7549.- KATE RUSHIN

Donna Kate Rushin (Lawnside, New Jersey, EE.UU., 1951)

Kate Rushin es autora de The Black Back-Ups (Firebrand Books), antología pionera feminista editada por Cherríe Moraga y Gloria Anzaldúa.

Residente de Connecticut, Kate actualmente es profesora de escritura creativa en la Academia de Greater Hartford de las Artes. Anteriormente, fue profesora en la Universidad de Wesleyan, donde se desempeñó como Profesora Asistente Adjunta y escritora visitante en Estudios Afroamericanos. Ha leído en Hill-Stead Museum Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, el Festival de Poesía de Dodge Geraldine Smith College y Centro de Poesía, entre otros muchos lugares, y ha dirigido talleres para el Instituto Omega de Estudios Holísticos y Cave Canem Foundation. Se ha desempeñado como juez de la Connecticut State University-IMPAC Award escritores jóvenes, la Connecticut Poetry Contest Estudiante Circuito poesía, y la poesía / de la NEA Poesía Fundación Out Loud.

Kate recibió su licenciatura de la Universidad de Oberlin y su MFA de la Universidad de Brown.

Books of Poetry

The Black Back-Ups,  Firebrand Books, 1993 

Anthologies and Journals

Feminist Theory Reader: Local and Global Perspectives, ed. Carole McCann and Seung-kyung Kim (Routledge, 2002)

Callaloo, Volume 24, Number 3, Summer 2001 (The Johns Hopkins University Press)

Callaloo, Volume 23, Number 1, Winter 2000 (The Johns Hopkins University Press)

Home Girls: A Black Feminist Anthology, ed. Barbara Smith (Rutgers University Press, 2000)

Teaching the art of poetry: the moves, A, Baron Wormser and A, David Cappella (Routledge, 1999)

My Lover is a Woman - Contemporary Lesbian Love Poems, Lesléa Newman (Ballantine Books, 1999)

This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color, ed. Cherríe Moraga and Gloria E. Anzaldúa (Kitchen Table Press, 1983)

La puente

Estoy harta

enferma de ver y tocar

ambos lados de las cosas

enferma de ser la condenada puente de todos.

Nadie

se puede hablar

sin mi

¿No es cierto?

Explico mi madre a mi padre

mi padre a mi hermanita

mi hermanita a mi hermano

mi hermano a las feministas blancas

las feministas blancas a la gente de la iglesia Negra

la gente de la iglesia Negra a los ex – jipis

los ex – jipis a los separatistas Negros

los separatistas Negros a los padres de mis amigos.

Después

tengo que explicarme a mí misma

a todos.

Hago más traducciones

que las malditas Naciones Unidas.

Olvídense

me enferman.

Estoy enferma de llenar sus huecos.

Enferma de ser su seguro contra

el aislamiento de sus autoimpuestas limitaciones

Enferma de ser la loca de sus cenas festivas

Enferma de ser la rara de sus meriendas de domingo

Enferma de ser la única amiga Negra de 34 individuos blancos.

Encuéntrense otra conexión con el resto del mundo

Encuéntrense otra cosa que los legitime

Encuéntrense otra manera de ser políticas y estar a la moda.

No seré su puente a su femineidad

su masculinidad 

su humani- dad.

Estoy enferma de recordarles que no

se ensimismen tanto por mucho tiempo.

Estoy enferma de mediar sus peores cualidades

de parte de sus mejores.

Estoy enferma 

de  recordarles

que respiren

antes de que se asfixien

con sus propias tarugadas.

Olvídense

crezcan o ahóguense

evolucionen o muéranse. 

La puente que tengo que ser

es la puente a mi propio poder

Tengo que traducir

mis propios temores

Mediar

mis propias debilidades.

Tengo que ser la puente a ningún lado

más que a mi verdadero ser.

Y después

seré útil.

