{"id":150968,"date":"2021-02-16T13:53:53","date_gmt":"2021-02-16T18:53:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=150968"},"modified":"2021-02-16T14:17:02","modified_gmt":"2021-02-16T19:17:02","slug":"searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/","title":{"rendered":"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Gwendolyn Brooks at her typewriter.<\/p><\/div>\n

Often, when I look back at the poems that have found their sudden ways to me\u2014the ones that have chosen me in particular, to move through me and onto the page\u2014it is hard to imagine they are related to one another. It is hard to believe the poems that sprawl wide, the poems that play their tricks, the poems that exhume and resurrect, that breathe strange and speak with different tongues, all share a common denominator. It is hard to believe all the differently hued poems I\u2019ve written have come from my own throat, born of the same place but perhaps of a different season, fruit of the same tree perched on a different branch.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

How is one of my poems that sounds like \u201cHow Great,\u201d by Chance the Rapper\u2014a song that I love\u2014related to another poem that I would not have written without reading Eve Ewing\u2019s <\/span>Electric Arches<\/span><\/i>? How is a <\/span>poem<\/span><\/a> I wrote about my late father\u2019s gold chain related to a poem I only fairly recently discovered?<\/span><\/p>\n

This is the natural order of being descended from one common lineage, so much of the work I love the poetic offshoot of one common ancestor. Those that have taught me my best lessons have all learned from Gwendolyn Brooks, or have learned from someone who had learned from Brooks. Today, if I squint hard enough, if I ask the right questions, it seems everything\u2014the poems, the music, the seasons\u2014points me back to her.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

*<\/span><\/p>\n

My poetic lineage is constructed, as I see it, via the long list of all the poems, visions, music, stories, and every syllable of any bit of good language that I\u2019ve encountered in my life. What becomes cardinal in that lineage is the bits that manage to sear my inner skull with their light and bring me new ways of seeing.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

One entry point into my lineage can be found in the poetry of Ross Gay, and more specifically, his poem, \u201c<\/span>Sorrow Is Not My Name<\/span><\/a>,\u201d and, even more specific still, his line, \u201cMy color\u2019s green. I\u2019m Spring.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I was first assigned Ross Gay\u2019s <\/span>Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude<\/span><\/i> while in an undergrad workshop, and I consumed it so quickly I made small gusts of wind as I turned the pages. Gay\u2019s ability to wield the hues of joy made me hunger. His poems taught me how I myself might enter language through the wide threshold of rapture.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Gay is known to enter delight through many different doors, but in \u201cSorrow Is Not My Name,\u201d Gay decided the door would be death itself. Death and the many tools it has sharpened and dipped into fire. Death and its claws tapping through the frost on our bedroom windows. I have been in close proximity to the reaper and his wide blade, and so it feels familiar to watch Gay\u2019s speaker name death as it appears throughout the landscape:<\/span><\/p>\n

just this morning a vulture
\n<\/span>nodded his red, grizzled head at me<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

He names it again as he finds death even closer:<\/span><\/p>\n

the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me
\n<\/span>on the bus taking notes<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

And yet, there is delight. There is a sense that Gay\u2019s speaker will surely perish eventually, maybe even soon, but certainly not today, not in this particular poem. Today, Gay\u2019s speaker feels only delight rupturing through his body.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

…yeah, yeah.
\n<\/span>But look; my niece is running through a field
\n<\/span>calling my name.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The speaker remembers, almost like a prayer, that their name is not endued with sorrow. And thus, the poem ends with a line that has clogged the cogs of my thinking; clogged them with glee:<\/span><\/p>\n

I remember. My color\u2019s green. I\u2019m spring.\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

<\/p>\n

*<\/span><\/p>\n

At the top of the poem, right under its title, Ross Gay attached the words \u201c<\/span>after Gwendolyn Brooks<\/span><\/i>,\u201d <\/span>after <\/span><\/i>serving as a dangling thread to be followed. I put great effort into finding the Gwendolyn Brooks poem that inspired Gay. I wanted to trace the impetus that made Gay write such a splendid thing, that made him feel so alive that he saw himself akin to an entire color, an entire season.<\/span><\/p>\n

I googled, I asked friends, I skimmed as many poems by Brooks that I could find online and searched every book of hers I could get my hands on. I had little luck. All my friends knew of the Ross Gay poem but knew nothing of Brooks\u2019s influence. I decided, ultimately, that it was enough to just adore Gay\u2019s work, to read it over and over again in my head, to study its nuts and bolts. At the time, I didn\u2019t yet have the gall to reach out to him directly, but I thought maybe someday, if I ever met him in person, I could ask him myself.<\/span><\/p>\n

