Cover image for Fathering words : the making of an African American writer
Fathering words : the making of an African American writer
Miller, E. Ethelbert.
Personal Author:
First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : St. Martin's Press, [2000]

Physical Description:
178 pages ; 22 cm
Format :


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PS3563.I3768 Z465 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Central Closed Stacks

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The poet's journey begins in the heart. Here is a memoir from a poet that reminds us to pursue writing as much as love.

Moving beyond the loss of both his father and brother, E. Ethelbert Miller tells the story of how love survived in his family. When Miller was about ten years old, his father told him how he could have left his mother. Years later, now a writer and a father, Miller looks back on that simple remark and how it shaped him. In Fathering Words, Miller explores his development as an African American writer, the responsibility of his chosen career, and his ambitions to raise the consciousness ofblack people. Gradually, Miller comes to see that when his father told him he could have left his mother that he was attempting to raise his consciousness. In his own way, his father was warning Miller not to take things for granted, that one's own world could easily and quickly change. And in his quiet way that he loved him.

Miller's poetry often relies on the voices of women. Here in Fathering Words, Miller has chosen to write his memoir in two voices. He places his sister's voice on the page next to his own. The result is a wonderful duet that tells two stories woven together into one.

Fathering Words is Miller's moving tribute and a powerful memoir.

Author Notes

E. Ethelbert Miller is a poet and the author of five collections of poetry including Andromeda , Where are the Love Poems for Dictators? , and most recently Whispers, Secrets and Promises . He is also the editor of numerous anthologies including In Search of Color Everywhere. He has been the director of the African American Resource Center at Howard University since 1974. He lives in Washington, D.C..

Reviews 4

Booklist Review

As writers, Giscombe and Miller are similar in that they are both male African American poets who have roots in places besides the U.S. and Africa; otherwise, they are very dissimilar, as their memoirs demonstrate. Giscombe's work is a travel memoir. Through his journeys to and from Canada in search of John Robert Giscombe, a black Jamaican explorer in British Columbia during the last half of the nineteenth century, who may or may not be a relative, Giscombe meditates on the meanings of borders and race and family. His is an engaging albeit erudite study, the type of work in which personal history is scarce and impressions and descriptions abound. So when one comes upon a hard, personal fact, such as when Giscombe reveals that he lost his arm to his elbow as a child and now the weight of the prosthesis may account for the ease with which his shoulder moves "into and out of dislocation," it has the impact of a much sought-after reward and also supplies fuel to plunge deeper into the author's story. One leaves this book full of thoughts about race, borders, and the Giscombes, C. S. and John R. Miller, director of the African American Resource Center at Howard University since 1974, trades in the personal. He imagines two narrators for his memoir: himself, Ethelbert, and his sister, Marie. The theme is the search for his writer's voice, which centers on father Egberto, who came to the U.S. from Panama; brother Richard, who was briefly a monk and seemingly should have remained one; mother Enid, who functions mainly to give and take freedom; sister Marie, who speaks for Eugene before he became "E."; and women, especially his wives, Michelle and Denise. Miller also charts his meetings and relationships with many of the black poets who came in contact with his Washington, D.C., literary circle, such as Sterling Brown, June Jordan, Ishmael Reed, and Ntozake Shange. Bonnie Smothers

Publisher's Weekly Review

What constitutes a good father, a good husband? Miller, an accomplished poet and director of the African American Resource Center at Howard University, muses deeply on this familiar question in his lyrical recounting of his South Bronx childhood. One of three children, Miller seems bewildered by his solitary, humble father, Egberto, a Panamanian who worked nights at the post office and slept away the days, remaining emotionally remote from his wife and family. Determined to understand Egberto's nonetheless unwavering familial commitment, the author, now a father and husband himself, revisits a crucial moment at age 10 when the brooding patriarch, not an especially chatty man, told him, "I could leave your mother and be like everyone else." In the end, Miller's intense probing produces more questions than answers, particularly in the case of his late brother, who surprised everyone by becoming a monk and who died young. Meanwhile, in a startling departure from the usual memoir formula, Miller inserts the energetic voice of his sister, Marie, a nurse, to complement his own sedate observations of his life and family. This bold device works on occasion, but it often breaks the rhythm and pacing of the narrative and can be confusing. Fortunately, Miller recovers his stride in the chapters that zero in on his growth as a poet and editor, his marriages and his maturation as a man and father. Modest and sincere, this restrained memoir also succeeds as a superb document of the Black Arts Movement of the 1970s and the current African-American literary scene. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

Miller, director of the African American Resource Center at Howard University and author of five books of poetry, details the things that helped shape him as a poet. Chief among these influences is his family. Miller's own ambivalent reflections on his father, who demonstrated his love through his presence more than through words, are the most affecting moments in the book. One is also touched by his relationship with his musically gifted brother, who died at an early age. Miller's attempt to portray the perspectives of his entire family, including his mother and sister, creates the one flaw in the narrative. He tells the story in alternating chapters, in his own voice and that of his sister, and the latter sections interrupt the main thread of the book. Despite this distraction, Miller has written a poignant memoir that belongs in all collections of poetry and African American literature.--Louis J. Parascandola, Long Island Univ., Brooklyn (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

