I knew bell hooks for half my life, and she was like a second mother to me, and also my mentor, sister, friend. I was summoned to her home state of Kentucky in December 2021 to be one of the few to say good-bye in person to bell as she rested in a hospital bed in her living room.
I held bell’s hands, I rubbed her knees, I talked to her although she could not respond. I told bell how much I loved her, how much she had transformed my life, as a man, as a Black man. And I cried, a lot.
bell was arguably the greatest Black intellectual we’ve ever seen, with over 30 books in 30-plus years—a brilliant and unapologetic Black feminist writer and thinker. It is because of bell more than anyone else that I do the work I do to re-define manhood, why I dream a world where we not only get rid of racism, but also sexism, homophobia, transphobia, and all forms of hate and violence.
I wrote this poem, “letter to bell hooks,” shortly after that visit.
my dearest bell:
I was not only a man-child
teething fractured knuckles
when I met you—I was also
an angry and misplaced
momma’s boy, and you crushed
the cold ice beneath my holey sneakers
so decidedly that first encounter
as words such as
sexism and misogyny and homophobia
hemmed me up at da Lawd’s crossroads
I am ashamed I cannot recall
that first person’s name
who airdropped a sojourner’s truth
into my concrete knapsack
because she was among the many women
of Spelman College I knew
back in the day
like Miss Kupenda Auset
who goaded me to become
something more than a man
Ayy, ayy, yeah, I was gifted photocopies
of your feminist candied yams
the way my ma shoplifted
reparation pennies so we could eat
My ma and her four sisters
and my Grandma Lottie
hot-combed and curled story after story
about the ways of White folks
about the ways of men folks
while I sat there and took it
yet I remained bone-thin
with bonier brain
when it came to understanding
that women folks ain’t
just ‘spose to be your momma
or your mattress or your
mule to punch and kick—
In the beginning
I was utterly frightened of your fearlessness:
Your Kentucky fried soul was un-digging
future and past generations
of women
long left for dead
Your Kentucky fried soul was un-dressing
future and past generations
of men
long left for dead
I was hunchbacked before you, and stark-naked
one of your books in my shaky hands
my unsalted ego crashing to the rug-less floor
like a beer pitcher full of lies
bell, I had already been
the devil’s willing volcano
when I pushed a girlfriend
into a bathroom door
in July of 1991
that is why my body and mind
became a ferocious hurricane
when I first read you:
the ski mask was knifed from my face
the grime was sucked from my heart
the quicksand was scraped from my ankles
the clay was carved from my colon
a musty and sticky holy ghost triggered me
as my blood overflowed and retched
the absent father the single mother
the men on them liquor corners
the men in them barbershops
the men in them big positions
the communities the churches the chicken shacks
the reverends so-and-so the politicians no-and-no
the television shows the movies the sports the warts
the miseducation the ghetto plantation the prison cell
the swaying noose awaiting arrival of my neck—
bell, I remember we
sat down
greased elbow to greased elbow
a few years later
when I was writing for that magazine
I had never interviewed anyone
as brazenly free as you
one-woman emancipation proclamation
bold and snappy tongue
who painstakingly stiff-armed
capitalism and racism and toxic manhood
and politics and pop culture
like you were
the wind hurriedly washing away
the bulging whip marks of runaway slaves
I collapsed
in love with your genius
I dropped
my bags at your exposed feet
I stared
at myself with your x-ray eyeglasses
I shook and recoiled
whenever you scratched and peeled my history—
Oh, bell, you are gone,
and it is hella hard to write this
I jab these words with my half-crooked fingers:
I would not be the man I am without you
And you once said I was like a son to you
I am your son, bell, I am—
That is why
I am so terribly sorry I let you down
when I had to abandon
my trip to Berea, Kentucky
a couple of years ago because I had not
taken seriously what you
had sketched so many times about love
I was in a wretched place, bell,
my self-esteem
the bursting, rat-attacked garbage
in front of a Brooklyn bodega
But I still phoned you
every few months
simply to hear your voice
on your old-school answering machine
I was hurt and confused
as to why you never returned my calls
We had never gone that long
without talking in some form—
bell, I did not know you were dying—
Death embracing you like
a head-less family member
at an Appalachian train station
inside the home state you had fled in your youth
Only to return as an elder shero of the world
thirty-plus books in thirty-plus years
To die to sleep perhaps to dream
of a slow and methodical suicide
To die to sleep perhaps to dream
of a slow and methodical good-bye
to box and store
the great love-ship you never had
love hastily shedding pounds:
flesh draping your bones like a flimsy dress
love desperately crawling up stairs:
hands and knees like suction cups gripping a wall
I did not know bell I did not know—
I flew to Kentucky
through a diabolical tornado
I had no clue was happening
I was driven by Dr. DaMaris Hill
from Lexington to Berea to your house
on a block over yonder
I shall forget in a heap of tomorrows
I wandered anxiously around your ‘hood
while you were prepared for the day’s visitors
I was terrified of going inside
I was terrified of what I would see
I was terrified of what I would feel
At last, I was welcomed into your home
by one of your sisters and your literary executor
Original Black art over here
Buddhist symbols over here
Countless books like air tiles
to plug your home’s lonesome spaces
You in a hospital bed in your living room
Tubes plunging from your nose
Cranky oxygen tank on the side next to your bed
Your hair totally gray, your body totally frail
I gasped and cried and cried and gasped
I was the only guest at that moment
bell, I got to sit with you for over an hour
I held and rubbed and squeezed your left hand
I held and rubbed and squeezed your left knee
I held and rubbed and squeezed your left toes
I gasped and cried and cried and gasped
I kept saying it was me
I finally made it to Berea, bell
You snored, you snored some more
When you did awake
you strained to unleash your eyes
I wondered if you knew it was me
You kept shouting “Let’s go!”
as if you were ready to go somewhere
You kept saying “Yup”
whenever I asked you if you could hear me
That famously shrill voice as sassy as ever
I gasped and cried and cried and gasped
bell, I told you I loved you, several times
Then I did not know what else to say
As I arose to leave, I said a prayer
to the Goddess of wings and warriors
to safeguard your travel to the other side
I thanked you and I said good-bye quietly
I gasped and cried and cried and gasped
I knew I would never see you as flesh upon flesh again
And when I stepped out into the biting Kentucky air
I felt you strolling with me
bell, I hugged your spirit
Your spirit hugged me back
I gasped and cried and cried and gasped
And less than a week later, bell,
you had your freedom, at last—
Wednesday, December 15, 2021
9:25pm
Kevin Powell is a poet, journalist, civil and human rights activist, and author of 15 books, including his newest title, “Grocery Shopping with My Mother,” a collection of poems.
