The “Laymon Letter”: Kiese Laymon and Epistolary Art in the HBCU Writing Classroom
Kenneth L. Johnson II, College of Charleston
As I began graduate school, one of my best friends was incarcerated for a short time. I understood actions had consequences, but I was unsure how to be there for him (let’s call him Chance), save the routine of visitation or responding to his letters. Although I am an adult and well past middle school, letter writing as a means of communication was not foreign to me. As adolescents without cell phones, we used ornately written and folded letters as our primary communication. However, at the time, the social conditions pre-determined who could write to whom, and to write to another boy, platonically or otherwise, was to make oneself a target of sneers, jeers, and the threat of violence. It could prove a costly mistake as one negotiated the journey from boy to man. The entire practice was all a bit too delicate, vulnerable and, frankly, feminine for communication from one boy to another. However, later, I would consider how writing letters could be an exercise in vulnerability and a practice of self-expression, reflection, analysis, intimacy, and love.
I wrote to Chance about the goings-on of “the outside,” which seemed something I needed to do to be a good, supportive friend. I missed us hanging out and the laughter we shared, so writing letters was a welcomed respite between visits until I found out Chance possibly did something wrong to me. I was alerted by our mutual friend that I was (allegedly) one of a few innocent bystanders [victims?] of the crimes Chance committed. I considered many questions: why did he do this? Why would he do this to us – to me? I stopped visiting him and, ultimately, stopped writing to him. Then, I never thought critically enough about the letter as a vehicle to work through how I felt betrayed, unappreciated as a friend, and hurt because of breached trust. The letter was never an option for me to critically assess where our shortcomings in communication lay. I never even asked what he did or confirmed the allegations. Eventually, I got over it because I missed my best friend. Until this day, though, I have not expressed how I felt in the moment: the anger, hurt, questions, and seeming betrayal. However, what is also important is the journey from reflection to introspection and, ultimately, forgiveness.
As a writing instructor, I teach about writing’s utility in academic contexts and its importance for the workforce. The letter, until very recently, was never an integral genre of writing in my research or pedagogy. I never focused on the healing power of letters from one Black man to another or contemplated their critical praxis of love. Then, I read Kiese Laymon’s memoir-in-essays, How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America (2013, 2020).[1] While some scholars briefly mention Laymon’s letters, they are used as an aside to James Baldwin and Ta-Nehisi Coates[2] even as they emphasize Laymon’s stylistic departure with his inclusion of responses to his letters. While both Baldwin and Coates penned public, honest, and necessary letters to a nephew and a son, respectively, the lack of response from the recipients left something to be desired. Laymon intentionally crafts a book including epistolary exchanges between him and his friends. For me, Laymon pushes forward the genre of Black men’s public epistles, moving from instructional writing heuristic to a transactional exchange of ideas, experiences, and love. With the inclusion of the responses from those to whom he wrote, Laymon made tangible the gravity of the letter I never sent to Chance, of the emotions and words I never wrote or vocalized. Further, and most importantly, I realized how letters and the responses they warranted were spaces of self-care, healing, therapy, friendship, forgiveness, and love.
As an instructor at Florida A&M University (FAMU), I encountered hundreds of students with a healthy distrust of writing and literature inherited from past traumatic educational experiences. At Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs), instructors cannot rest our interests solely in the academic progress of our students. As universities shift toward career-readiness, transdisciplinarity in writing situates the writing classroom at the center of students’ career readiness. Writing classrooms must champion interdisciplinary thinking and life readiness as much as it prioritizes academic writing skills. HBCUs pride themselves on historically accepting, molding, and preparing Black students to enter a society that “looks on in amused contempt and pity” (Du Bois, p. 7). It means as an instructor, we must want students to do more than just survive (Love). In We Want to do More Than Survive: Abolitionist Teaching and the Pursuit of Educational Freedom, Bettina Love defines Abolitionist Teaching as “the practice of working in solidarity with communities of color while drawing on the imagination, creativity, refusal, (re)membering, visionary thinking, healing, rebellious spirit, boldness, determination, and subversiveness of abolitionists to eradicate injustice in and outside of schools” (p. 2). We accept students where they are: many failed by an education system built to leave them behind; many battle-tested and broken by family situations marred by economic disparity, homelessness, and abuse; many who desperately want to connect to a culture from which they have been intentionally disassociated by virtue of parenting choices or socio-economic advantage. At any rate, seeing these students fully for who they are and where they are is a challenge HBCU writing instructors face when creating safe and brave spaces for every student.
