Transcript: Poems on Air, Episode 39 - Toi Derricotte

The following transcript is provided for accessibility only. Layout, formatting, and typography of poems may differ from the original text. We recommend referring to the original, published works when possible to experience the poems as intended by their authors.

[Music intro]

LYNNE THOMPSON: Hello! My name is Lynne Thompson, Poet Laureate for the City of Los Angeles and I’m so happy to welcome listeners to this installment of Poems on Air, a podcast supported by the Los Angeles Public Library. Every week, I’ll present the work of poets I admire, poets who you should know, and poets who have made a substantial and inimitable contribution to the art and craft of poetry.

LYNNE THOMPSON: As we continue to celebrate Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, and just feel gratitude for the blessings of the season—challenging though it is—I can think of no better poet to represent our shared experiences than Toi Derricotte. Much lauded—winner of the 2020 Frost Medal for Lifetime Achievement as well as the 2021 Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, among many other recognitions—she is the co-founder of Cave Canem, the premiere organization cultivating the artistic and profes-sional growth of African American poets.

LYNNE THOMPSON: Today’s poem is "Christmas Eve: My Mother Dressing" by Toi Derricotte.

Christmas Eve: My Mother Dressing


My mother was not impressed with her beauty;
once a year she put it on like a costume,
plaited her black hair, slick as cornsilk, down past her hips,  
in one rope-thick braid, turned it, carefully, hand over hand,  
and fixed it at the nape of her neck, stiff and elegant as a crown,  
with tortoise pins, like huge insects,
some belonging to her dead mother,
some to my living grandmother.
Sitting on the stool at the mirror,
she applied a peachy foundation that seemed to hold her down, 
        to trap her,	

as if we never would have noticed what flew among us unless 
        it was weighted and bound in its mask.
Vaseline shined her eyebrows,
mascara blackened her lashes until they swept down like feathers;
        darkening our thoughts of her.
Her eyes deepened until they shone from far away.

Now I remember her hands, her poor hands, which, even then
        were old from scrubbing, 
whiter on the inside than they should have been,
and hard, the first joints of her fingers, little fattened pads,
the nails filed to sharp points like old-fashioned ink pens, 
        painted a jolly color.
Her hands stood next to her face and wanted to be put away, 
        prayed
for the scrub bucket and brush to make them useful.
And, as I write, I forget the years I watched her
pull hairs like a witch from her chin, magnify
every blotch—as if acid were thrown from the inside. 


But once a year my mother
rose in her white silk slip,
not the slave of the house, the woman,
took the ironed dress from the hanger—
allowing me to stand on the bed, so that
my face looked directly into her face,
and hold the garment away from her
as she pulled it down.

LYNNE THOMPSON: The Los Angeles Poet Laureate was created as a joint program between the City’s Department of Cultural Affairs and the Los Angeles Public Library and this podcast is available wherever you get your podcasts. Thanks for listening!

[Music outro]

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    • DISCLAIMER: This is NOT a certified or verbatim transcript, but rather represents only the context of the class or meeting, subject to the inherent limitations of real-time captioning. The primary focus of real-time captioning is general communication access and as such this document is not suitable, acceptable, nor is it intended for use in any type of legal proceeding. Transcript provided by the author.

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