fredag 27 september 2019

Brown girl dreaming av Jacqueline Woodson

Brown Girl DreamingRaised in South Carolina and New York, Woodson always felt halfway home in each place. In vivid poems, she shares what it was like to grow up as an African American in the 1960s and 1970s, living with the remnants of Jim Crow and her growing awareness of the Civil Rights movement. Touching and powerful, each poem is both accessible and emotionally charged, each line a glimpse into a child's soul as she searches for her place in the world. Woodson's eloquent poetry also reflects the joy of finding her voice through writing stories, despite the fact that she struggled with reading as a child. Her love of stories inspired her and stayed with her, creating the first sparks of the gifted writer she was to become.

Bokomslag och beskrivning hämtad från Adlibris.

Enda sen jag hörde talas om att Woodson fick ALMA priset har jag velat läsa hennes bok, och nu blev det dags att göra det och jag läste den tillsammans med Evelina.
Sen är jag ju lite ovan att läsa en bok på vers som detta är, men det är inte svårt utan bara mysigt, för Woodson skriver så gripande och djupt om sin barndom och sin familj. Både om rasism och Jehovas vittnen.
Jag har även läst en upplaga av boken som hade sju extra dikter med och jag delar med mig av en av dem här som jag tycker fångar atmosfären i hela boken.

brown girl dreaming

Who is this brown girl dreaming, my teacher wants to
Staring out the window so.
Head in hands and eyes - gone from here.
Where are you, dear?

Come back to the classroom, my pretty brown girl.
I fear you´re halfway around the world.
Where is that mind of yours now?

Outside, the winter stabs trough the air
sneaks past the classroom windowpane and there
beneath a truck
a frozen bird being sniffed by a stray cat,
I don´t yet know the word disdain.

But int this moment, the world fate away
I dream of stepping out into it one day to rest my feet
in unfamiliar sand, to touch the hand of a boy or a girl
on the other side - where it´s nightime now, or
summer there.

And maybe return to this place, a diffrent girl with
just a trace of who I used to be ecohing somwhere nearby
to me and as the teacher goes on and on on her words are
becoming a poem that I may sing in an orange afternoon
inside a room where pepole will know my name.

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