[Julie Nichols:] Welcome!
Welcome to the Roots of Knowledge Speaker
Series and the keynote speaker for the Conference
on Writing for Social Change 2020, here at
UVU.
It's a delight to have you here.
I'm Julie Nichols, I'm co-chair of this conference
with Breeanne Matheson.
Breeanne, are you here?
I think she's outside.
At any rate, we're delighted to have you here.
We have a wonderful committee, we have a wonderful
conference scheduled, and we're particularly
thrilled this year to be partnering with the
Roots of Knowledge Speaker Series.
Let me thank for just a minute all the people
who have sponsored this partnership.
We have the English Department; the Roots
of Knowledge; the Department of Behavioral
Science; the College of Humanities and Social
Sciences; the Gender Studies program; the
Department of History and Political Science;
the Department of Literacies and Composition;
the Office of Engaged Learning; Peace and
Justice Studies; the Department of Philosophy
and Humanities; University College; and the
Writing Center.
To all of these we give great thanks.
We are so privileged to be here in this beautiful
Bingham Gallery.
Isn't it beautiful?
We're delighted to be here.
And now, at this moment I would like to introduce
Leo Schlosnagle, who is an assistant professor
of Psychology and a faculty senator and the
person who has brought Ashley Finley here
today.
I'll let him tell you that story and I'll
let him introduce Ashley.
Leo?
[Applause:]
[Leo Schlosnagle:] Okay, we'd love to welcome
everyone here today and especially Ashley.
I'd never met Ashley until maybe a year or
year and a half ago, when I happened to be
at a talk that she gave in Salt Lake City.
And I loved the talk, loved the energy.
And I'd always been interested in the Roots
of Knowledge Speaker Series and bringing a
speaker to this series, and her topic and
her presentation seemed like a great fit.
And from there I got in touch with the English
Department and learned about the Conference
for Writing for Social Change, which seemed
like also an excellent fit.
So everything just kind of came together.
And we're really excited to have Ashley here
on campus with us today.
I'll give Ashley a little bit of an introduction,
brief background, and then she can speak,
you can speak for yourself sort of like.
So Ashley Finley is a performance poet, writer
and activist who grew up in the diverse neighborhoods
of Southern California.
At a young age she began to use poetry as
a way to process her experiences as an adopted
African American girl growing up in the melting
pot of Los Angeles.
As an adult, Ashley strives to empower those
in underserved and underrepresented communities.
Ashley uses her platform to remind these communities
that their stories and their voices are powerful
and that through unity and passion they can
create change.
Featured on stages like TED X Salt Lake City,
the New York City Women of Color and Solidarity
Conference, University of Utah's Women in
Leadership Conference, and the Young African
American Women's Conference, Ashley's words
leave a lasting and illuminating impact.
We're very excited to have Ashley here on
campus today, so I hope you'll join me and
give her a warm welcome.
[Applause:]
[Ashley Finley:] Hello!
Hello!
Thank you so much for having me and I'd first
like to say a couple of thank you's to Leo for
kind of getting this ball rolling.
To Roots of Knowledge, to Julie Nichols, and
Writing for Social Change, to Lesli Baker,
and lastly the faculty, staff and students
of UVU for having me.
I'm so excited to be here today.
It's been a long time coming.
And so I'd first like to also start with a
bit of a content warning.
So the topic of this talk is, "If They Come
in the Morning: The Writer's Responsibility
in the Face of Injustice."
And so there will be some things mentioned
that might be a little bit triggering for
people.
So just take care of yourselves and each other.
So I know we have just barely become friends
like ten seconds ago.
But if I'm going to stand here at this podium
and speak to you for the better part of the
next hour I cannot in good faith do so without
being honest first.
I have a confession to make.
Are you ready?
I am so scared [laughs].
I mean like really really scared!
If you could hear my heartbeat at this very
moment, you'd probably be rushing to call
an ambulance for me.
[laughs] If I'm being honest, I suffer from
a severe case of "Imposter Syndrome," a syndrome
that tells me that I don't deserve to be here
at this podium speaking to you about the things
I know.
There’s this insidious nagging in the back
of my mind that is constantly trying to spin
a narrative about how I'm not a good enough
writer, poet, or speaker, or how nobody will
ever read a word I write or listen to a word
I say.
And if somehow someone happens to do so by
accident, none of it will actually be taken
seriously.
Honestly, it's exhausting and frustrating
but somehow for some reason I just keep writing.
And if you have had the experience of being
around me during a passionate discussion on
politics, race relations, women's rights,
or the Real Housewives of Atlanta, you know
I haven't shut up yet either.
