by Robert “Bob” Bussey
There’s a rhythm, a sound, a drum beating in Louisiana.
There’s a rhythm, a sound, a drum beating in CENLA.
There’s a rhythm, a sound, a drum beating in Rapides Parish.
There’s a rhythm, a sound, a drum beating in Alexandria.
There’s a rhythm, a sound, a drum beating in in the Sonia Quarters.
There’s a rhythm, a sound, a drum beating in New Orleans.
There’s a rhythm, a sound, a drum beating all over.
There’s an ICON floating in the air around us all through poetry, rhythm, sounds drumming and song. That ICON is Sha’Condria Sices-Sibley.
I had an opportunity to attend a workshop put on by one of the Master’s of Musical Spoken Word poetry, Sha’Condria Sices-Sibley, at the Alexandria Museum of Art. Yeah, they promote more than just the art found in paintings. It was not what I expected, not even close. Instead of only speaking about Spoken Word poetry, she gave us all a method of collecting our thoughts for the writing of a poem. This had a dual purpose: to get the creative juices flowing and get the audience involved. She used the following verbal prompts to get our wheels
turning:
Draw a circle on your paper (with adequate space surrounding the circle)
1. Within the circle, write a body part/area of your body that you have been challenged with praising.
2. Draw lines extending from the circle with words/ short phrases (no more than 3-4 words) listing ways in which:
a. you designate one of your favorite colors to that part of the body
b. that part of the body is unique/ unlike anyone else’s
c. that part of the body may be like someone else you know/Love
d. a good memory or feeling associated with that part of your body
e. that part of the body has served/saved you
f. give that body part of new and beautiful name
3. After you’ve done this, use the words/ phrases you have gathered to write an ode, or letter of praise, to that beloved part of yourself.
With this method she was “engaging the audience” in her world. Which in many ways describes what she does when she performs in front of an audience. She engages you, gets you mentally and emotionally, and physically involved.
The workshop lasted about an hour. Each of us had an opportunity to read our poem once we had followed her technique of focusing. Sha’Condria believes that we were all created to create, and create we did.
Sha’Condria Sices-Sibley was born at Huey P. Long Memorial Hospital in Pineville, Louisiana and grew up in Alexandria in what is called the Sonia Quarters. She went to Peabody Magnet High School, graduated, went to college to study to be a doctor and then found Spoken Word Poetry. Her world changed. She became involve in a monthly showcase called “Rhythm and Rhyme” that put on shows at the Alexandria Museum of Art. They had packed audiences. The program no longer exists.
Sha’Condria moved on. Moved on to performing around the nation. Moved on to being a Slam Poet champion. Moved on to becoming a professional performer. Moved on to create the New Orleans group called Team SNO (Slam New Orleans). Moved on to TV appearances. Moved on to stage performances. Moved on to co-writing and appearing in short films. Moved on to authoring a book titled “My Name Is Pronounced Holy”: A Collection of Poems, Prayers, Rememberings, and Reclamations. You can find her book by following this link: Sha’Condria Sibley.
There’s a book about the Sonia Quarters (some spell it Sonya), penned by a local writer/artist, Clarence Hunter, that gives the reader a sense of what it was like growing up in a predominantly black neighborhood in Alexandria. Set in the 1950’s it is both fictional and factual. Clarence Hunter lives in Alexandria and is active in the Royal Writers Guild. I think Sha’Condria would approve of this small plug for Clarence. The book is titled “Sonia Life,” and can be found at Amazon and other online locations. If you want to get a feel for the environment that Sha’Condria grew up in, then read the book. Clarence grew up in the Sonia Quarters, moved away for many years, but then returned. The book is from his many memories of growing up in that neighborhood. Here’s the link to his book: https://a.co/d/2pNyZYC.
Before going back to Sha’Condria, I need to mention one more artist who came out of the Sonia Quarters, Joe Ray. He grew up in a house on Turner Street in the Sonia Quarters. Turner Street is close to Lee Street, and on Lee Street he found art supplies. He got his first painting set as a present around Christmas time at a special event. There was a paint store on Lee Street that had a fine arts department. He showed the owner one of his paintings, and the owner was impressed so he gave Joe Ray a frame that was not put together and taught him how to create a frame out of those parts. Joe attended South Alexandria Elementary School and Peabody Senior High School, where he began painting, and received school and state awards for his work. Joe Ray no longer lives in Alexandria. But his experiences in the Sonia Quarters helped him become the artist he is today. He now works in painting, sculpture, performance art and photography. He had a recent exhibit at the Alexandria Museum of Art of both his photography and paintings.