The Bridge Poem 

I’ve had enough 

I’m sick of seeing and touching 

Both sides of things 

Sick of being the damn bridge for everybody 

  

Nobody 

Can talk to anybody 

Without me 

Right? 

  

I explain my mother to my father 

my father to my little sister 

My little sister to my brother 

my brother to the white feminists 

The white feminists to the Black church folks 

the Black church folks to the ex-hippies 

the ex-hippies to the Black separatists 

the Black separatists to the artists 

the artists to my friends’ parents… 

  

Then 

I’ve got to explain myself 

To everybody 

  

I do more translating 

Than the Gawdamn U.N. 

  

Forget it 

I’m sick of it. 

  

I’m sick of filling in your gaps 

  

Sick of being your insurance against 

the isolation of your self-imposed limitations 

  

Sick of being the crazy at your holiday dinners 

  

Sick of being the odd one at your Sunday Brunches 

  

Sick of being the sole Black friend to 34 individual white people 

  

Find another connection to the rest of the world 

Find something else to make you legitimate 

Find some other way to be political and hip 

  

I will not be the bridge to your womanhood 

Your manhood 

Your humanness 

  

I’m sick of reminding you not to 

Close off too tight for too long 

  

I’m sick of mediating with your worst self 

On behalf of your better selves 

  

I am sick 

Of having to remind you 

To breathe 

Before you suffocate 

Your own fool self 

  

Forget it 

Stretch or drown 

Evolve or die 

  

The bridge I must be 

Is the bridge to my own power 

I must translate 

My own fears 

Mediate 

My own weaknesses 

  

I must be the bridge to nowhere 

But my true self 

And then 

I will be useful

"The Bridge Poem," This Bridge Called My Back: de Writings by Radical Women of Color, 

Editado por  Cherrie Moraga y Gloria Anzaldúa (New York: Kitchen Table, 1981, 1983). 

Mt. Zion

After funerals, everyone goes berserk: 

they sell the rings, hide the policies, dig up 

the money jar, stiff the undertaker, 

toss the antique child’s rocker, the ceramic 

pie plates, and the tintypes of all our Indian 

ancestors. They kill the roses, disown in-laws 

and second spouses, chain the Doberman 

to the mimosa, refuse to reveal the cole slaw 

recipe, cuss out the woman preacher, junk 

the upright piano, and the glass and cherry bookcase. 

They unbolt the door for the copper plumbing crooks, 

swipe The Bible, and lose the house to taxes. 

  

I lean on the oak at Mt. Zion , hoard 

pencils and Christmas cards, avoid doctors, 

take pictures I won’t ever develop.

Going to Canada 

In Quebec Canada , Mommy and I climb up to 

St. Anne De Bow-Pray on our knees 

praying the prayer on the sign on each step. 

The alter is a mountain of braces and crutches 

thrown away by the healed people. 

  

Daddy lets us stop at the restaurant. 

I ask Mommy if they have French food. 

Green cheese? The waitress asks. 

Green cheese? 

  

The big hotel room is all fringes 

patterns, textures, carved tables and chairs. 

I think Europe must be like this. 

The chambermaid picks up my Tiny Tears doll. 

She wears a uniform like in the movies 

and asks me questions in French. 

I understand exactly what she is saying, but 

I’m not sure how to answer. 

I look at my mother who smiles and says go on. . . 

  

On our way out of town Dad stops for gas; 

one giant, squeaky balloon, free, with a fill-up. 

Mommy, can you tell me what to say: 

Uh baa-luh-see-vou-play. 

The balloon shrivels before the next bathroom stop. 

Uh-baa-luh-see-vou-play.