[Laughs.]
But I mean, can you really blame me?
There is always so much to say, and so much
to write.
We live in an explosive time where everything
is breaking news and crisis is always around
the corner.
It's like we barely get to process one doomsday
scenario before we are bombarded with the
next.
And that's scary too.
Everything is always so scary.
But, we—and when I say we, I mean the writers—must
always resist against that nagging voice of
fear which tells us that we're not good enough
to write what we see.
Now maybe more than ever it is imperative
that we keep writing the stories and the events
as they happen.
If we ever hope to transcend the doomsday.
And so here I am, taking a piece of my own
advice, telling you all that you must write
even as my own nagging thoughts are telling
me to sit down.
But see, I can't listen to that voice because
somewhere a young black girl from Compton,
California needs me to be standing here at
this podium in front of a world-famous stained
glass mural, telling a room full of strangers
that it is their duty to write in the wake
of all the terrible news and injustice that
we are privy to on a daily basis.
[Silence:]
[AF:] She needs me to be here, just as I needed
Beyoncé to write "Daddy Lessons," or better
yet, as I needed Warsan Shire to write about
her mother's abuse.
And I have a video for you.
[Silence:]
[Warsan Shire:] “Backwards,” for my brother
Saaid Shire.
“The poem can start with him walking backwards
into a room.
That's how we bring Dad back.
He takes off his jacket and sits down for
the rest of his life.
I can make the blood run back up my nose,
ants rushing into a hole.
We grow into smaller bodies.
My breasts disappear, your cheeks soften,
teeth sink back into gums.
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Give them stumps for hands if even once they
try to touch us without consent.
I can make the poem, make it disappear.
Stepdad spits liquor back into glass, Mum's
body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops
back into place.
Maybe she keeps the baby.
Maybe we're okay, kid.
I'll rewrite this whole life and this time
there’ll be so much love you won't be able
to see beyond it.
You won't be able to see beyond it.
I'll rewrite this whole life and this time
there’ll be so much love.
Maybe we're okay, kid.
Maybe she keeps the baby.
Mum's body rolls back up the stairs, the bone
pops back into place, Stepdad spits liquor
back into glass, I can write the poem and
make it disappear.
Give them stumps for hands if even once they
try to touch us without consent.
I can make us loved, just say the word.
Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums,
my breasts disappear, I can make the blood
run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole
and that's how we bring Dad back.
He takes off his jacket, sits down for the
rest of his life.
The poem can start with him walking backwards
into a room.
Thank you.
[AF:] I needed her to write "Backwards" so
that I could have language for what it meant
to see my own mother's bloody nose and busted
lip after school one day.
See, the writer's responsibility is not just
to their own art, as William Faulkner so simply
explained.
No.
The writer's responsibility is to tell the
truth, even when it is so intimidating that
all they want to do is sit down.
Especially then.
We are tasked with the bravery to not only
write the beautiful things but also to write
the hard things.
The sorts of things that thrive when they
go unnoticed or unrevealed.
Things like injustice, genocide, poverty,
the federally mandated policy of putting kids
in cages can continue to exist.
Think about it.
If Upton Sinclair had never written "The Jungle"
and exposed the horrors endured by immigrant
workers of the meat packing industry, we might
not have the labor laws we do have today.
And if Josiah Henson had never written his
own slave narrative, Harriet Beecher Stowe
might never have written "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"—yes,
I'm acknowledging all of its flaws here—exposing
the inhumanity of slavery.
And as a result Abraham Lincoln might have
never written the Emancipation Proclamation.
And that, that is what I am talking about.
Writers create change.
We start movements.
We free people.
And I get it, nowadays it's really different.
Like it's not all sitting at a wooden desk
next to an oil lamp, writing life-changing
words on paper with your favorite pen.
Print journalism is supposedly dead.
People listen to books on Audible and read
them on digital readers.
And you're more likely to read important and
compelling information on Twitter or Facebook
followed by someone's hot take of the day
than you are to read it on the front page
of the New York Times.
But that should not deter you.
Now, there's more opportunity than ever to
write and deliver the truth.
The digital landscape is a vast and powerful
world where folks can write their entire stories
in a series of 280-word blurbs.
And thousands of people can read those stories.
And all of a sudden there it is.
The story is told.
And sometimes—a lot of the time—action
is taken.
In her book, "Reclaiming Our Space: How Black
Feminists are Changing the World from the
Tweets to the Streets," Feminista Jones highlights
several black women who use the social media
platform to create and propel social movements
like Say Her Name, Black Lives Matter, and
Me Too. Jones writes, "Go to almost any social
media platform today and you will see a gathering
of some of the most important feminist thinkers
of the modern generations.
