. Last night's rain washed every car clean.
Everybody on television wears makeup, yes, even boys. Cosi, the makeup artist goes light. She can tell I am not used to makeup, or even fond of it. She brushes back one of my twists and says, “You’ve started your hair. How pretty.” Her locks river down to her back. She receives a phone call on her cell phone—it’s a friend, wanting to chat. I’m thinking, at 8:15 in the morning? My friends know better. She rushes her friend off the phone and as if she overheard my conversation with myself and says: “I suppose because I am a morning person, I have morning friends.”
8:40am
Desiree, one of the hosts of 180 degrees shakes my hand when I approach the set. She says she will be interviewing me. She is pretty and clipped. All business. I am a bit nervous and tell her this. She doesn’t understand. “But you’re a poet,” she says, right before the film begins to roll. Her eyes scan the teleprompter as she reads in a speaking voice. Meantime, I'm wondering why poets aren't allowed to be nervous about things.
The interview is like lightning and fog. Quick and nebulous. Maybe I’m still back at my hotel with fluttering eyelids, carving out a dream. Maybe Desiree and I aren’t vibing so well. She asks me to spit a verse and I am caught off guard. I don’t think poets are allowed to be caught off guard either, but I was. I say a few lines that don’t represent me well, but they’re all I can think of. Desiree is unmoved. So am I. She made a strange comment about the poem, and before I know it the interview is over. We shake hands. Goodbye.
8:40am
Desiree, one of the hosts of 180 degrees shakes my hand when I approach the set. She says she will be interviewing me. She is pretty and clipped. All business. I am a bit nervous and tell her this. She doesn’t understand. “But you’re a poet,” she says, right before the film begins to roll. Her eyes scan the teleprompter as she reads in a speaking voice. Meantime, I'm wondering why poets aren't allowed to be nervous about things.
The interview is like lightning and fog. Quick and nebulous. Maybe I’m still back at my hotel with fluttering eyelids, carving out a dream. Maybe Desiree and I aren’t vibing so well. She asks me to spit a verse and I am caught off guard. I don’t think poets are allowed to be caught off guard either, but I was. I say a few lines that don’t represent me well, but they’re all I can think of. Desiree is unmoved. So am I. She made a strange comment about the poem, and before I know it the interview is over. We shake hands. Goodbye.
I wouldn’t say it was an unpleasant experience, just a rough draft. I am determined that I’ll be ready for them next time.
10:00am
I am told that I have a radio interview next with Metro FM. I am relieved. It means no makeup. I washed the gunk off from earlier that morning. The studio is sophisticated and comfortable. I sit down across from Azania, the host. She has been playing tracks on my CD for the past few days. She says my poems are on the mark and many words too spicy for the radio. She is incredibly warm, like my mother’s bread, straight out the oven.
Later, Teba tells me what the name Azania means. After Apartheid, there was a push to rename South Africa “Azania,” which means, “Black People’s Land.” The name change didn’t happen, but there are many females in South Africa named Azania.
Radio personalities and television personalities are like night and day; television is the day, and radio is the night. Maybe it’s the nature of having a camera in your face that makes that extra layer necessary. And on TV you just don’t get as much time, so everything is more rushed, condensed—it’s hard for them to dig. I don’t want to dichotomize the two, but they really are different. While Azania plays my poems and songs for the people, we are talking behind the scenes. Our conversations are intimate and stimulating. And our interview on air seems to be an extension of these conversations. Azania’s questions are real; I can rub them between my fingers. I open like a trap door.
Azania plays Crying Over Spilled Milk (the radio version). It’s a real experience to hear it after these years; after I put out CD’s I don’t listen to them—so I haven’t heard that track in about 4 years now. I remember recording that track with Doc D in Tallahassee in two afternoons. I remember reciting the poem for him and him just sitting there for two minutes without talking, deep concentration. Then he stood up suddenly and got to work, and I watched him carve the music for the track out of silence. Amazing.
