"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

“A poet should start the revolution

but never let a poet lead the revolution”

Hughes found his home in Harlem

and “Harlem” found its home

in "Montage of a Dream Deferred,”

in “The Selected Poems”

in “the Collected Poems”

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

turning a poet’s revolutionary dream

into preacher’s dream of revolution

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

shattered raisins and blasted sores

of unfilled hopes, unrealized dreams

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

into bus boycotts

lunch counter sit-ins

Freedom Rides

Mississippi burning

the Little Rock Nine

the riot at Ole Miss

Emmitt Till in a casket

George Wallace in a doorway

John Lewis across a bridge in Selma

with a preacher’s army behind him

racial slurs from schoolchildren

and Ruby Bridges

defiant 

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

before the March on Washington,

when, at the feet of the poet of Gettysburg,

“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

quoted verses in the Bible

spoke verses that ought to be

dreamt of a nation finally faithful to its creed

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”

“Freedom Train”

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 

before the Long Hot Summer of ‘67

before brother Malcolm was shot

before reverend King was shot

before a bomb in Birmingham

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

but we named our son

Langston

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

"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

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. 

She is the wife of the late Frank "Buster" Redfield aka "Papa" from my poem, "We Call Him Papa". 

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.

Sylvia Rebie Redfield

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.