Generation X, women who grew up jumping double-Dutch
and scanning card catalogs at local libraries
are building communities with Millennial women
who grew up with caller ID and Google in their
pockets.
Who could have imagined that the pound sign,
once valuable primarily for its use on touchstone
landline phones would become one of the most
powerful weapons for black feminists?
Who could have predicted that people who never
set foot on a college campus much less in
a specialized journalism school would have
international audiences reading their cultural
and sociopolitical analyses?
Or have their work be part of rigorous academic
curriculum at universities they could never
afford to attend?
That is what black feminist activism looks
like today."
And she's right!
Who could have imagined that nearly forty-three
years after the Combahee River Collective
statement was published, Black women and other
women of color would be launching international
and intersectional movements from in front
of their laptop keyboards?
I'm sure that Demita Frazier, Barbara Smith
and Beverly Smith could have never imagined
that Tarana Burke's hashtag of two simple
words would create a wildfire-like movement
that would up taking down some of society's
most prominent men and end up creating so
much solidarity and support amongst survivors,
men and women alike, of sexual violence, from
all over the world.
That is the power of the digital landscape.
[Jameela Jamil:] There's someone screaming
outside!
People can think it's men on Twitter screaming
at us.
[Tarana Burke:] Laughs.
[JJ:] That's the sound of Twitter.
[TB:] That's the sound effect, exactly.
[JJ:] Ahhhhh!
[TB:] Personified.
[JJ:] Good morning, Twitter.
Ahhhhhh!
[Laughter:]
[Katie Couric:] Actress and activist Jameela
Jamil shares a thank-you note with the founder
of the Me Too movement, Tarana Burke, the
activist who inspired her to face anything.
[Music plays:]
[JJ:] Hello!
It's so nice to meet you!
[TB:] Yeah!
[JJ:] Tarana, I'm sitting here on behalf of
so many survivors to thank you for your tireless
lifelong efforts to combat the abuse of women
and for spearheading a movement that would
go on to change the world.
Me Too was the first time that I felt less
alone in all of the sexual trauma that I'd
faced in my life.
It was also the first time I learned from
countless friends and colleagues of what they
had suffered at the hands of abusers.
You found a humane and simple way of hyper-normalizing
women and men, addressing the sexual misconduct
that they had faced.
You destigmatized it for us to speak about.
It has been astonishing to watch the sheer
power of women mobilizing on social media
and coming together as one.
Thank you for dedicating your life to using
your own personal trauma as a tool to help
victims.
Thank you for putting yourself in the firing
line and standing by young women coming forward
with stories about powerful men.
Thank you for pulling no punches.
It is an honor to be able to even communicate
to you how much your work and your words mean
to me.
To watch you recycle your pain to help others
is something I draw from every day.
It has afforded people like me a new way at
looking at our past as a weapon that empowers
us to combat injustice.
I owe you so much—we all do.
With love and gratitude, Jameela.
[TB:] Thank you.
[AF:] And I say it again.
That is the power of the digital landscape.
More importantly, that is the impact of the
writer.
Now, I know there might be some of you in
the audience today who aren't so fond of social
media, or savvy with it.
And I promise you, I'm not here to force you
all to start a blog or sign up for a Twitter
account.
That is not what this talk is about, I promise.
But I do mean to make a point here.
And my point is that if you are a writer,
there is no excuse not to write.
If it is in a short and punchy tweet or a 1500-word
op ed submitted to your favorite publication,
either way, do it.
We have no time or space for pretention here.
For me, it is most often poetry that pulls
the truth out of me.
It is a lens by which I consider the world
and the language by which I tell the stories.
And the first time I published a poem for
public consumption was the first time I truly
felt heard.
See, I had all of these stories stirring around
inside of me.
Stories about gentrification and homelessness
and gang violence and police brutality and
survival that needed to be told and heard.
And I tried short stories, articles, blogging.
But still those truths stayed locked up inside.
Then one night in college a date took me to
an open mic night at a poetry lounge in downtown
LA, and I was in love!
Not with him.
I mean, he was cute or whatever, but it was
the poetry and the poets who took my heart!
I mean it's not like I had never read poetry
before.
I grew up reading the poets of the Harlem
Renaissance and the other classic old poets
that academia forces on you.
Sure, I had read and loved Audre Lorde and
Langston Hughes and Nikki Giovanni and even
Kerouac and Ginsburg.