Azania sees that my mind is in another place. I think she thinks it's THAT place. It's not. she asks me if I’m okay and I nod yes, because I am more than okay. Spilled Milk is my favorite track and after all these years I'm still happy with it, overall. After the poem ends, the phones begin to ring. People want to know where they can cop the CD, people want to know the name behind the voice.
4:00pm
We’re on our way to 3Talk with Noeleen, a popular talk show host in South Africa who is often compared to Oprah. In my hotel room there is a magazine with her on the cover.
10:00am
I am told that I have a radio interview next with Metro FM. I am relieved. It means no makeup. I washed the gunk off from earlier that morning. The studio is sophisticated and comfortable. I sit down across from Azania, the host. She has been playing tracks on my CD for the past few days. She says my poems are on the mark and many words too spicy for the radio. She is incredibly warm, like my mother’s bread, straight out the oven.
Later, Teba tells me what the name Azania means. After Apartheid, there was a push to rename South Africa “Azania,” which means, “Black People’s Land.” The name change didn’t happen, but there are many females in South Africa named Azania.
Radio personalities and television personalities are like night and day; television is the day, and radio is the night. Maybe it’s the nature of having a camera in your face that makes that extra layer necessary. And on TV you just don’t get as much time, so everything is more rushed, condensed—it’s hard for them to dig. I don’t want to dichotomize the two, but they really are different. While Azania plays my poems and songs for the people, we are talking behind the scenes. Our conversations are intimate and stimulating. And our interview on air seems to be an extension of these conversations. Azania’s questions are real; I can rub them between my fingers. I open like a trap door.
Azania plays Crying Over Spilled Milk (the radio version). It’s a real experience to hear it after these years; after I put out CD’s I don’t listen to them—so I haven’t heard that track in about 4 years now. I remember recording that track with Doc D in Tallahassee in two afternoons. I remember reciting the poem for him and him just sitting there for two minutes without talking, deep concentration. Then he stood up suddenly and got to work, and I watched him carve the music for the track out of silence. Amazing.
Azania sees that my mind is in another place. I think she thinks it's THAT place. It's not. she asks me if I’m okay and I nod yes, because I am more than okay. Spilled Milk is my favorite track and after all these years I'm still happy with it, overall. After the poem ends, the phones begin to ring. People want to know where they can cop the CD, people want to know the name behind the voice.
4:00pm
We’re on our way to 3Talk with Noeleen, a popular talk show host in South Africa who is often compared to Oprah. In my hotel room there is a magazine with her on the cover.
Ishle Yi Park and I have not seen each other in about 2 years. We met once at a LouderArts event and we spoke for a bit and connected quite well. Soon after, she moved to New Zealand and now she’s back in Queens, where she grew up. Ishle and I are catching up, here in South Africa of all places. How you been girl? Ishle’s been a gypsy, traveling everywhere with her guitar slung over her back and a handful of Korean songs. Finula is also in the car with us, Finula, a poet from Capetown who is also part of the Arts Alive Festival. We are all to be on Noeleen’s show, along with other poets. When is Oprah going to have a bunch of poets on her show? Oprah's sleeping on us.
4:30pm
Back in the makeup chair. This woman lays it on thick. My skin groans underneath the weight of the brown powder she smears on. All of the poets of the Arts Alive Festival are to interview with Noeleen in pairs and spit a piece. We meet more artists there: Samm Farai aka Comrade Fatso from Zimbabwe and Lesego Motsepe, a poet and popular theatre and soap opera actress. Lovely woman.
4:30pm
Back in the makeup chair. This woman lays it on thick. My skin groans underneath the weight of the brown powder she smears on. All of the poets of the Arts Alive Festival are to interview with Noeleen in pairs and spit a piece. We meet more artists there: Samm Farai aka Comrade Fatso from Zimbabwe and Lesego Motsepe, a poet and popular theatre and soap opera actress. Lovely woman.
