My favorite poet, Nikki Giovanni, died this week. She was 81 and battled cancer on and off for for years. As a student at Mississippi University for Women, I helped host her, picking her up from the airport and introducing her for our Black history program. She was incredibly kind. I was astonished that she talked to me like a peer. She worked hard not to cuss during her appearance, which disappointed me as a certified cusser, but one understands contractual obligations.
I recited Nikki’s “I Wrote a Good Omelet” for a poetry contest at Jackson State as a high school senior and came home with a big trophy that tickled my mother. Since high school, I have considered Nikki to be the best-kept secret among Black women poets. Gwendolyn Brooks, whom I met at that poetry recitation contest, was the grand dame along with Maya Angelou. Everyone wanted to read their work for school or church events, while Sonia Sanchez was for the intellectual crowd. No, I thought of Nikki as my poet.
As we have seen from the outpouring this week, Nikki Giovanni was not a secret. She was internationally beloved. My 17-year-old self didn’t know it, but it turns out that I’m a lot like Nikki. She was generally joyful, with headlines about her transcending reminding us that she centered the joy of being Black. Recently, a friend told me that I was “very joyful,” which made me happy because we certainly have enough foolishness going on right now. Nikki was a cusser, as y’all know. I love the Lord, and I cuss a little, and like her, I love to cook because gathering for food is a low barrier to entry for spreading joy.
She loved being a Black woman and once said she highly recommended it. I agree wholeheartedly.
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There’s a lot of talk among Black women about the goings-on in this country. Many of us have announced that we are turning inward, no longer trying to save
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