School Library Journal Review

YA-Fatherhood is sometimes defined as creation of offspring and Miller allows readers to digest his journal of literary offspring in a very loving tribute to Howard University's African American Resource Center. For over 20 years, it has helped to provide a haven for writers and artists. Miller, the director of the center, began his own personal transformation as a writer following the deaths of his brother and father within two years of one another. He wraps readers in his musings while his journey unfolds on the campus of Howard University, circa 1968. He has traveled to the former U.S.S.R. and Cuba. His love of words has even taken him to the desert of Las Vegas where he experienced a sort of spiritual awakening. Parallel to his story is the voice of his oldest sister Marie. She inserts her extrinsic view with wit and melancholy thoughtfulness. Young adults will be instantly drawn to the stories of the collegiate lifestyle. The author describes dating pretty coeds and the nuances of attending a historically black institution of higher learning. He describes his change of name and declaring a major in Afro-American Studies as a break from familiar. He also begins to realize that he must be his own man-just as his West Indian father did when he arrived in Harlem.-Connie Freeman, Ivy Tech State College, Fort Wayne, IN (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Chapter One I The day after my brother died, Carmen, one of his neighbors, said she saw him walking his dog. My brother Richard, who had changed his name to Francis, loved animals and so he took the name of the saint he loved.     Growing up in the South Bronx it was important to believe in something, and so my brother made the decision to believe in God. I met God one afternoon on Longwood Avenue in the Bronx. It must have been around 1958 and I was attending P.S.39, which was located near streets like Beck, Kelly, and Fox. Longwood Avenue was the "big street" and I was not permitted to cross it alone. I was in one of those grades in school where you took naps and the teachers gave you cookies when you were good. On the day I met God I had been standing on the corner for almost an hour afraid to cross Longwood Avenue. All my school friends were gone and I was alone with cars passing by and the dark evening creeping in like one of my sister's boyhood lovers. I was afraid to cross the street without holding someone's hand, and so I did something my brother was good at doing. I started praying to God. I asked God to come for me, to help me cross the big street. If he did, I promised I would be good for the rest of my life. I would never steal or lie. I closed my eyes and only opened them when I heard my father running across the street, cursing and trying to fix his clothes at the same time. When I was little I thought my father was God.     Sitting in the back of a black limousine, parked on a hill in a cemetery near Yonkers, on a cold day in December 1985, I saw my father cry for the first time in my life. It was one of those moments when the world slows down and you notice the color of air. You stare at your hands and wonder how long you will live or which member of the family you will bury next. My father, Egberto Miller, dressed in black, his shoes polished in a way he could never teach my brother or me, sat in the limousine waiting to return home from Richard's funeral. I watched him raise his hands and heard him mumble one word, "gone." Maybe this is how God will end the world. He will say one word and end everything. No fire or rain. I listened to my father, repeating one word and knew he would never be comforted again. Little did I know that another black limousine would come for me in two years. It would take me to my father's funeral. On that day I would begin to search for my own words in order to make sense out of my loss. All the men in my family were suddenly--gone.     In the past whenever I was troubled I could sit down and write a few poems. But what I am recovering from now is a different type of heart surgery. Sorrow and grief can be found in that place within the blues where words end and moans begin. The singer is speechless because the hurt is so bad. The only thing one can do is ride the song.     A few years ago, I remember reading the second chapter of Doctorow's Billy Bathgate in which Billy explains how it was juggling that got him to where he was. This is how it feels to be a writer. I need to write about my father and brother. The story, however, is too deep and heavy for poems. I need to father more words and explain the beginning. Maybe it starts with a young boy coming to this country from Panama, a place where the oceans kiss. Or maybe the threads of this story begin with a man on his knees in a monastery, praying to his mother instead of God. I would like to believe this story can be told while I am juggling.     Several members of my family described me as a "blue baby" when I was born. Richard was born with six fingers. So both of us were the subject of early family stories. One of my cousins claimed I was supposed to be given to her mother to be raised. Only Richard's crying prevented this. When I returned from the hospital I became the baby of the family. My sister was happy with this new development.     There were many things that took place before my birth. My family owned pets such as roosters. My father had not yet found employment in the post office. He was a coffee-colored man with two children to feed and clothe. He met my mother dancing at the Savoy. The war was going on in Europe and the dreams of black people could be seen hanging from fire escapes. Neighborhoods were changing. Folks were leaving Harlem for the Bronx. It was like moving to the suburbs. Egberto Miller would find the 1940s a challenge as he listened to the new sounds of bebop coming from the jazz clubs.     Egberto, who was called Eddie by his friends, became a young man with only a few coins in his pocket. He had been a baby in the arms of a woman too young and too fast to slow down. In the old country, a canal had been built. West Indians came from every island to find work. A frontier of water separated them from "paper gold." Malaria, accidents, broken promises were enough for some to lose hope and others to believe in their own destiny. America was like heaven, far off to the north. It was the place where a great uncle would plant and harvest the first seeds of success. Investing in real estate, he would later send for other members of his family. His mother would bring his sisters and brothers to America. One child already had a child, she was my grandmother Marie. It was her mother who decided we would all be Millers, and so the ties to Panama were cut. Egberto's father became a ghost. His own family geography disappeared because of a woman's desire and need to forget. Many years later a writer would be born into the family searching for stories to tell. There would be a decision made to take him back to the hospital or perhaps even give him away. II When they brought the baby home I was so excited. I pushed Richard out of the way. I remember holding Eugene for the first time. He was smaller then some of my dolls. I thought he would break. My mother thought I was silly. My name is Marie. I was named after my grandmother. I was the bald-headed child. My father often refused to take me out in the stroller if my head was not covered. He could not believe a girl could be born without any hair. I must have been five or six before my mother could hold something in her hands and make a braid. The reason I had no hair is because I was yet to be trusted with the family stories. I was not wise enough to understand why people acted the way they did, especially men. My mother would have to teach me these things, along with cook- (Continues...) Excerpted from FATHERING WORDS by E. Ethelbert Miller. Copyright © 2000 by E. Ethelbert Miller. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.