Almost half a year after I put my search to bed, a friend happened to share a Brooks poem on social media that I had never read before. I knew immediately that it was the poem I had so desperately looked for. The poem found me as if it were inevitable, and when I read it, I lost my shit entirely.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTo the Young That Want to Die,\u201d by Gwendolyn Brooks, is, as I have proclaimed to homies, a banger: it\u2019s a powerhouse, a marvel, a jewel. It serves as a manual, a list of instructions, but it also doubles as a song, a prayer, a mantra for those who might be sorry, overwhelmed, and wishing for an end. \u201cSit down. Inhale. Exhale.\u201d is how Brooks\u2019s speaker begins, addressing \u201cthe young\u201d that the title alludes to, employing periods instead of commas to signify that each one of these steps are whole and singular and calling for our undivided attention. The poem, like Gay\u2019s, is about death, but it is also about patience, about time:<\/span><\/p>\n

The gun will wait. The lake will wait.
\n<\/span>The tall call in the small seductive vial
\nwill wait will wait:<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Like Gay, Brooks lists the weapons that might be eager to harm. But here, Brooks seems to tell us that everything that wants to devour us will wait. So why won\u2019t we?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.
\n<\/span>I assure you death will wait.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Brooks turns to those who so desperately wish for release and says plainly, \u201cYou need not die today. \/ Stay here.\u201d In my head, I can hear the plea between the lines. I can hear, \u201cStay here, <\/span>please<\/span><\/i>.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

And in the last bits of the poem, in a final couplet, is the seed that I assume Ross Gay held in his palms, watered, and grew into his own fruit\u2014the lines that today make me feel most alive and furthest away from what dark and desolate corners might be calling my name.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Graves grow no green that you can use.
\n<\/span>Remember, green\u2019s your color. You are Spring.\u00a0<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

*<\/span><\/p>\n

Where (on God\u2019s green earth!) did this gorgeous little poem come from? And why was it so hard for me to find?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Which Brooks collection did it live in, if any?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Which young\u2014her young? The young of the world at large?\u2014was she singing to, prompting to come down and off the ledge?<\/span><\/p>\n

Enamored with the Brooks poem that seemed, at first, so elusive, I wanted to know as much as I could about what spurred Brooks to write it. With the title in hand, the internet told me it was uploaded to <\/span>a few<\/span><\/a> Tumblr sites<\/span><\/a>; pinned on <\/span>Pinterest<\/span><\/a>; shared in <\/span>a post<\/span><\/a> on <\/span>Prison Culture<\/span><\/i>, a blog about the effects of the prison industrial complex; referenced in George E. Kent\u2019s<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>A Life Of Gwendolyn Brooks<\/span><\/i><\/a>; and mentioned in <\/span>an essay on Brooks<\/span><\/a> in the <\/span>Kenyon Review<\/span><\/i>. A few years ago, the poem went viral after the inimitable poet Natasha Oladokun <\/span>shared it<\/span><\/a> on Twitter, and it has gone viral a few other times, too.<\/span><\/p>\n

But none of these appearances provided me with more context. I was hoping something could point me toward the year the poem was born, or at least toward the original source, a collection or an anthology, or anywhere the poem might have appeared with Brooks\u2019s will attached.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

After posting on my social media, after asking everyone and anyone for clues, I only arrived at insights much later due to the kindness of a homie, Brian Baumgart, who had unearthed what I could not: <\/span>a recording and a transcript<\/span><\/a> of a reading by Gwendolyn Brooks herself, where she reads \u201cTo the Young Who Want to Die,\u201d as well as a few other poems, at a celebration for Emily Dickinson and her legacy.<\/span><\/p>\n

Giddy with the discovery, I whispered, \u201c<\/span>What year, Gwendolyn? What year?\u201d<\/span> to myself as Brooks\u2019s voice poured into my ear, as I rewound and replayed the recording to ensure I caught each word, each detail. I had heard recordings of Brooks reading a poem or two before, but in this recording, Brooks has space to let her good mood sprawl, space to banter and make jokes. I could tell in the timbre of her voice\u2014from her eagerness and satisfaction\u2014that Brooks is in her element, and maybe exactly where she wished to be at the time.<\/span><\/p>\n

And while there was no exact reference to the year of the recording, Brooks does, at one point, ruminate a bit about a time she read a poem about love in front of a group of young people, and how they snickered, how they must have thought she knew nothing of love, and by its consequence, they must have thought she knew nothing of romance. As a rebuttal, Brooks speaks to her experience with romance, and as a clue, she references her two children. Specifically, she mentions her daughter and how old she was at the time. And with that subtle, indirect marker of time, and a little bit of math, it became easy to deduce the particular year that Brooks\u2014the one at my ear\u2014was in.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span><\/p>\n