The Tired Poem:

Last Letter

From A Typical

Unemployed 

Black Professional

Woman

So it's a gorgeous afternoon in the park

It's so nice you forget our Attitude

The one your mama taught you 

The one that says Don't-Mess-With-Me

You forget until you hear all this

Whistling and lip smacking

You whip around and say

I ain't no damn dog

It's a young guy

His mouth drops open

Excuse me Sister

How you doing

You lie and smile and say

I'm doing good

Everything's cool Brother

Then five minutes later 

Hey you Sweet Devil

Hey Girl come here

You tense sigh calculate

You know the lean boys and bearded men

Are only cousins and lovers and friends

Sometimes when you say Hey

You get a beautiful surprised smile

Or a good talk

And you've listened to your uncle when he was drunk

Talking about how he has to scuffle to get by and 

How he'd wanted to be an engineer

And you talk to Joko who wants to be a singer and

Buy some clothes and get a house for his mother

The Soc. and Psych. books say you're domineering

And you've been to enough

Sisters-Are-Not-Taking-Care-Of-Business discussions

to know where you went wrong

It's decided it had to be the day you decided to go to school

Still you remember the last time you said hey

So you keep on walking 

What you to good to speak

Don't nobody want you no way

You go home sit on the front steps listen to

The neighbor boy brag about

How many girls he has pregnant 

You ask him if he's going to take care of the babies

And what if he gets taken to court

And what are the girls going to do

He has pictures of them all

This real cute one was supposed to go to college

dumb broad knew she could get pregnant

I'll just say it's not mine

On the back of this picture of a girl in a cap and gown

It says something like

I love you in my own strange way

Thank you

Then you go in the house 

Flip through a magazine and there is 

An-Ode-To-My-Black-Queen poem

The kind where the Brother

Thanks all of the Sisters Who Endured

Way back when he didn't have his Shit Together

And you have to wonder where they are now

And you know what happens when you try to resist

All of this Enduring 

And you think how this 

Thank-you poem is really

No consolation at all

Unless you believe

What the man you met on the train told you 

The Black man who worked for the State Department

And had lived in five countries

He said Dear

You were born to suffer

Why don't you give me your address

and I'll come visit

So you try to talk to your friend 

About the train and the park and everything

And how it all seems somehow connected

And he says

You're just a Typical Black Professional Woman

Some sisters know how to deal

Right about here

Your end of the conversation phases out

He goes on to say how

Black Professional Women have always had the advantage

You have to stop and think about that one

Maybe you are supposed to be grateful for those sweaty

Beefy-faced white businesmen who try to

Pick you up at lunchtime

And you wonder how many times your friend had

Pennies thrown at him

How many times he's been felt up in the subway

How many times he's been cussed out on the street

You wonder how many times he's been offered

$10 for a piece of himself

$10 for a piece

So you're waiting for the bus

And you look at this young Black man

Asking if you want to make some money

You look at this young Black man

Asking if you want to make some money

You look at him for a long time

You imagine the little dingy room

It would take twenty minutes or less

You only get $15 for spending all day with thirty kids

Nobody is offering you

Any cash for your poems

You remember again how you have the advantage

How you're not taking care of business

How this man is somebody's kid brother or cousin

And could be your own

So you try to explain how $10 wouldn't pay for 

What you'd have to give up

He pushes a handful of sticky crumpled dollars

Into your face and says

Why not

You think I can't pay

Look at that roll

Don't tell me you don't need the money

Cause I know you do 

I'll give you fifteen

You maintain your sense of humor

You remember a joke you heard 

Well no matter what

A Black Woman never has to starve,

Just as long as there are 

Dirty toilets and...

It isn't funny

Then you wonder if he would at least 

Give you the money

And not beat you up

But you're very cool and say

No thanks

You tell him he should spend his time

Looking for someone he cares about

Who cares about him

He waves you off

Get outta my face

I don't have time for that bullshit

You blew it Bitch

Then

(Is it suddenly)

Your voice gets loud

And fills the night street

Your voice gets louder and louder 

Your bus comes

The second-shift people file on

The security guards and nurse's aides

Look at you like you're crazy

Get on the damn bus

And remember 

You blew it

He turns away

Your bus pulls off

There is no one on the street but you

And then 

It is

Very Quiet