Opal Palmer Adisa
Opal Palmer Adisa (born 1954) is a Jamaica-born award-winning poet, novelist, performance artist and educator. Anthologised in over 100 publications, she has been a regular performer of her work internationally.
Since 1993, Opal Palmer Adisa has taught literature and served as Chair of the Ethnic Studies/Cultural Diversity Program at the California College of Arts and Crafts in Oakland. Dr. Adisa has two masters degrees from San Francisco State University, and a Ph.D. from the University of California at Berkeley. She has previously taught undergraduate and graduate courses at California College of the Arts, Stanford University, University of Berkeley, and San Francisco State University. In the spring of 2010, she became a member of the teaching staff at the University of the Virgin Islands (UVI), St Croix Campus, and also served as editor of The Caribbean Writer, UVI’s famous journal of Caribbean literature, for 2 years.
An important element of her poetry is the use of nation language, about which she has said: "I have to credit [Louise] Bennett for granting me permission, so to speak, to write in Nation Language, because it was her usage that allowed me to see the beauty of our language. Moreover, there are just some things that don’t have the same sense of intimacy or color if not said in Nation language.... I use nation language when it is the only way and the best way to get my point across, to say what I mean from the center of my navel. But I also use it, to interrupt and disrupt standard English as s reminder to myself that I have another tongue, but also to jolt readers to listen and read more carefully, to glean from the language the Caribbean sensibilities that I am always pushing, sometimes subtly, other times more forcefully. Nation language allows me to infuse the poem with all of the smells and colors of home.
(from Wikipedia)
“How did it begin?' Miss Cotton asked.When?' they replied.In the beginning,' Aunt Velma said.Wid tears,' they assured her.Wid tears,' Dahlia chimed.Ainsworth and the other children waited, but only silence responded to them. They were certain they had missed something; a few of them thought perhaps they had even fallen asleep. They asked those who sat beside them, but they could offer no explanation. Ainsworth looked at his mother and she was crying. He felt ashamed for her, but he nticed the woman beside her was also crying. He saw the faces of all the adults, including the men, and tears streamed down all their faces. The story was their memory. The story was the pain that produced tears. The story was what they had lived. The story was their petty jealousy that caused them to begrudge each other every minor success and plot ways to harm one another. The story was all that was lost to them because someone was too selfish to share, too mean to forgive, too blind to see the possibilities. The story was the beginning of their lives that had been old them over and over, but out of embarrassment they hadn't listened; so when the time came for those tales to be useful, they didn't know the details and groped in self-darkness. The story was in the first drop of salty tear that was shed for them, that they shed for themselves. Ainsworht lookd around at his mother and the other adults crying and felt cheated, until he found his own tears. Salty. Sticky. Inseparable from him, like the pain of birth. That was indeed the beginning.”