1985 must have been a difficult time for the young, as must have been the nineties, and also the turn of the millennium, as, too, has been the past decade, and the new decade, pulling us slowly but surely into its calamities. Today, all my young have friends that have wished for death, and some have friends who have actually found it. But, too, all my young have friends who found comfort through exchange, through speaking what must be spoken, through giving language to whatever inside them demands language. I have friends who turn to poetry to name their sadnesses and anxieties. I have friends that speak about the art that saved their lives, that made them feel seen, that gave them language for the cloud hanging heavy above their hair. Every year and every decade seems to want to, at some point, inflict its worse upon us, and so the balm needs to be perpetual; not so much universal as potent, and liberally available. Brooks\u2019s poem is one such balm. \u201cTo the Young Who Want to Die\u201d is, I believe, timeless.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In my ear, Brooks tells me the poem came to be after she watched a film about two lovers who were barred from being together by their families, their parents, and their elders, and, in their desperation, decided to end their lives as a means to spend eternity together. Trying to handle the idea of suicide with care, Brooks hesitates for a bit, bouncing around what she wants to say by confirming that she is neither a therapist nor a psychiatrist, and she\u2019s not fitted to speak on the phenomenon of suicide with authority. \u201cBut I\u2019d just like to say,\u201d she says, \u201cto young people who might be thinking about doing away with themselves, feeling that they\u2019re not important, that they have nothing to give, that they <\/span>do<\/span><\/i> have something to give.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

*<\/span><\/p>\n

While searching for \u201cTo the Young Who Want to Die,\u201d a broad view of Brooks\u2019s indelible legacy became clear: Gwendolyn Brooks was born in Topeka, Kansas, grew up in the historically Black neighborhood of Bronzeville in Chicago, and, by the age of twenty-one, she had published more than seventy-five poems in the <\/span>Chicago Defender<\/span><\/i>. Gwendolyn Brooks published <\/span>Annie Allen <\/span><\/i>in 1949; for it, she was the first Black author to win the Pulitzer Prize. Gwendolyn Brooks taught in institutions across the United States and her books, awards, and accolades are as numerous as the cardinals and robins that populate Chicago. Gwendolyn Brooks died in 2000. By that time, she had intersected with and played pivotal roles in the poetics of countless poets.<\/span><\/p>\n

I bring up Brooks\u2019s name to any Black poet and the effect is the same. On the subway with S. Erin Batiste, on the very same night I meet her, I speak of my interest in Brooks\u2019s work and, after her face ignites with glee, she points me in the direction of Brooks\u2019s sonnet ballads. Tiana Clark reads from her new book in a Brooklyn bookstore and later, in a bar, hovering above flickering candles at a table packed with poets, I shout Brooks\u2019s name above the bar\u2019s music and Tiana smiles as if remembering someone from a past life, and shouts back, \u201cQueen!\u201d In the office of Terrance Hayes (inventor of the <\/span>Double Golden Shovel<\/span><\/a>, a poetic form made with the intention of honoring Brooks), I explain that Brooks keeps coming up in my work, and, with a smile crawling across his face, he spins a story about her and Robert Hayden in the eighties.<\/span><\/p>\n

I bring up Gwendolyn Brooks to any Black poet and each time the obvious is made more evident: Gwendolyn Brooks is an ancestor to us all; we are all writing in her lineage.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou are Spring.\u201d I whisper the words to myself as I imagine Brooks might say them if she were reading them to me. In my imagination, I hear her voice as a lullaby, or a secret: soft and gentle. But in the recording of Brooks\u2019s reading, she dances her way through each line, feeling out each word and adding her flares as she sees fit, peppering in her tiny melodies, as if to ensure no two recordings of her reading the poem would ever be the same. She arrives at the final line, that final phrase, \u201cYou are Spring\u201d and says it as if it was the best news: the news that the war is over, that honey is still on the shelf despite the famine. She emphasizes Spring<\/em> as if her speaking the word was spring itself, a spark in her voice, the sound of the word leaving her lips and bringing to life a landscape that wasn\u2019t alive before.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

*<\/span><\/div>\n

And so I imagine it happened like this: Gwendolyn Brooks became herself as a teenager in Bronzeville and maybe, some number of blocks away and some decades later, Chance the Rapper <\/span>leans into poetry<\/span><\/a> while also beginning his lean into rap. His songs, like \u201cSunday Candy,\u201d fall from my headphones as I walk through streets in Brooklyn. Gwendolyn Brooks becomes herself in Bronzeville and, some decades later, Eve Ewing pens a play about Brooks\u2019s life before penning <\/span>a manifesto<\/span><\/a> for the young, brown-skinned girl she once was. Gwendolyn Brooks reads a poem in 1985 and says, \u201cRemember \u2026 You are Spring,\u201d and beneath a different sky in a different city, the poet we\u2019d come to know as Ross Gay began to bloom. And later, Gay, himself an entire season, pushed tiny seeds into the soil of his garden before writing a line of his own and there, between the lines somewhere, is where I begin to appear.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Gwendolyn Brooks wrote poems with phrases that rippled through time and built multiple lineages each.<\/span><\/p>\n