So, here we have it, three very successful artists coming out of the same area of Alexandria, the Sonia Quarters. Was it something in the water, something in the air, something in the cultural heritage that permeated the area. I don’t know. I just know that three renowned artists all grew up there at one time or another. There is an old saying that might apply: “Sweet are the uses of adversity.” Perhaps it was a pinch of adversity that got these three personalities, these 3 minds, these 3 talents, to find a way to rise to the top. I’d like to get all three of them in a room to discuss that theory.
Well, let’s get back to Sha’Condria. When I first met her in the workshop she was dressed in a relaxed outfit. Perhaps a sweatshirt of some sort, or a yoga outfit. At least something very comfortable looking. Something easy to move around in.
During the workshop she gave us a hint of what was to happen that evening by combining music and poetry. Not too much, just enough. That evening at the formal presentation there was a different air about her. She was dressed, as they say, to the T’s. Elegant, dressed to perfection. Dressed as a professional entertainer, dressed to attract the attention of the audience, which was part of her performance. Then she started to sing, or chant, or hum, or create a sense of rhythm. I’m not sure which, maybe all of the above. Yeah, all of the above. And then she pulled out this little red boxy looking thing and started to record loops of sounds, loops of beats, loops of rhythms that she used along with her poetry. This is where the music came in … the combining of music created on the spot with her poetry. And she once again got the audience involved in the whole production. At one point we were all asking her in unison, “How country are you?” She would smile and belt out the next stanza. Sometimes we all clapped in rhythm or snapped our fingers. At any rate, we were all immersed in the actual performance. We had become part of the performance. And that to me is what sets Sha’Condria apart from so many other poets … the musicality and the audience involvement.
So many times, the audience is asked to sit and listen and perhaps applaud at the end. Not here, not this time. You could tell that you were in the presence of a professional entertainer, a person who had honed her skills to be as sharp as the sharpest knife or tongue. I’ve included a picture of the loop recorder (that little boxy thing) that she used. You can overlay multiple tracks on this machine on the spot and then play them back over a speaker to go along with your poetry. It adds some icing to your poetry cake.
So, let’s move on to a few of her poems. But before we do that, and I’ve said this before, writing down a Spoken Word poem, is simply not the same as hearing one. To that end, I have also included some YouTube links at the end of this article, so you can hear the master herself ply her trade, ply her art, ply her music, ply her poetry, and with that give herself to you.
The first poem has a local flavor and sets out where Sha’Condria is from.
I Was Born By….
a (Red) River
in a charity hospital
named after a former Louisiana governor who drowned
in a sea of his own blood
on the same day, 45 years before
my mother’s 15-year old belly
became a parted body
of water;
a Boot
in a place where concrete feet sink
(un)comfortably into “steel toes.”
a Paper Mill
Churning out rumors beneath a veil
Of smoke,
Where you are only one church member
Away from becoming the Talk of the Town,
a Prayer
where every ear got an open mouth, hungry
for the Good Word and the bad news
and a sticky tongue that stay on ready
to lick a stamp and send both clean
across town before you can put your hands together
to say “Thank you, Lord.)
a Parish
named Rapides: a French word meaning rapids,
meaning a river somewhere between run and a cascade,
between a smooth flow and a waterfall;
a steady stream
where nothing and nobody is in a rush—
a gentle pulse
through a Heart
smack dab in the center of Louisiana’s chest
a Storm
a state with hurricanes parading through its veins.
And here be the (seemingly) calmest part, the eye,
where folks got the magical and meteorological ability
to look right at yo’ face
and predict the path you must have traveled—
your family’s last name or what side of town you from:
Who yo’ people?
What’s yo mama/ daddy name?
Cuz you look just like one o’ them
__________________s
a Hood
out the Sonya Quarters,
from that “Nawfside,
Kellyland,
Karst Park,
Evergreen,
Deerfield,
Martin Park,
Samtown,
Acadian Village …
a Tree
where Somebody wanna stretch into a world
beyond the CenLa shade and so
many more do not.
Especially in a place that feels too much like deeply—
rooted.
Especially in a place with so many tangled branches
Keeping you planted.
Where families be big like Daddy’s appetite/Love
and everybody got beaucoup cousins,
especially on they mamma side—
a Cloud
one fluffy forearm floating about her hip.
Keep a Newport and the New Testament
Dangling from her bottom lip
‘cause she gon serve the good Lord until her very last
breath
and she finally see Heaven for herself.
a Garden
Here, the men have tongues and hearts
heavy as shovels.
Grandmamas know dig/pile.
Granddaddies know dirt/plant.
