The 27th Annual Larry Neal Writers' Awards
On Friday, the D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities assembled at the Folger Shakespeare Library to recognize young and emerging talent in the field of literature. Presented in partnership with the PEN/Faulkner Foundation, the Larry Neal Writers' Awards program is a competition open to writers of all ages in the District.
"If you're a writer who lives in Washington, you should throw your hat in the ring for the Larry Neal Writers' Awards. It's not just a matter of a great opportunity," says Sandra Beasley, a poet who was honored at the event. "It's about affiliating with DC's literary traditions."
Named for the iconic Black Arts Movement poet Larry Neal, the award celebrates tradition. As the executive director of the Commission on the Arts and Humanities between 1976 and 1979, Neal served as a humanities chair at Howard University. In both these roles, he advocated for a strong literary identity for the District.
The award aims to preserve the continuity of that literary identity. Beyond the honor itself, it does so by giving writers a real incentive to ply their craft.
"As poets, we never expect our work to make money. That the DCCAH awards come with substantive honoraria is unique--and, frankly, inspiring," Beasley explains. "It's nice to hear, just on occasion, that your work has that additional dimension of value."
The first-place award winners for youth, teen, and adult writing categories are named below. As a special bonus, DCist asked all three adult nominees for poetry for examples of their work. Those poems follow below.
Dramatic Writing
Sowande S. Tichawonna
Essay
Youth
Claire G. Shaw
Teen
Siera Toney
Fiction
Youth
Claire E. Parker
Teen
Caroline Hall
Adult
Binahkaye Joy
Poetry
Youth
Zoe Mills
Teen
Kyndall Amber Brown
Adult
Danielle M. Evennou
This is a poem that first-place prizewinner Danielle Evennou wrote this year, an homage to "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens.
13 Ways of Looking at a Transvestite for K.1
Among the snowbirds,
at a Treasury Department luncheon
rustling in pleated khakis.2
Saturday night with the T’s,
I was of three martinis
of which all had transvestites.3
The transvestite whirled
with his wife, in the lingerie shop.
It was a small part of the pantomime.4
A woman and a woman
are one.
A man a woman and a transvestite
are one.5
I do not know which to prefer
a man in a dress or
the beauty of his feminine
inflections at Whole
Foods.6
In the shimmer
of lip glosses on display
at CVS, she stalks
cosmetics. The mood
of indecipherable
motives.7
Oh thin men of Logan,
why do you imagine
transvestites in gold dresses?
Don’t you see
the difference
from drag queen?8
I know noble accents,
Long Island to Staten
inescapable rhythms.
But I know, too,
that the transvestite is involved
in what I know.9
When the transvestite flitted
out of sight,
he marked the edge
of one of many triangles.10
At the sight of transvestites
flitting in street lights
even the most sober
bachelorette-party-goers
would cry out sharply.11
He rode over Connecticut
Avenue in a hybrid.
Once, a fear poked him,
in that he mistook the shadow
of his equipage
for transvestites.12
The lipstick is missing.
Transvestites must be femmed-up.13
It was evening all afternoon.
It was shimmering
and it was going to shimmer.
The transvestite sat
at the cedar bureau.
And here is one from 2009 by Margaux Delotte-Bennett, who took second in the adults' poetry category:
girl childIndia is teaching me how to be a girl child in this world
eyes cast down
rounded shoulders
quick steps through the mean streets
I have learned to walk in ways
that the sway of my hips
and the bounce of my breasts
are almost undetectable in my loose fitting kurta sets
and strategically placed dupatta
almost…
and the coy smile that took me years to perfect
has vanished
and in its place
a look of
shyness
guilt
aloofness in the face of leering eyes, parted lips, whispered advances
and if something were to happen
a pinch, a rub, a grab
I’ve learned that it would be my fault
because my sway and bounce were detectable
my coyness didn’t retreat deep enough into my being
my dupatta was not so well placed…
the strong woman I was
would once again be the guilty girl child
I’ve so expertly relearned to be
and as I prepare myself to travel this
subcontinent alone
I know that my learning
has only just begun
Finally, here is a 2008 poem from I Am the Jukebox by Sandra Beasley, who placed third:
The Sand SpeaksI'm fluid and omnivorous, casual in
my eternity. I'll knock up your oysters.
I'll eat your diamonds. I'm a mutt, no
one thing at all, just the size that countsand if you're animal small enough, come;
if you're vegetable small enough, come;
if you're mineral small enough, come.
Mothers, brush me from the handsof your children. Lovers, shake me
from the cuffs of your pants. Draw
a line, make it my mouth: I'll name
your country. I'm a Yes man at heart.Let's play Hide and Go Drown. Let's play
Pearls for His Eyes. When the men fall
I like the way their arms touch, their legs
touch. There are always more men, menwho bring bags big enough to hold
each other. A man who kneels down
with a smaller bag, cups and pours, cups
and pours, as if I could prove anything.