This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.
Showing posts with label Grandma Sylvia Redfield. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grandma Sylvia Redfield. Show all posts

Monday, January 15, 2024

"Langston" by Christopher Fox Graham

"Langston"

by Christopher Fox Graham

for one little girl
growing up in the segregated South,
Langston was her favorite 

Poet Langston Hughes signs autographs for young fans.
Photograph by Griffith J. Davis/Griffith J. Davis Photographs and Archives

in the Heart of Harlem
top floor 20 East 127th
Hughes howled for dreams deferred
in eleven revolutions 
the stinking rotten meat of Jim Crow
festering like a sore
running north from Joplin to New York
like he did
redlining himself into the Renaissance 
and a coming revolution

The Langston Hughes House is a historic home located in Harlem, Manhattan, New York City. It is an Italianate style dwelling built in 1869. It is a three story with basement, rowhouse faced in brownstone and measuring 20 feet wide and 45 feet deep. Noted African American poet and author Langston Hughes (1902–1967) occupied the top floor as his workroom from 1947 to 1967


Hughes found his home in Harlem
and “Harlem” found its home
in the anthologies and college textbooks
where the dream could sag like a heavy load


and one little girl
growing up in the segregated South,
handwrote her favorite:

“A world I dream where
               black or white,
“Whatever race you be,
“Will share the bounties of 
              the earth
“And every man is free,”



Hughes and King
the New Yorker and Alabaman
the communist and the Christian
traded stanzas and sermons

Poet Langston Hughes [Feb. 1, 1901-May 22, 1967], left, was called the father of the Harlem Renaisssance literary and arts movement. Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. [Jan. 15, 1929-April 4, 1968] led the Civil Rights Movement until his assassination. Photo of Langston Hughes courtesy of Carl Van Vechten/Carl Van Vechten Trust/Beinecke Library, Yale Photo of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. courtesy of Marion S. Trikosko

In Lorraine Hansberry’s hands,
Hughes’ “Harlem” dried up
and tasted like a "Raisin in the Sun"


from the pulpit at Dexter Avenue Baptist,
in the heart of Montgomery
became the revolution’s war cry


in the hands 
of an Alabama preacher
with an army of churches at his back 
a dream deferred 
called all kinds of names
riding in the back end of the bus for no reason
swimming with its head deep under water
given no release

must explode

Emmitt Till in a casket
George Wallace in a doorway
John Lewis across a bridge in Selma

racial slurs from schoolchildren
like 6-year-olds always are

an army unto herself

President Barack Obama, Ruby Bridges and representatives of the Norman Rockwell Museum view Rockwell’s "The Problem We All Live With,” hanging in a West Wing hallway near the Oval Office, July 15, 2011. Bridges is the girl portrayed the painting, then 6-years-old, on her way to William Frantz Elementary School, an all-white public school, on Nov. 14, 1960, during the New Orleans school desegregation crisis. She was escorted by four deputy U.S. marshals
Official White House Photo by Pete Souza


“Emancipator looking down on demonstrators." Participants in the March on Washington in front of the Lincoln Memorial and massed along both sides of the Reflecting Pool, viewed from behind Abraham Lincoln statue” on Aug. 28, 1963. 
Photo by James K. Atherton for United Press International/Shorpy

the preacher turned revolution back into poetry
made a dream deferred into dream to come
into freedom ringing



there was one little girl
growing up in the segregated South,
who said Langston was her favorite

she collected, annotated and footnoted his poems
worn the pages rough in her collection
left bookmarks with her favorites

“Sunday Morning Prophesy”

“I, Too”


added the poems the editors omitted,
for a grandson unborn
in case he became a poet
or led a revolution

she heard him read poems, once 
killed four little girls

she heard him read poems, once
on a tour in Atlanta

sharing dreams so syrupy sweet
they would crust and sugar over
into a revolution burning
from her Atlanta
in the segregated South 
to his Harlem

Born in Joplin, Mo., Langston Hughes moved to New York City in 1947, and lived of his time in the city in the top apartment at 20 E. 127th Street in the Harlem neighborhood of Manhattan, N.Y., until his death in May 1967. Photo by Robert W. Kelley/The Life Picture Collection


Langston spoke to her,
the way no other poet did

Langston was her favorite 
"which no one could imagine"
she said, 
a little white girl
growing up in the segregated South


she never met my son
she died 8 months before he was born
to honor him
to remember her
not for the revolution
but for their dream

Sylvia Rebie Redfield (December 14, 1925 - July 28, 2021)

of all her great-grandchilren
Langston 
would be her favorite

Sunday, November 14, 2021

"When She Asks About the Photo ..." by Christopher Fox Graham


When she asks about the photo
do not tell her that is her great-grandma
the woman she just met weeks ago
for the first time
the woman whose name she shares
whose blood beats in your mother's heart
in your heart
and in hers
who held her weeks ago
taught her how to pet a dog
gently
so he would not nip at her fingers
who gave her Teddy Grahams
in a Ziploc bag
when she asked you, daddy, for a snack
she was always giving that way
do not confirm who the woman in the photo is


she already knows
because her heart beats the same blood
as your heart
as your mother's
and great-grandma's

blood knows blood
despite the distance between computer screens
DNA is a helix handshake defying the digital
wrapping through history 
but she will ask still
and you will tell her


