In the minutes before ENAM 3520: Major American Authors (Toni Morrison) started, I would open up my green notebook and imitate the sweeping font style depicted on the covers of Morrison’s books. Looking back, perhaps it was my feeble attempt to remind myself of the elegance of those books. These Vintage edition covers were simple, with the first letter of each novel larger than the rest, larger than life.
Morrison’s passing came on me like a gust of wind. I was preparing to head back to college when the news came in, and it felt like I had lost something, like we had all just lost someone. The summer prior, my family had gone to the National Portrait Gallery, and there had been only two people I wanted to see: Barack and Michelle. And I did see them, despite the line, and it was wonderful, but that was not all that was there. Tucked in another room was Morrison.
I stood there regarding her for a time, reassured that she was there. In that English class I mentioned before, the professor would start with the same portrait of Morrison on the projected screen. She always seemed stern yet august in that picture, with her hands in those pockets. But then, in the National Portrait Gallery, I was reassured that in effect, she had been canonized. But Morrison needs no canonization from me, or from anyone else. Look at those book covers again. Under her name, it reads Winner of the Nobel Prize. In all of the fancy obituaries that I’m reading, after all, is that encompassing, brilliant quote of hers:
“We die. That may be the meaning of life. But we do language. That may be the measure of our lives.”
But I don’t want to end with that quote, as beautiful as it is. What is more interesting to me is something else. What are the demands that we as a society, put on black writers? What are those expectations? It’s a question that I, myself, as a writer, am constantly asking myself. But that’s another blog post for another time. But the question for today is how do I mourn the death of an author? It’s strange how reading an author’s books makes you feel as if you know them. But I never had the pleasure of meeting her. So what then do we do? Do we reread her works, scour the Internet and watch her interviews and statements? Do we create Benches by the Road to reflect as The Toni Morrison Society has done, even though each bench costs thousands of dollars? How do we mourn and remember?
I think part of the answer is not to center ourselves when remembering Morrison, to wish that she was still alive so that she could write more for us. Society already demands so much of our black writers, and they are all the more beautiful for continuing to write and make art. Perhaps it is time to simply let Morrison rest, and say: Thank you.