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19 pages 38 minutes read

Gwendolyn Brooks

To The Diaspora

Fiction | Poem | Adult | Published in 2014

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Background

Literary Context: Dudley Randall and Broadside Press

Dudley Randall, to whom Brooks dedicates the first iteration of “To the Diaspora,” founded Broadside Press in 1966 to help establish copyright over his poem “The Ballad of Birmingham” (Leasher, Evelyn. “Broadside Press of Detroit.” Michigan Historical Review, 2000, p. 107). Within just a few years, Broadside Press became one of the most important publishers of writers and graphic artists of the Black Arts Movement, especially as emergent and militant Black artists found it difficult to get contracts and adequate promotion from traditional publishers. Far from being surprised at these difficulties, Black writers and critics saw the resistance to publishing their work as more evidence of the anti-Black agenda of cultural institutions of the United States.

Brooks’s association with Randall as a publisher came when she gave him permission to reprint her poem “We Real Cool” as one of several broadsides—a single, large sheet with no folds. Brooks had up until then published the bulk of her work with Harper and Row, a well-respected literary publisher founded in the 19th century. By the late 1960s, Brooks was ready to move on. Brooks published Riot (1969) with Broadside Press, affirming her commitment to supporting Black art and homegrown Black cultural institutions.

“On the Tenth Anniversary of Broadside Press” (1976), the first iteration of “To the Diaspora,” is a praise poem (poem of tribute) for Randall, in whose honor the organizers put together a celebration (Brooks. “On the Tenth Anniversary of Broadside Press.” Black World/Negro Digest, January 1976, p. 91). While “To the Diaspora” concludes with a recognition that the work of making the African Diaspora is never done, “On the Tenth Anniversary of Broadside Press” continues with these closing lines:

Even while we spell your strength, your value,
via a valor song,
and love you now,
and love you yesterday,
and love you for our Afrikan forever (Lines 27-31).

This ending reflects Brooks’s appreciation for Randall specifically. Without him, Brooks’s path to her new commitment to creating Black art would have been that much harder.

Independent and Black-owned presses like Broadside aimed to provide affordable publications and create a platform to make experimental work of writers like Brooks and unknown Black writers accessible. There was a price for this mission. When Brooks read her poem to celebrate Randall and his work, Broadside Press was struggling financially. Randall was forced to sell Broadside Press in 1977 (Leasher, p. 112).

Historical Context: The African Diaspora and the Aftermath of the 1960s

Diaspora means “dispersal” or “scattering,” particularly of a culture or specific racial or ethnic group. There are many diasporas, including the Jewish Diaspora, the scattering of Jewish people from their ancestral lands by antisemitic violence and voluntary migration. The African Diaspora, which Brooks references in the title of “To the Diaspora,” is the scattering of African people through voluntary migration and involuntary migration, particularly as a result of the transatlantic slave trade.

While the original context of the poem “To the Diaspora” is appreciation of and encouragement to Dudley Randall, the 1981 version of the poem occurs in a different historical moment. By the late 1970s, Brooks and others who were veterans of the heady 1960s were aware that the political struggles of Black Americans had not borne the fruit they hoped. In fact, if one only looked within the borders of the United States, then on the cusp of gutting social support programs and affirmative action under both Republican and Democratic presidents, there was a general sense of despair.

The speaker in the poem staves off that despair by noting, “Here is some sun. Some” (Line 19). That line acknowledges several key developments in how people—including Brooks—conceived of Black American identity during the late 1970s and early 1980s. In 1977, Stephen Bantu Biko, a South African activist, died after security forces beat him to death. He had opposed apartheid, the political, economic, and social system of segregation that advantaged white South Africans and disadvantaged all other groups, sometimes through brutal repression. Brooks memorializes him in “Music for Martyrs,” one of the poems included alongside “To the Diaspora” in To Disembark.

In 1977, South African students in Soweto, South Africa, walked out of primary and secondary schools en masse to protest the requirement that they learn Afrikaans, the language that found a home in the African continent after white, Dutch sellers colonized what became South Africa. The violent response of South African security forces accelerated the movement to isolate South Africa by disinvesting in its economy and cultural institutions.

In 1979, the Reverend Jess Jackson, who worked alongside the late Martin Luther King, Jr. during the United States Civil Rights Movement, visited South Africa. What he and his peers in the United States saw was a Black revolutionary struggle the likes of which they had not seen since the 1960s (if ever). The case they made to Black Americans back home was that the struggle in South Africa was one that demanded action by all people of African descent.

The basis for their appeal was the notion that all Black people, regardless of national borders, share a common history, including the struggle for freedom. What Jackson and others were positing was that this connection wasn’t simply a shared past. Those connections throughout the African Diaspora were important in the then-contemporary moment and on into the future. When Brooks has her speaker state, “Your work, that was done, to be done to be done to be done” (Line 23), it is a call to all Black people, even those jaded by the 1970s, to recognize that they are still African and that they are not alone.

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