When she asks why great-grandma is in the hospital
do not tell her great-grandma is dying
the woman she just met weeks ago
you knew she was dying
that's why you went
why you boarded the plane with your mother
and your daughter
drove across the wide open
that is Montana
sailing the seas of field peas, mint, lentils, flax, safflower
to the wheat fields that made your family


her dying
is why you came
so they could meet
Sylvia Rebie, meet Athena Sylvia 
four generations 95 years apart
say hello and goodbye
in the same breath
one of you beginning
one of you nearing the end


she doesn't ask why we are here
why Montana is
why Arizona is away
why your wife stayed there and did not come
your wife, she cares too much
would want to help
but there is no rescue here, no salvation
you want this to burn, to hurt, to cut deep
to scar over
you want to bleed into this soil, this farm, this homestead
these Redfields


leave part of you in this dirt
where you never lived
but to where you are bound
and when they ask
this is where you are really from


we are here to say goodbye
your daughter does not know this
it's why great-grandma asked us to come
but your daughter does not know this



your daughter only knows the green
open fields with no fences
dogs playing fetch, gophers evading
pronghorn leaping over fences
deer that rarely see cars on these roads
flowers whose names you do not know
but would if you had grown up here


your daughter would run for days
if you were not here to chase her
across the ranches and farms
that have fed your family
that shared the same blood and womb


so you pretend you're not here
for the reason you're here
wasting breath fighting fate

instead
listen to the stories
ask about the photographs
accept the books she wants you to take home
take photos of them together


so years from now
when she asks about her name
why she likes puddles
how she learn to pet a dog gently
so he would not nip at her fingers
you can point back to this and remind her
of her legacy



let her earn these memories
let great-grandma laugh with one more great-granddaughter
so no hill can hinder that sound 
echoing from horizon to horizon
it's why Eastern Montana so is perfectly flat


just over the border
Death glows in the red sunset, 
waiting
but in Montana, 
even Death 
must take his time


When she asks about the photo
do not tell her without speech
that is someone she knows 
dying
you don't have to
you are sobbing 
without speech
words evicted from your throat
she knows this burns, 
this hurts, 
this cuts deep
because you left your blood and tears in the soil
at the homestead,
in the Redfields
where you are all really from
she learns shared blood makes fathers cry

but she doesn't know Death
he is still just a red sunset
instead she knows the green
the wheat fields
the dogs, the deer, the red barn
dancing at her cousin's wedding
the old woman always laughing
she is where your daughter is really from


When she asks about the photo
don't tell her that is family
dozens bound by wombs and rings
don't tell her great-grandma is there 
beneath them
in the soil next to Papa
where you are all really from



don't waste breath fighting fate
her heart beats the same blood
but now she knows 
where she is really from



Friday, August 20, 2021

In memory of my grandmother, Sylvia Rebie Redfield (December 14, 1925 - July 28, 2021)

My mother's mother, Sylvia Redfield, great-grandmother to my daughter, mother of 7, grandmother to 14, great-grandmother to 15, died just before 8 a.m., Montana Time July 28, 2021, at a hospital in Glasgow, Mont., at age 95.

Photo by Jennifer Ray Photography

My mother Sylvia Redfield Elliott called me from the hospital.

She was diagnosed with cancer this spring, which is why I and mom took Athena Zelda Nebula Skye Sylvia Diana Fox Graham to Montana in June, so she could meet her namesake.
Grandma Sylvia told me four things when we embraced for the last time:
  1. "I'm happy you came" 
  2. "I wish I had gotten to know Laura better" (she only met my wife once at Christmas in 2017 and once when when we went to pick up a table, when she was still pregnant.)
  3. "I'm happy I got to meet Athena" 
  4. "Take care of that little girl"
She also said not to look at her because if she saw how I was crying, she would start crying too. 

Athena only has good memories of Montana, the wide open spaces, the dogs, and great-grandma. 
She was funny, always laughing when she told stories. 

They met at the USO. 

She never gave her number to anyone, but on her last day volunteering there, and my grandfather's first day visiting (he was a veteran of both the US Navy and the US Army, which is a story in itself), she gave him hers, figuring nothing would come of it. 
Athena met Sylvia for the first time in June and helped make wedding mints.

He called so many times to ask her out the next day, she said, that her sister just told him to come over in person. They married Dec. 6, 1947.
Frank and Sylvia on their wedding day
Grandma shows my mom the wedding dress in June.



