Elbow How the Dark Room Collective made space for a generation of African-American writers Room by sophia nguyen o outward sign sets the pale yellow house at 31 Inman Street apart from its neighbors. Someone going on a literary pilgrimage in Cambridge might start a mile away, at 104 Irving Street, where e.e. cummings N ’15 grew up; then head west, to 16 Ash Street, where T.S. Eliot ’10, A.M. ’11, Litt.D. ’47, studied Sanskrit in the attic; then westward still, to the final residence of Robert Frost ’01, Litt.D. ’37, at 35 Brewster Street—guided the whole way by blue historical markers, never thinking to glance in the opposite direction. But back in Central Square, that anonymous Victorian was the cradle of the Dark Room Collective. There, in the late 1980s, a trio of young Afri- can-American writers—Sharan Strange ’81, Thomas Sayers Ellis, and Janice Lowe—formed their own literary center of gravity. During its decade of existence, their reading series and writers’ group gathered a nebula of creative energy, a starry critical mass whose impact on American letters continues to expand. The Dark Room Collective (DRC) was a haven for early members like writer and translator John Keene ’87, experi- mental prose writer Tisa Bryant, and poet Patrick Sylvain, Ed.M. ’98—a place to get together and get serious about their craft. It was “a whole ‘nother kind of education,” says Keene. “It was an immersion in a world that I only kind of glimpsed when I was in college.” By e-mail, co-founder Sharan Strange comments, “I often say that working within the DRC and curating the reading series was in many ways my “be in that space and see what the model for this life that I want- true M.F.A. experience.” The reading series was also an early ed looked like. For me,” Smith adds, “the Dark Room was really performance venue for then-emerging talent—from current Bos- about saying, ‘If you want to do this, this is how you do it. And ton poet laureate Danielle Legros Georges to Natasha Trethewey, don’t wait. Do it now.’” RI ’01, U.S. poet laureate from 2012 to 2014. Many others passed through over the years, including Aya de Leon ’08, now director of The audience for literary writing is small, and slimmer still for Poetry for the People at the University of California, Berkeley; poet poetry; by that measure, it’s unsurprising that the Dark Room and critic Carl Phillips ’81; visual artist Ellen Gallagher; sound art- remains obscure. But even dedicated readers of contemporary ist Tracie Morris; and actress Nehassaiu deGannes. In all, the par- verse might know the Collective only as a common footnote to its ticipants’ published books number in the dozens, and they have alumni’s impressive biographies. earned fellowships and nominations and wins for honors like the Over coffee at Lamont Library, Harvard Review poetry editor Ma- National Book Awards, Whiting Awards, and Pulitzer Prizes. jor Jackson, RI ’07, muses, “I almost tweeted this, but am glad that I “Once you’re in, you’re in forever,” declares poet Kevin Young didn’t—,” then just barely hesitates before continuing, “And may- ’92 in his nonfiction inquiryThe Grey Album: On the Blackness of Black- be this is no better—but I think if there were a group of poets who ness. Young joined while still an undergraduate, as did Tracy K. were white and male, or white and male and female, or white and Smith ’94, who remembers thinking, “Oh, wow—these young female, there would have been a documentary made about them people want to be writers, and I want to be a writer, but they’re by now. There would be a movie about them.” Individual mem- actually doing it.” She began to help with lighting at events, just to bers have been celebrated, and the Dark Room has been loosely 32 March - April 2016 associated with those summed accomplishments. But, he says, the Ellis was a projectionist at the Harvard Film Archive and a clerk Collective has not been recognized as a whole: “Maybe we need to at the Grolier Poetry Book Shop. all grow gray hairs before that happens and America catches up.” As Ellis recalls in his 2007 poem “Spike Lee at Harvard,” the bookshop experience was fraught, and in that way, instructive: “I “For Some of Us, It Was Church” got my first glimpse/of the life of poetry/(through the Grolier’s/cin- The dark room collective began with loss. As the mem- ematic glass window).” The life on display was orderly and mono- bers tell it: on December 8, 1987, Strange, Thomas Sayers Ellis, chromatic: the faces in the portraits above the shelves were nearly and their two housemates piled into a car to make it to Harlem all white. At