Noeleen has a large presence. She has a big body, big voice, big smile, a big laugh. She’s sitting in her chair on set and interviews everyone in pairs. She’s good. She has that extra layer on her that TV personalities have, for sure. But, she's got good energy and has been briefed on everyone, clearly. Her questions are informed by everyone’s bios. When it is my turn to interview with Noeleen, they take a chair away and it is me and her alone.
Noeleen and I are vibing well. Her questions are engaging. I’m much more myself with her than I was with Desiree earlier that morning. I’m awake and enthusiastic. When Noeleen asks me to spit a verse I’m ready for her this time. I spit a few lines from an old favorite, Coffee Eyes. After the commercial break, I am then joined by Ishle and Lesego, who also spit verses. We end the interview with Noeleen asking me about my forthcoming young adult novel, Seventeen Seasons. I am delighted that I had the space to be able to talk about it. Plug!
7:00pm
We are rushed from Noeleen’s studio straight to our performance at the Market Theatre in Newtown. The show has already started. We are hungry (I personally hadn’t eaten since 10 that morning) and a bit cranky. I found myself fighting back bitchiness, what happens when I don’t eat. I wasn’t the only one. There was Zena Howard from the UK, who was also cranky. Finula was introverted. Ishle, annoyed. But we all got along because she shared in a common hunger.
Noeleen and I are vibing well. Her questions are engaging. I’m much more myself with her than I was with Desiree earlier that morning. I’m awake and enthusiastic. When Noeleen asks me to spit a verse I’m ready for her this time. I spit a few lines from an old favorite, Coffee Eyes. After the commercial break, I am then joined by Ishle and Lesego, who also spit verses. We end the interview with Noeleen asking me about my forthcoming young adult novel, Seventeen Seasons. I am delighted that I had the space to be able to talk about it. Plug!
7:00pmWe are rushed from Noeleen’s studio straight to our performance at the Market Theatre in Newtown. The show has already started. We are hungry (I personally hadn’t eaten since 10 that morning) and a bit cranky. I found myself fighting back bitchiness, what happens when I don’t eat. I wasn’t the only one. There was Zena Howard from the UK, who was also cranky. Finula was introverted. Ishle, annoyed. But we all got along because she shared in a common hunger.
I am not sure how I am going to be on stage feeling this way. My head feels like a beach ball, colorful but full of air. My stomach is growling like a dog tied to a pole.
Langa promises he will have food sent to the dressing room for us. By the time I have to go on stage, the food hasn’t arrived as yet. I fill my belly with water to trick it.
8:00pm
It’s interesting what happens when the announcer calls your name. Everything falls away and falls into place. My hunger propels my forward. I transform my hunger into a beautiful weapon. It is just what I need. I transform all nervousness into enthusiasm. It is just what I need.
Langa promises he will have food sent to the dressing room for us. By the time I have to go on stage, the food hasn’t arrived as yet. I fill my belly with water to trick it.
8:00pm
It’s interesting what happens when the announcer calls your name. Everything falls away and falls into place. My hunger propels my forward. I transform my hunger into a beautiful weapon. It is just what I need. I transform all nervousness into enthusiasm. It is just what I need.
I feel entirely comfortable on stage. I feel at home with this audience. It is a mature, warm and listening crowd. I am having a fantastic time on stage. Before I know it, the fifteen minute timer in my head goes off and I know it's time to do my last poem. I know how long each of my poems last so it helps me time my sets, leaving room for a little banter. I close out my set with Locksmith. When I return to the dressing room, it smells scrumptious with Ishle’s perfume and finger foods.
After the show, we drive to the Bassline to mash up some real food and enjoy each other's company. At the end of the night, we are wrung dry, exhausted. I have a full day ahead tomorrow--I have to be back at SABC at 6:30 in the morning to sit in the make up chair once gain for my interview with South Africa's Morning Live...our equivalent to Good Morning America. We return to our hotels, and sleep.
1 comment:
Good words.
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