But I had never really thought writing poetry
was my thing, until that night.
There was something so powerful about being
there, immersed in the words of people who
looked like me, who were brown-skinned and
my age and honest.
It was magnificent.
That night I decided that I would be a poet.
Poetry had crawled its way into my bones and
all of those stories began fighting to get
written.
Bursting to get free.
So I went home and decided to procrastinate
even more on the very important academic paper
I needed to write, so that I could give this
poetry thing a try.
And then came "Grits."
“We don't get much sweet where I come from.
No syrup on our waffles, no honey in our tea,
no sugar for our grits.
Nah, sweet don't come around much back home.
Frail Grandmothers beg hardened grandsons
for affection.
They say, ‘give me some sugar, baby,’
and are met with empty hands.
Cause we ain't got no sweet to spare.
We just got struggle.
And that stuff is bitter.
Hard to swallow.
Got our stomachs twisting and cramping.
Choking our throats, setting off our gag reflexes.
Cause the truth is, Every day we tellin’
our mothers that the salt leaking from their
eyes is just part of a larger plan.
Mama, God don't make no mistakes so when your
son was laying on that asphalt Tongue coated
in his own metallic blood he was just tasting
the bigger picture.
Took a bite out of Divinity, was transported
to the land of milk and honey Reunited with
so many of your other children who have traveled
there in this same type of way.
See, that is supposed to be the sweet that
makes this cruel stuff easier to stomach.
The spoonful of sugar to make it go down smoother.
And it is not something you want to taste
but I am tired of sugar coating these things.
Let the vile tasting truth come out.
Regurgitate it back into their faces.
Let them know what struggle tastes like.
Smell the bile of wasted life.
Maybe then, they will stop stealing the sugar
from our grits.
So little chocolate drop boys don't become
broken gingerbread men.
And mothers don't have to keep sending their
children to far away promised lands.
I want us to remember what sweet tastes like.
Give me back the sugar for my grits.
It helps this cruel stuff go down easier.”
After I wrote "Grits" I was terrified of sharing
it.
I kept it to myself for months until I finally
got the bravery to let my roommate read it.
She promptly told me that I needed to let
more folks read it or hear it or whatever,
but it needed to get out there.
So I took "Grits" to that same open mic I
had attended months before.
This time without the guy.
And I signed up to read it on stage.
And that is when I became a poet.
Since then I have had the pleasure of writing
many more poems, some about gang violence,
some about domestic violence, some about police
brutality and some even about love and pound
cake.
But all of them, every single one of them
about a truth that needed to be told.
Now again, I promise you I'm not up here asking
you to dramatically cut off every form of
writing you prefer and start calling yourself
a poet.
And I'm certainly not saying that you have
to sign up to read some of your vulnerable
writing to a room full of complete strangers.
Although I support you if you do.
I'm simply asking you to find what clicks.
Find a key to the door that will free all
of those stories that need to be told and
then once you do, write them all—every single
one of them.
Ernest Hemingway said, "All you have to do
is write one true sentence.
Write the truest sentence that you know."
Yes.
Do that.
And then write the next truest sentence and
then next on and on and on and on like that
until you write your last truest sentence.
On November 19th, 1970, James Baldwin wrote
in, "An Open Letter to my Sister, Miss Angela
Davis," “Well.
Since we live in an age in which silence is
not only criminal but suicidal, I have been
making as much noise as I can, here in Europe,
on radio and television—in fact, having
just returned from a land, Germany, which
was made notorious by a silent majority not
so very long ago.
I was asked to speak on the case of Miss Angela
Davis, and I did so.
Very probably an exercise in futility, but
one must let no opportunity slide."
Indeed, he was right.
One must never let an opportunity slide in
the face of injustice.
In the face of injustice it is we the writers
who must stand up and say, "No more!
Not on our watch!"
We cannot sit idly by and let the atrocities
of society continue to play out, collecting
victims and creating casualties, even when
that atrocity is so daunting that our efforts
seem futile.
I don't really want to get too political here
today, and I don't want you to feel like I'm
preaching at you, even though I kind of am
a little bit.
But I'm sure you have all taken note of the
current events constantly playing on the news
circuit.
I mean there are real atrocities being committed
against people in your communities.
Some of them might even be your neighbors,
your friends, your family.
And the time when people are literally being
left to die in the desert while they travel
on foot to find a better and safer home, or
when a black man can be executed for a crime
he didn't commit, even when there is overwhelming
evidence that he didn't commit that crime,
who will tell the truth?