some point, his employer wondered if the black poets by noon, for the funeral of James Baldwin. More than 4,000 paid should be shelved separately so customers might more easily find their respects at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Toni Mor- their work; Ellis said he didn’t think so. (An intervening line, dry rison, Maya Angelou, William Styron, and Amiri Baraka spoke at but not unkind, adds: “Well, at least she asked.”) the service. Strange and Ellis, aspir- ing writers who first met Baraka at a reading at Tufts University, came at his invitation (“It was probably very clear that we needed a lesson in Who We Owed,” Ellis later reflected in an essay) and his eulogy may have left the deepest impression. Baldwin’s spirit “will be with us as long as we remem- ber ourselves,” Baraka told the attend- ees. “For his is the spirit of life thrill- ing to its own consciousness.” Strange had stood in the same room as Baldwin once. He had come to Har- vard for a tea, and, as she later wrote in the literary magazine Mosaic, she felt “too shy to break through the thick clot of fans around him and offer the admiration he had been accustomed to for decades.” She and Ellis, their mourning amplified and made vague by distance, felt their hero’s absence as a double negative; having never known him in person, they missed him twice over. The funeral filled them with new urgency about honor- ing their literary ancestors while they were still alive. They began planning the following spring. In a third-floor room of their house used for storing old photographic equipment, they’d been building a library they christened “The Dark Room: A Collection of Black Writing.” At the time, 31 Inman was already a communal house for artists and activ- ists. Strange worked as a community organizer in Roxbury and as a pris- oner advocate through Cambridge’s American Friends Service Committee; Members of the DRC, photographed by Elsa Dorfman in 2013; from left to right: Sharan Strange, Janice Lowe, Danielle Legros Georges, John Keene, Tisa Bryant, Major Jackson, Artress Bethany White, Thomas Sayers Ellis, Patrick Sylvain, and Tracy K. Smith Photograph © 2016 Elsa Dorfman, RI ’72-’74 Harvard Magazine 33 This homogeneity reflected the shop’s who came through were ex- surrounding scene. Literary events in Snow traordinary”—including, Cambridge rarely featured artists of col- memorably, Alice Walker. or, though a number of prominent black for Toi Derricotte “After the reading,” he re- writers taught in the Boston area. Team- ports, “There was a young ing up with Janice Lowe, a poet and mu- It came once, the year I turned ten. woman who had really been sician studying at the Berklee College of That year they told us how we struggling, and she was cry- Music, Strange and Ellis paid visits to would become women, and I began ing, and she told Alice Walker such eminences as science-fiction writer that her work had basically Samuel R. Delany and future Nobel laure- my monthly vigil. But this was kept her alive. And Alice ate Derek Walcott, asking them to head- the miracle, singular, unexpected. Walker—I’d never seen this— line a new reading series that would pair she left the podium, and came them with a younger writer. The Dark The whites had finally stopped and embraced her.” Room couldn’t offer an honorarium, they resisting. Unwanted at their school, Other young artists also said, but they could promise eager listen- were eager to join what came ers and book sales. we went anyway—historic, our parents to be known as the Dark In their living room, “We met on Sun- intoned, eyes flashing caution Room Collective, and to pay day afternoons after church and for some to our measured breaths. their literal and figurative of us it was church,” Strange wrote. In dues. They put together the fact, they did it “with chairs from the readings and accompanying church,” as Tisa Bryant told an inter- That first martial autumn mellowed musical performances and viewer in 2005. “We’d get some water and into a winter of grudging acceptance art shows. They pooled their some snacks and some stuff and put some and private discontent, a season of hope resources to pay for their music on, clean the house and everybody shaped by fists and threats. guests’ tickets to Boston, for would come in.” Sometimes the space Then angels molted, pelting all gas money to drive them to the grew so full that not everybody could train station and airport—for fit. Spilling onto the porch and down a dinner out if possible, but a the street, the audience listened through of creation with their cast-off garb.