Frank and Sylvia with their first of seven children, Georgia.

She loved literature and poetry, her favorite poet being Langston Hughes, which she said no one would expect given that she was a "little white girl growing up in the segregated South," but she said his work spoke to her. She gave me her hand-annotated "The Selected Poems of Langston Hughes," which she had re-read many times (she had bookmarks at "Sunday Morning Prophesy" "Freedom Train" and "I, Too"). This was a handwritten Hughes poem in the book:



She had an English degree, like me, from Bucknell University. She liked reading my poems and watching me perform slam poetry. 

Over the years she sent me dozens of books on all sorts of topics and children's books for Athena.
The small town of Opheim, Mont., will be dedicating its library in her name.
Like Athena, she loved puddles.

May you never have to explain to a 3-year-old why you're crying.

December 14, 1925 - July 28, 2021

Sylvia Rebie Redfield was born to Rebie Sylvia (McElwee) and Frank (Schleif) Slife on December 14, 1925 in Atlanta, Georgia. She passed away July 28, 2021 at the age of 95, in Glasgow, Montana.
She grew up in Atlanta and graduated from Sylvan Girls High School. 

She graduated from Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania with a major in history and political science and a minor in English. 
She had always wanted to be a teacher and taught at a country school in Norcross, Georgia.
While volunteering at a USO she met Frank Redfield, Jr. who was in the Army at the time. 
They dated while she was finishing college and were married December 6, 1947.
He moved the city girl to the country in 1948, and their first child was born in Glasgow in 1949. 
Later in 1949 they moved back to Atlanta where Frank was a policeman and Sylvia was a housewife — adding four more children to the family. 
In 1956, they made the permanent move back to Opheim to run the family farm. 
They eventually added two more children.
In 1987, Frank and Sylvia became snowbirds, spending half the year in Chandler, Arizona. 
Grandma and her three sons, Myron, Les and Alan, from left.
While there, Sylvia volunteered at a school and a hospital in the Patient Pride program and in the pharmacy where they loved her organizational skills. 
Sylvia moved back to Montana permanently in 2018 when her health started to decline, first living with her daughter, Lisa, and then with her son, Myron and Alice Redfield who were excellent caregivers.
Sylvia touched the lives of hundreds of children through her leadership in 4-H, Sunday school, Bible school, story hour, and as the favorite substitute teacher at Opheim School for many years. 
She was an excellent cook and shared not only with her family, but also with friends, relatives, neighbors and lonely GIs from the Glasgow Air Force Base (home of the 476th Fighter Group, 4141st Strategic Wing, 326th Bombardment Squadron and 91st Bombardment Wing from 1957-1976) and Opheim Air Force Station (home of the 779th Aircraft Control and Warning Squadron from 1951-1979).

Sylvia was a life-long learner and loved books. She always had a book in her hand or by her side and was often reading two or three books at a time. 
She kept a record of the books she read and that total reached over 2,500 books. 
Grandma with my aunts Lisa Theiven and Alice Redfield, and uncles Myron Redfield and Alan Redfield on the floor of the Montana House of Representatives. Alan served two terms as the District 59 representative from 2013 to 2021. Behind them is the 1912 Charles M. Russell painting "Lewis and Clark Meeting the Flathead Indians at Ross' Hole." Note the snarling dog above the speaker's chair - Russell hated the speaker of the house at the time, so he painted the dog to growl at him.


She volunteered at the community library and worked in the school library and had her own library at home. 


She donated books to the Opheim School library as memorials for community members who had passed away and has donated around 250 books. 


She was thrilled to have the library dedicated to her memory.

She was a woman of faith and a Bible scholar and was very active in the United Methodist Church including being a lay pastor. 

She was also a member of Eastern Star, WIFE, United Methodist Women and the American Legion Auxiliary.
She loved life and always had a smile or an encouraging word. 
She loved babies, music, dancing, poetry and a good joke.
She was preceded in death in 2004 by her husband of almost 57 years, Frank; granddaughter Erin Sheer; infant grandson, Lane Redfield; as well as her parents; sister, Mary Evans and brother, Bil Slife.


Grandma's coffin made by my uncle, Alan Redfield, engraved cross made by my cousin, Logan Redfield.

The cross being prepared by my cousin Logan


Survivors include her seven children: Georgia (Hank) Sheer, Lynn (Al) Cherry, Alan (Laurie) Redfield, Les (Lisa) Redfield, Sylvia Elliott, Myron (Alice) Redfield and Lisa (Marty) Thievin; 13 grandchildren [Jason, Zack, Jodie, Katie, Chase, Haylee, Tatum, Christopher Fox, Nicholas, J.T., Ryan, Logan and Cole]; 15 great-grandchildren and many nieces and nephews.



The library in Opheim, Montana, has been renamed in honor of my late grandmother, Sylvia Redfield, a lifelong bibliophile and one of the most well-read people I've ever known.