Who will take those stories of horror and
tragedy and put them out in front where society
cannot sweep them under the rug or hide from
them anymore?
Who will say, this is happening, and something
must be done?
You will.
And I will.
We all will.
Because we have no choice.
We must do what we can do and fortify and
save each other.
We are not drowning in an apathetic self-content.
We do feel ourselves sufficiently worthwhile
to contend with even inexorable forces in
order to change our fate and the fate of our
children and the condition of the world.
Baldwin wrote that as Angela Davis sat in
the jail for being falsely accused of murder,
and describing them as futile, Baldwin's words
were absolutely instrumental in the acquittal
and freeing of Angela Davis nearly two years
later.
The solidarity shown in his open letter was
insurmountable in a time when nearly anyone
who spoke against the war, the state, or the
presidency risked being placed on the FBI
watch list and being named a terrorist.
Does that sound familiar?
I imagine Angela sitting in that jail cell,
tired, angry, and unsure of whether her future
held only those four walls, death, or freedom.
How terrible it must have been to have been
there all alone and named enemy of the country
she was born to.
Imagine the power of Baldwin's letter must
have held.
It was not only a rally cry for the public
and a defining document of the "Free Angela"
movement, but also, I imagine it was seen
as a touching stand of solidarity for Angela
herself.
How illuminating!
How lifegiving!
And when I look at the beautiful stained glass
behind me, I cannot help but to feel a little
bit of that illumination myself.
I am particularly drawn to the panels depicting
the historical importance of the written word.
These panels are beautiful, telling of the
importance that writers have always held.
We have always been here.
We have always done what we were meant to
do, even when it was not easy to do so.
And I stand here at this podium in front of
this beautiful mural because of all of these
writers before me, who wrote even when faced
with public disapproval, who wrote because
a young black girl from Compton, California
needed them to write.
And this, this is our responsibility.
To write in the face of injustice even when
we are scared.
In the final words of Baldwin's address, he
wrote to his sister in solidarity and love.
"If we know that we must fight for your life
as though it were our own, which it is, and
render impassable with our bodies the corridor
to the gas chamber.
For if they take you in the morning, for if
they take you in the morning, then surely,
they will be coming for us that night.
Thank you.
[Applause:]
[AF:] Stay here.
Okay.
Laughs.
[Julie Nichols:] Thank you.
Thank you, Ashley.
[AF:] Thank you.
[JN:] I want, I want to say that this is the
keynote speech for the Conference on Writing
for Social Change.
There are programs for this conference outside
the door.
Please pick up a program and attend one of
the many concurrent break-out sessions that
will be this afternoon and all day tomorrow.
Ashley is also going to be heading up a workshop
tomorrow morning in this same space at ten
o'clock.
I want you to be aware of these things because
this is only the beginning.
And part of the beginning is that Ashley is
now going to answer your questions.
So please feel free to have a conversation
with Ashley.
Go ahead.
[AF:} Thank you so much.
Thank you!
And thanks for dealing with my inability to
be savvy with technology.
[laughs] Yes, I'd like to have a discussion.
Are there any questions, comments?
[Silence:]
[AF:] Yes.
[Audience member:] So there's a part of your
talk that really resonated with me.
You talked about going home and writing poetry
instead of working on an academic paper.
[Audience:] Laughter.
[AM:] But for a lot of folks here and for
a lot of people, the folks who teach, our
academic papers are a huge part of what we
can spend time on writing.
And so how do you take ideas about social
change, how do you take the things that are
important to you, into an academic context,
that maybe you didn't even consent to.
[AF:] Yes, that's a really good question.
So, personally I've always been kind of an
outspoken person, and writing, although poetry
didn't come to me until later, writing always
did.
And so I guess I was lucky enough to choose
like the sorts of classes that allowed me
to explore writing for social change in that
way.
But the beautiful thing about that is that,
about like social, I would say like social
change or social happenings, is that there's
always things like fact-based evidence, right.
Like there's always evidence to write about.
So for me, I'm pretty like flowery in language,
right, and I love using a lot of, you know,
like analogies and stuff like that.
But that was always the saving grace for me
in classes that weren't necessarily geared
towards like sociology or global studies or
you know, racial studies, whatever it might
be.
Was that I would always look for the facts
in, in like the situation, right.
Like we can even, just as an example, and
I won't be here for twenty more minutes, but
just as an example.
If you are writing on medicine, right.
For me as a black woman I know that there's
a huge disparity in medicine, right.
And there's quantifiable evidence for that.
And so I look for those topics and I look
for that evidence that allowed me to kind
of write on things that I feel like, you know,
like the truth, the truth that needs to be
told.