Gwendolyn Brooks wrote a line that asked her readers to stay alive and ain\u2019t that a word.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Gwendolyn Brooks said stay alive and we are still alive today, writing in her name. Put that in the notes sections of your books. Put that in your craft essays, in your literary canons. Put that on everything.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bernard Ferguson is a Bahamian poet and essayist. He\u2019s currently working on a book of nonfiction about the climate crisis.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Gwendolyn Brooks wrote a line that asked her readers to stay alive and ain\u2019t that a word.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2110,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[67827],"class_list":["post-150968","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nSearching for Gwendolyn Brooks by Bernard Ferguson<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"February 16, 2021 \u2013 Gwendolyn Brooks wrote a line that asked her readers to stay alive and ain\u2019t that a word.\u00a0\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks by Bernard Ferguson\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"February 16, 2021 \u2013 Gwendolyn Brooks wrote a line that asked her readers to stay alive and ain\u2019t that a word.\u00a0\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2021-02-16T18:53:53+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2021-02-16T19:17:02+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"970\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"646\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Bernard Ferguson\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Bernard Ferguson\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"14 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Bernard Ferguson\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/74af50ae72b1041831bb420d2bd2f6b4\"},\"headline\":\"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks\",\"datePublished\":\"2021-02-16T18:53:53+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2021-02-16T19:17:02+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/\"},\"wordCount\":2744,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg\",\"keywords\":[\"Featured\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Arts & Culture\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/\",\"name\":\"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks by Bernard Ferguson\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg\",\"datePublished\":\"2021-02-16T18:53:53+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2021-02-16T19:17:02+00:00\",\"description\":\"February 16, 2021 \u2013 Gwendolyn Brooks wrote a line that asked her readers to stay alive and ain\u2019t that a word.\u00a0\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/74af50ae72b1041831bb420d2bd2f6b4\",\"name\":\"Bernard Ferguson\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/d9b0ac6d9f02653953353d99fad895d97fea2913af5570c3880262bb05ee5817?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/d9b0ac6d9f02653953353d99fad895d97fea2913af5570c3880262bb05ee5817?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Bernard Ferguson\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/bferguson\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks by Bernard Ferguson","description":"February 16, 2021 \u2013 Gwendolyn Brooks wrote a line that asked her readers to stay alive and ain\u2019t that a word.\u00a0","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks by Bernard Ferguson","og_description":"February 16, 2021 \u2013 Gwendolyn Brooks wrote a line that asked her readers to stay alive and ain\u2019t that a word.\u00a0","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2021-02-16T18:53:53+00:00","article_modified_time":"2021-02-16T19:17:02+00:00","og_image":[{"width":970,"height":646,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Bernard Ferguson","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Bernard Ferguson","Est. reading time":"14 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/"},"author":{"name":"Bernard Ferguson","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/74af50ae72b1041831bb420d2bd2f6b4"},"headline":"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks","datePublished":"2021-02-16T18:53:53+00:00","dateModified":"2021-02-16T19:17:02+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/"},"wordCount":2744,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg","keywords":["Featured"],"articleSection":["Arts & Culture"],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/","name":"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks by Bernard Ferguson","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg","datePublished":"2021-02-16T18:53:53+00:00","dateModified":"2021-02-16T19:17:02+00:00","description":"February 16, 2021 \u2013 Gwendolyn Brooks wrote a line that asked her readers to stay alive and ain\u2019t that a word.\u00a0","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/02\/4be0ee2a8d9cbcfd8b1d105dba9c03c392fb37e9-1.jpeg"},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/02\/16\/searching-for-gwendolyn-brooks\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Searching for Gwendolyn Brooks"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/74af50ae72b1041831bb420d2bd2f6b4","name":"Bernard Ferguson","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/d9b0ac6d9f02653953353d99fad895d97fea2913af5570c3880262bb05ee5817?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/d9b0ac6d9f02653953353d99fad895d97fea2913af5570c3880262bb05ee5817?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Bernard Ferguson"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/bferguson\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/150968","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2110"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=150968"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/150968\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":150985,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/150968\/revisions\/150985"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=150968"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=150968"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=150968"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}