And the seeds take and bury it all
and try to stand on top
just to keep their heads above ground.
a Mirror
where every Body wears too well
both the gospel and the blues.
Will chop and screw it, jig and zydeco to it.
Where uniforms (usually consisting of church clothes
or work clothes
or a crip white tee
or a Pola and Levi’s
starched and creased,
shar enough to cut cornbread)
are a look
that ain’t ever goin out of style;
a Machine
neither is being Baptist and baptized
in fiths of E&J, tall cans of Keystone Light,
and a blanket of Black & Mild and reggie smoke,
clogging arteries and atmosphere
like the exhaust of an old school American-made car
(a big body Chevy
a Buick drippin candy all over the pavement
an Oldsmobile sittin on rims worth more
than the whip itself,
a ‘Lac leaning like lazy elbows)
bending corners,
always headed somewhere
or sometimes, nowhere at all.
a Bridge
Rarely destination to travelers
but merely a place they have passed through
(or across).
Where folks bend over backwards
to keep from drowning
and hold each other’s hand
to keep from falling down.
a Welcome
Here, the babies come early.
The old people stay long.
And the doors of the church
and the corner store
are always open.
The next poem also delves into what it was like growing up in Louisiana, in Cenla, in Alexandria, in the Sonia Quarters, in her town. But it also delves into early times. All about a name that it never really spells out but gives you a sense of what it means … All about a little girl with a long history.
Muse
Somewhere
In a lil town like mine
in a ‘hood’ like mine
on a street like mine
in a House like mine…
maybe, there is a Girl
with simple words and a complex
Name who needs to see another Name
that look like it could be Her
Mama’s or Her
Sister’s or Her
Auntie’s or Her
Cousin’s or Her
Best-Friend’s
or Her’s
when she searches for something family[ar]
across rows and rows and rows….
down spines and spines and spines….
between pages and pages and pages….
within lines and lines and lines ….
of Names that are stingy with syllables
or Names that are no louder than a respectable tone
or even Names that broke through the dirt
of any other Country
but Here –
any Names other than the Ones
that, in sea/ sickness,
were vomited up on these shores
and washed away more and more with each ravenous
tide;
any Names other than the Ones
who called this Home
long before thieves picked the locks,
set up shop,
and changed it to America.
Maybe she a Country
girl from country folk
With dis — membered knowledge of Her
origin before Her
Big Daddy, Her
Madear, and God,
maybe.
Much of Her lineage lies scattered Somewhere beneath
a maze
of headstones in the Garden of Memories) –
a place with too many
flowers and not enough re—membering;
or beneath rows of crooked crosses
in overgrown churchyards
on now abandoned roads—
Somewhere
In Alexandria,
Somewhere in Boyce,
Somewhere in Taylor Hill,
Somewhere in Hannah,
Somewhere in Three Leagues,
Somewhere in Powhatan,
Somewhere in Many,
Somewhere in the middle
Of only-God-knows-where;
Somewhere,
Where entire villages and towns full of Names and Faces
& Stories hopped into the casket too
When Such N. Seaux died.
Somewhere
in the whole wide Country,
maybe there is a Girl
who don’t know nothin ‘bout Her
could be a West African or Her
could be a Caribbean or Her
could be part “Indian” or Her
could be nothin else
but Her
fasho “Blk.”
She who only got faith in a God she can feel
but can’t quite name
and both of her Grandmamas’
faith in Jesus and prayer.
She who is of Those who tucked their dreams
reverently between
the pages of dog-eared daily devotionals
and superstition.
She who knows Psalms & Proverbs
and salt and shoulders,
knows fire & brimstone
and spit & brooms,
knows wine & wafers
and cracks & Mamas with damn-near broken backs.
She who is tender
mustard greens & hotwater cornbread
crafted in hand-me-down cast iron skillets
and skillfully eaten with fingers instead of forks,
because she was taught that we already came here with
everything
we need (and…it just tastes better that way).
She who is homemade butter biscuits
& mudpies
& Everything
southern&deep&brown
& made lovingly by Hand.
Maybe,
She needs to see a familiar Face
a familiar Name
a familiar Story
about how something so living
can grow from the same kind
of Stolen/
land.
I told you earlier that you really needed to hear Sha’Condria work her Musical Spoken Word poetry in its real form, not the written word. So, here are some links to YouTube videos where you can hear this Master perform.
https://youtu.be/CBouWhtUUZU?si=6ojmFQrhBO3EjH2Z
https://youtu.be/4DTSHh-9Ps4?si=TZ1bU8nab9Khzcnb
https://youtu.be/5_kkbKs9pY4?si=6ztwBq4UhuqDSlR5