But maybe for someone who's less appreciative
of the flowery language that like, they can
look at that.
Like a professor can look at that and say,
okay, she's talking about the disparities
in medicine for black mothers or black women.
Well here are exact facts, dates, you know,
statistics, whatever it be, that back that
up.
Does that answer your question?
[AM:] Yes.
[AF:] Okay.
Thank you for your question.
Any other questions?
Yes!
[AM:] So you talked about the responsibility
of writing for social change as kind of a
duty for others to bring, you know, attention
to the problems others face, as well as a
responsibility you know, kind of to yourself,
addressing problems that you face.
I'm just curious.
In your experience of sharing your work, how
much of it is due to the responsibility to
yourself and how much is due to your responsibility
to others?
[AF:] I would say it is 100 percent for both.
[laughs] Because I know, like, right, we,
even in the video, right, that I showed with
Tarana Burke and, I forgot her name already,
geez—
[AM:] Jameela Jamil.
[AF:] [Laughs] Yes!
We know that, you know, that just something
as simple as saying “me too” can have
outlasting impact, you know.
And so for me, like, being who I am and the
way I walk in the world and the things that
I experience I know that I'm not the only
one that experiences those things.
I know that at least there's one other person
at the very least in the entire world [laughs]
who can say that, you know, they're from Compton,
California, and experience, like, police brutality.
You know what I mean?
And so it's in—but I also know that sometimes
it's not safe or comfortable for people to
tell those stories on their own.
And so I've been afforded a lot of privilege
in that it is safe for me and I've been afforded
with a big mouth.
So most of the time it's comfortable for me.
And so, it's entirely important for myself
and for others, I think, that, that I continue
to write as long as I can and continue to
speak for as long as I can.
Thank you.
Yes.
[AM:] You said that imposter syndrome was
just something that you're experiencing, and
that's something that a lot of us have but
don't say anything, and that really resonated
with me.
And I'm curious, what are some of the things
that you do to kind of help yourself?
[AF:] Yes, so, one of the really great things
is I have this wonderful friend here [laughs].
I have people in my life who don't let me,
right, who don't let me, I guess, enact my
imposter syndrome and sit down.
And also, I kind of think like it all goes
back to the responsibility of the writer,
right.
I think that I've been blessed with this responsibility,
and I think that I wouldn't have been, and
you wouldn’t have been, if you weren’t
capable of carrying it through.
For me, I think of, like, my mother, right,
who is outspoken but who never really, it
wasn’t ever safe for her to be outspoken.
And I think, like, wow, what healing am I
bringing by like talking about these things
that we both experienced.
And like how important is that for that story
to be told.
And if I don't tell it then it, her story
will never be told, right.
If I don't tell it my story won't ever be
told, and then by default, so many other stories
won't ever be told.
And so like, I kind of take it as a very intense
and serious responsibility, so that when I
do have imposter syndrome, I'm like—I was
having it so bad today, girl, I was like,
I only got one slide, and I'm not even sure
if it's going to work, and who knows, you
know, but.
The point is, is that even if my slide doesn't
work, I'm here, and I get to talk to you all,
and hopefully something that I said resonated.
Even if, even if I stuttered, you know.
It's not the stutter that you remember.
Does that help?
[AM:] Yes.
[AF:] Yeah.
Affirm yourself!
You deserve to be here!
Thank you.
Yes.
[AM:] I want to touch on that question.
You talked about your ability to feel safe,
and share, but that your mother did not.
Why do you think that's true?
Is that a hard question?
I'm sorry!
[AF:] No, that's a great question!
And it's a hard one!
What made the difference for me was that I
recognize that I live in a different time,
right.
One, I recognize that I live in a different
time.
Two, I was really blessed that even though
like my mother did not feel safe, that she
always made sure that I felt safe.
And she always made sure that I felt safe
enough to advocate for myself, right.
And so in that I've, I’ve been blessed with
the privilege of not even necessarily thinking,
sometimes I talk, or sometimes I write things
and I'm like, not until later am I like oh,
I probably shouldn't have done that, or that's
probably not the, you know [laughs] like,
that could have a real lasting impact on me.
But I always grew up feeling pretty secure
in myself, even though I recognized that outside
forces like, created a lot of insecurity for
us.
And then also, sometimes it isn't safe, and
I recognize when I do have that privilege,
but I also recognize when it's not.
And at this moment I don't think that I can—for
me personally, I don't think that, that I
can let it stop me.
