letter to bell hooks: A Poem From Kevin Powell

Photo courtesy of Kevin Powell By Kevin Powell· Updated September 23, 2022

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.

Photo courtesy of Kevin Powell

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-childteething fractured knuckleswhen I met you—I was alsoan angry and misplacedmomma’s boy, and you crushedthe cold ice beneath my holey sneakersso decidedly that first encounteras words such assexism and misogyny and homophobiahemmed me up at da Lawd’s crossroadsI am ashamed I cannot recallthat first person’s namewho airdropped a sojourner’s truthinto my concrete knapsackbecause she was among the many womenof Spelman College I knewback in the daylike Miss Kupenda Ausetwho goaded me to becomesomething more than a manAyy, ayy, yeah, I was gifted photocopiesof your feminist candied yamsthe way my ma shopliftedreparation pennies so we could eatMy ma and her four sistersand my Grandma Lottiehot-combed and curled story after storyabout the ways of White folksabout the ways of men folkswhile I sat there and took ityet I remained bone-thinwith bonier brainwhen it came to understandingthat women folks ain’tjust ‘spose to be your mommaor your mattress or yourmule to punch and kick—In the beginningI was utterly frightened of your fearlessness:Your Kentucky fried soul was un-diggingfuture and past generationsof womenlong left for deadYour Kentucky fried soul was un-dressingfuture and past generationsof menlong left for deadI was hunchbacked before you, and stark-nakedone of your books in my shaky handsmy unsalted ego crashing to the rug-less floorlike a beer pitcher full of liesbell, I had already beenthe devil’s willing volcanowhen I pushed a girlfriendinto a bathroom doorin July of 1991that is why my body and mindbecame a ferocious hurricanewhen I first read you:the ski mask was knifed from my facethe grime was sucked from my heartthe quicksand was scraped from my anklesthe clay was carved from my colona musty and sticky holy ghost triggered meas my blood overflowed and retchedthe absent father the single motherthe men on them liquor cornersthe men in them barbershopsthe men in them big positionsthe communities the churches the chicken shacksthe reverends so-and-so the politicians no-and-nothe television shows the movies the sports the wartsthe miseducation the ghetto plantation the prison cellthe swaying noose awaiting arrival of my neck—bell, I remember wesat downgreased elbow to greased elbowa few years laterwhen I was writing for that magazineI had never interviewed anyoneas brazenly free as youone-woman emancipation proclamationbold and snappy tonguewho painstakingly stiff-armedcapitalism and racism and toxic manhoodand politics and pop culturelike you werethe wind hurriedly washing awaythe bulging whip marks of runaway slavesI collapsedin love with your geniusI droppedmy bags at your exposed feetI staredat myself with your x-ray eyeglassesI shook and recoiledwhenever you scratched and peeled my history—Oh, bell, you are gone,and it is hella hard to write thisI jab these words with my half-crooked fingers:I would not be the man I am without youAnd you once said I was like a son to youI am your son, bell, I am—That is whyI am so terribly sorry I let you downwhen I had to abandonmy trip to Berea, Kentuckya couple of years ago because I had nottaken seriously what youhad sketched so many times about loveI was in a wretched place, bell,my self-esteemthe bursting, rat-attacked garbagein front of a Brooklyn bodegaBut I still phoned youevery few monthssimply to hear your voiceon your old-school answering machineI was hurt and confusedas to why you never returned my callsWe had never gone that longwithout talking in some form—bell, I did not know you were dying—Death embracing you likea head-less family memberat an Appalachian train stationinside the home state you had fled in your youthOnly to return as an elder shero of the worldthirty-plus books in thirty-plus yearsTo die to sleep perhaps to dreamof a slow and methodical suicideTo die to sleep perhaps to dreamof a slow and methodical good-byeto box and storethe great love-ship you never hadlove hastily shedding pounds:flesh draping your bones like a flimsy dresslove desperately crawling up stairs:hands and knees like suction cups gripping a wallI did not know bell I did not know—I flew to Kentuckythrough a diabolical tornadoI had no clue was happeningI was driven by Dr. DaMaris Hillfrom Lexington to Berea to your houseon a block over yonderI shall forget in a heap of tomorrowsI wandered anxiously around your ‘hoodwhile you were prepared for the day’s visitorsI was terrified of going insideI was terrified of what I would seeI was terrified of what I would feelAt last, I was welcomed into your homeby one of your sisters and your literary executorOriginal Black art over hereBuddhist symbols over hereCountless books like air tilesto plug your home’s lonesome spacesYou in a hospital bed in your living roomTubes plunging from your noseCranky oxygen tank on the side next to your bedYour hair totally gray, your body totally frailI gasped and cried and cried and gaspedI was the only guest at that momentbell, I got to sit with you for over an hourI held and rubbed and squeezed your left handI held and rubbed and squeezed your left kneeI held and rubbed and squeezed your left toesI gasped and cried and cried and gaspedI kept saying it was meI finally made it to Berea, bellYou snored, you snored some moreWhen you did awakeyou strained to unleash your eyesI wondered if you knew it was meYou kept shouting “Let’s go!”as if you were ready to go somewhereYou kept saying “Yup”whenever I asked you if you could hear meThat famously shrill voice as sassy as everI gasped and cried and cried and gaspedbell, I told you I loved you, several timesThen I did not know what else to sayAs I arose to leave, I said a prayerto the Goddess of wings and warriorsto safeguard your travel to the other sideI thanked you and I said good-bye quietlyI gasped and cried and cried and gaspedI knew I would never see you as flesh upon flesh againAnd when I stepped out into the biting Kentucky airI felt you strolling with mebell, I hugged your spiritYour spirit hugged me backI gasped and cried and cried and gaspedAnd less than a week later, bell,you had your freedom, at last—Wednesday, December 15, 20219:25pm

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.

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