Los Angeles Times - 07.08.2019

E2 WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7, 2019 LATIMES.COM/CALENDAR

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of us to follow. It was inten-

tional, every gesture. Her

very being and presence was

an affirmation and declara-

tion: There is a place for you,

but you will have to demand

it.

In the face of vast ab-

sence — role models, en-

couragement, moral sup-

port — we make it up as we

go. Morrison was a confir-

mation and embodiment of

this. For African American

women of my mother’s gen-

eration — Morrison’s con-

temporaries, children of the

Depression — this was par-

ticularly true.

They saw their mother’s

and mother’s mothers in her

descriptions, the cut of a

dress, the contents of a

handbag, how the women

shielded their hair when the

rain began to fall, the quality

of their yearning. She wrote

these small details into ex-

istence, making big but hid-

den worlds real, word by

word by word. When there

are no models ahead of you,

you are mapping territory

for others to follow.

To fill that void, Morrison

encouraged would-be writ-

ers to take action. Her ad-

vice: “If there’s a book you

really want to read, but it

hasn’t been written yet, then

you must write it,” is an oft

quoted epigraph and floats

in sometimes unattributed

memes across the expanse

of the internet.

Becoming Toni

But she embodied this.

Born Chloe Anthony

Wofford in Lorain, Ohio, in

1931, she rewrote herself.

After receiving her B.A. from

Howard University in 1953,

she changed her name from

Chloe to Toni. Her marriage

to Harold Morrison, a Ja-

maican architect with whom

she bore two children, shat-

tered. She took her two boys

and circled back home to her

parents in Lorain and sorted

out a new way, pulled a pen-

cil through those lines. And

started anew. She took a job

editing textbooks in Syra-

cuse, N.Y. She also landed in

awriting workshop where

she began building out a

short story she’d worked on

in college and developed the

framework what would

become the basis of her first

novel, “The Bluest Eye.” In

so doing, she unlocked a

door within herself: “Writing

was ... the most extraordi-

nary way of thinking and

feeling. It became the one

thing I was doing that I had

absolutely no intention of

living without.”

While the neighborhood

she grew up in was diverse,

Morrison reflected in inter-

views that she often won-

dered what it would have

been like to live in an envi-

ronment that was predomi-

nantly black, close to the

family members who would

come by bringing their own

stories, of victory and heart-

break. She grew up around

storytellers and musicians

and trained her ear to the

twists and turns and lan-

guage, and directed her fo-

cus on neglected communi-

ties and obscured histories

in a language that was so

elegant and alive that it felt

participatory.

The publication of “The

Bluest Eye” established

Morrison as a novelist, but

she was also working behind

the scenes, by now at Ran-

dom House in New York City,

where she’d taken a senior

editor position. She was fo-

cused on shepherding black

writers, bringing stories into

print that might have ended

up in slush piles or aban-

doned after an insensitive or

indelicate edit: We have her

to thank for carrying into

publication the work of An-

gela Davis, Henry Dumas,

Angela Davis, Muhammad

Ali, Gayl Jones and Toni

Cade Bambara.

Promoting diversity

This effort — this heart

work — was insurance that

that back and front-lists

would include diverse

voices. Her lecture pub-

lished in book form, “Un-

speakable Things Unspo-

ken: The Afro-American

Presence in American Liter-

ature,” explored the con-

struction of literary canons

and the need to revise them

and be more inclusive. It ar-

rived at the very moment the

topic began to gain traction

on college campuses across

the United States.

Morrison saw very clearly

the necessity of a literary

landscape that reflects di-

versity of experience and

perspective — it wasn’t an

academic exercise, but one

that spoke to the life blood of

the world we inhabit. But

what’s also stitched through

her work is how the muting

or stifling of these stories

and perspectives creates a

sense of dislocation — with

long-term effects.

In her 1973 novel “Sula,”

Morrison addresses her pro-

tagonist’s limited options for

self-expression, how this

was, in certain ways, captiv-

ity:“In a way, her strange-

ness, her naïveté, her crav-

ing for the other half of her

equation was the conse-

quence of an idle imagina-

tion. Had she paints, or clay,

or knew the discipline of

dance, or strings, had she

anything to engage her

tremendous curiosity and

her gift for metaphor, she

might have exchanged the

restlessness and preoccupa-

tion with whim or an activity

that provided her with all

she yearned for. And like any

artist with no art form, she

became dangerous.”

Morrison knew the real

danger of being muted, but

also of not being fully seen.

Her stories — whether

those of celebration or

heartbreak — are testimony.

They create spaces for the

teller and the reader to share

and be inspired.

In all the conversations I

have had in the hours since I

heard the news of her pass-

ing, the conversation ends

with some version of: “I can’t

believe she would leave us

now, when so much is in dis-

array.”

She didn’t leave us with

nothing: She left us with a

way to look and move and be.

She left us with an example

of how to exist in the world.

[Morrison,from E1]

She wrote books

she wanted to see

Toni Morrison died

Monday at 88. NEWS, A1

TONI MORRISONwith King Carl XVI Gustaf of Sweden in 1993, as she accepts a Nobel Prize in literature.

Associated Press

Clearing a path for us all