I feel like I've got to say it anyway because
if I don't, and if the writers don’t, and
if other people don't, it will always continue
to be unsafe.
And so, in order to impact that change like
I've sometimes got to face fear, like head
on, and sometimes I've got to face danger
head on.
AND for now it's scary but I'm okay with that.
How lucky!
How lucky I am.
Does that answer your question?
[AM:] Yes, thank you.
[AF:] Okay.
Thank you.
Yes.
Oh.
Yes.
[AM:] So realistically we're not all going
to have our own Me Too movement where we're
all going to be a keynote speaker or something
like that.
And that can be discouraging.
The way I think of it is like, oh, well if
I'm doing all of this and either I'm being
criticized all the time or maybe I just, nobody
is there to hear it.
Do you have any insight into how you just
push on through that and still try to share
whatever it is you have to write?
[AF:] Yeah!
And I think sometimes that goes back, like
it can tie into the imposter syndrome, right.
Like, you’re right.
Realistically like Me Too isn't going to—like
for me, a lot of things aren't going to spread
like wildfire.
But I think that's it's important to know
that once the work is out there it is bound
to resonate with someone.
Like I said, even at least one other person
in this whole world [laughs] will be able
to resonate with your experience or with what
it is that you're talking about.
In my talk I, I spoke about Feminista Jones,
right, who is this really amazing outspoken
activist movement creator, right.
She started a lot of online movements that
kind of like you know gained traction and
then fizzled and died.
But she's gotten a lot of attention, right,
from people who absolutely hate Feminista
Jones.
Like, I mean, if you go online, you'll find
more hate articles about her than you will
like, I guess, applauding her work.
But, even with all of that, right, and even
with the movements that she started that have
fizzled out and all of the hate or vitriol
that she might have received, she reached
me, like here, in Salt Lake City, Utah.
I read Feminista Jones and understood that
there was a place for me online in the digital
landscape, and that what I had to say was
important and necessary.
And so I just think that, I think that if
we get so caught up wondering how many people,
like , our work will impact, or how many people
will read this story, I feel like sometimes
we get, we can get so caught up in that that
it can choke us.
And I don't want that to happen and I don't
that to happen to me, I don't want that to
happen to you, because there's someone who
needs to hear your story.
And I know it's tiring, and I know it's exhausting,
and sometimes you can be discouraged.
But I think that if you, if you keep going
and you keep writing, that the movement may
not be as big as the Me Too movement, but
it'll be necessary, and it’ll be big enough
for somebody.
Maybe even if that somebody is yourself.
Does that answer your question?
[AM:] Yes, thank you.
[AF:] Okay.
Yes.
[AM:] What do you do when you are tired?
When you get tired, do you have something
that keeps you going when you're tired.
So how, what do you do, when you start writing,
if you get this writer's block, you have ideas,
but you just can't seem to get it on paper,
so what do you do?
Is that too personal of a question?
[AF:] No, okay, okay.
So I am going to pinpoint, make sure that
I have them straight.
What do I do when I'm tired, right, to either,
to what, to keep writing still?
Okay.
And then, what do I do when I have writer's
block to push past writer's block?
Well, one, I don't push past writer's block.
I feel like if writer's block comes, especially
like I told you all, as loud as my mouth is,
right, if writer's block comes it's coming
for a reason.
And maybe that reason is that I need to sit
my ass down and rest.
[Laughs] You know?
Maybe, maybe it's that I need to treat myself
to breakfast out that morning, maybe it's
that I need to have a cup of tea and chill.
You know what I mean?
And so I abide by that.
But I abide with it by with the understanding
and the knowing that when I am rested and
when my cup is full then I will pick up the
pen again and I will write what needs to be
written.
That's it.
[Laughs] Does that answer your question?
Yes.
[AM:] Hello, Ashley Finley, I'm one of your
biggest fans.
I just want to know; do you believe in destiny?
Say you were a white girl from Park City,
not from Compton, not a black girl from Compton.
Would you still be in front of us at UVU?
[AF:] Oh, oh, that's so hard for me to imagine
myself as a white girl from Park City.
[Laughs] I'm not sure, I don't know what that
mind set is like, but...[laughs] I do believe
in destiny, I do.
I believe that, yeah, I spoke a lot about
responsibility, I believe that it is not only
my responsibility to be a writer but it is
my destiny to be a writer because, it's like,
it's in your bones, it’s in your blood,
right.
And even if I wasn't, like you said, a black
girl from Compton, California, there are
still stories that need to be told, and if
I was a white girl from Park City I would
still have a story that needed to be told,
that would resonate.
Or I would still see stories that needed to
be told.
And I truly believe that because of I guess,
I don't even know, the divine inspiration
that the universe has bestowed upon me, I
truly truly believe that even in that circumstance
I could nothing else but write.
Yeah.
Thank you.
Does that answer your question?
[laughs.]
Thank you.
Yes.
[AM:] So going back to what you said earlier
about you feeling that you were able to express
yourself, but your mother wasn't.
How do you help those that have a gift they
want to share but feel that they can't?
What are some things that you can do to help
them?
[AF:] And, when you say feel like they can't
do you mean in an imposter syndrome sort of
way?
Or like a safety sort of way?
[AM:] Um, I’m not really sure.
I guess, I guess both.
[AF:] Yeah.
So I'm going to kind of use another writer
to tell you the answer to this question.
So my favorite writer of all time, my fairy
godmother of writing, Zora Neale Hurston,
wrote a book called "Barracoon."
And "Barracoon" is the story of Cudjoe Lewis,
who was the last—and I always, I have to
like frame it in my mind so I can say it right—he
was the last living person who had been, who
had been transported from Africa on a slave
ship.
And Zora Neale Hurston had the pleasure of
writing his story.
And one of the things that I think she did
that was so genius is that she knew that he
was illiterate, you know what I mean.
He was old he was full of heartbreak, but
she told his story as he told it to her.
So if you read "Barracoon"—which I suggest
that everybody read "Barracoon" because it
is just like this amazing brave beautiful
work.
You will notice that Zora doesn't enter her
voice at all.
It's all written in the voice, the dialect,
the memory of Cudjoe Lewis, who is, who is
the gentleman that she spoke with.
And the only time that she does insert her
voice is almost like in a footnote sort of
way, right.
Just to kind of explain like maybe some, some
cultural things that might help the reader
understand or clarify things.
But never once did she say, you know.
"And Cudjoe said this," you know.
Instead she writes his words exactly as he
told them to her, even in the same dialect.
And I think that that was a genius thing about
Zora Neale Hurston.
She did that so much with so much of her work,
and it’s what I aim to do when I'm asked
to write stories or to tell stories.
I never want to kind of insert my own voice
unless it's my own story, right, and somehow,
I'm a part of the story.
But instead I want to honor the storyteller,
and honor their lived experience, and tell
the truth as they told it to me.
And so that's my favorite way of doing it,
but then also if there are people like people
deal with like, oh, I’m not a poet or I'm
not a real writer, but here's some thoughts
that I wrote down and can you just look over
them, you know.
And that's always like a really interesting
space for me to be in because again, my first
inclination is to leave the story as they
wrote it, however they wrote it.
But then I think that there is value sometimes
in maybe offering like more technical guidance
to folks who, who are looking for that, and
who feel that that might give them a little
bit more confidence to get their story out
there.
Does that answer your question?
[AM:] Yes, it does.
[AF:] Okay, okay.
Thank you.
Hi.
[AM:] Hi!
Um.
[AF:] Nice suit!
[AM:] Thank you.
So I think writers overcame this kind of void
that told them they had to write about the
kind of things that happen to people, but
do you ever think that there's like a time
when writers stop, or they finally have grown
enough where they can just stop?
[AF:] Where they can stop writing altogether?
[AM:] Yes, is it selfish to stop?
Or do you just have to keep going?
What are your thoughts on that?
[AF:] That's an interesting question.
I feel like writers stop writing when they,
when they feel like they've said all that
they can say, and I don't think it's selfish.
I think that if for some reason you feel like
you need to take a step away or someone feels
like they need to take a step away or grow
into some other sort of creative medium, I
don't know, then obviously that's your prerogative,
or their prerogative.
For me personally, I have kind of, I still
have like this very like romanticized view
of writing, right, and of myself as a writer,
and I’m always like, I will write until
my dying breath! [laughs] And I feel like
for some of us that's true, you know.
And for others of us, it might not be true.
But I think that the goal is to feel, to feel
your impact, and to feel, like not only your
impact on the world or the community around
you, but the impact that those stories have
made on you.
And then again, always to feel honest, so
if we're stopping writing because you know,
like the gentleman said, because we feel like
you know we can, then I believe that that's
a lie.
I believe that that's a lie in your head.
That nagging voice, right.
But if we feel like we want to stop writing
because the change that we, we're seeking,
has been created or the catharsis that we
were seeking has been granted, then that's
okay.
Does that answer your question?
Yeah, no problem!
Any other questions?
Yes.
Well thank you all so much, I appreciate you
listening to me.
[Applause:]