As a scholar who focuses on the works of Laymon, I am constantly thinking about the usability of his work in and outside of the classroom. In my research, I discuss how Laymon’s writing contains a thread of the journey to freedom and what freedom means to him and his characters. Further, Laymon employs multiple forms of literacy to aid himself and his characters in navigating the United States South (and beyond). New Literacy Studies (NLS) as an extension of Literacy argues “literacy was something people did in the world and in society, not just inside their heads… People do not just read and write texts; they do things with them, things that often involve more than just reading and writing” (Gee, 35; 36). This practice undergirds my classroom pedagogy: creating spaces where students can be and express themselves as whole, complex people and critically engage with their “stank,” as Laymon might call it.[3] Aside from Laymon’s openness about his practices of drafting and revision, his ability to embrace the dirtiest, most damaging, and traumatic experiences in his life proves to be a perfect example of how students can explore their “stank” to become better writers.
Laymon’s How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America is an exercise in the hope of “find[ing]radical possibilities”; to “have radical friendships rooted in courage and healthy choices” (2020, p. xv). It is an exercise in re-imagining and envisioning a new future by interrogating memory. It is, as he states, “one of the many radical possibilities of friendship forged in books” (Laymon, 2020, p. xvi). Comprised primarily of personal essays, the book takes deviations with the inclusion of letters penned by Laymon, his family members, or friends. These letters construct a chamber of echoes, creates community through multivocality, attends to the interiority of black male and masculine subjects, and fosters the sharing and receiving of love between black men and within black families. In “We Will Never Ever Know,” two letters penned by Laymon and his Aunt Sue, Laymon’s letter to his now-deceased uncle moves the book from a theory of love to a praxis of love.
Studying Laymon’s letter to Uncle Jimmy sparked questions for me about how his experience of writing as healing and self-care could translate to the writing classroom, specifically at an HBCU. I pondered: how could instructors prioritize the whole student in the curriculum and pedagogy in our writing classrooms? How do assignments nurture both the writerly skills of students and attend to the interiority of their person? How does a student’s “stank” strengthen their writerly voice? How have students’ experiences transformed their viewpoint of people, systems, and society? How can we leverage their lived experiences in strengthening writing skills but also cultural awareness, individual strength, and the value of resistance and resilience? These reflections are why I approach my curriculum through the lens of love: love of writing and its benefits; love of education, particularly the mission and vision of HBCUs; and, most important, love of Black people and their various stories and complexities — good, bad, and everything in between. Leading students through what I call the “Laymon Letter” challenges students to interrogate their interior selves through the practice of what Dorothy Lander and John R. Graham-Pole (2009) call “epistolary art.”
The “Laymon Letter” is an assignment modeled after Laymon’s letter to Uncle Jimmy, where students use strained or lost relationships to reflect, heal, and grow through writing. The premise is to write to someone who cannot write you back. For some, this could mean writing to a person who has passed away. For others, the addressee represents a relationship lost or ignored, one they actively grieve and emotionally, spiritually, mentally, and even physically carry with them daily. Through this assignment, students actively revisit people and situations that haunt them daily; burdensome experiences necessitating a suppression of words and emotions in exchange for the veil of emotional stability and a cloak of infallibility – or forgiveness. The “Laymon Letter” challenges students to be courageous; to remind themselves of the power they yield to choose love, forgiveness, and healing. Further, it accomplishes a few things. First, it validates each student’s right to their own language (Smitherman, 1995) and (re)introduces (or reinforces) the idea of the individual voice in writing and within the writing classroom. Second, students contend with academic writing through lived experience, a concept many express “never happened for them.” Third, it promotes writing as a practice within and beyond the classroom. Finally, it situates writing, specifically letters, as a means of reconciliation, love, healing, and self-care. In implementing this assignment in my HBCU classroom, students not only engage with the oft-underused letter as a means of communication, self-reflection, and analysis, but learn the value of love, reconciliation, and self-care in overcoming personal and academic barriers.
The process of this assignments looks as follows: 1) A pre-assignment, low-stakes discussion post about the skepticism of completing the assignment; 2) reading, listening to, and discussing Laymon’s letter and Chicago rapper Vic Mensa’s epistle-in-rap “Heaven on Earth”; 3) drafting, revising, and submission; and 4) a post-assignment reflection. Through the process outlined below, students experience how letter writing operates as a transformative, therapeutic, and reconciliatory genre of writing, as well as writing’s usage within and beyond the borders of the writing classroom. The “Laymon Letter” allows them to take a step toward acknowledging and reconciling grief, simultaneously strengthening their connection with writing, and moving them toward a journey of healing.
Step 1: The Pre-Assignment Questionnaire
After introducing the assignment in class, I audibly ask students what they are thinking about the assignment. While some verbalize quips like “I don’t know about this,” the majority of students sit silently, stewing on the monumental ask of them and its relationship to their grade. Because so many anxieties are present due to the content and nature of the assignment, as well as social anxiety about speaking out in class, I offer students a written space to express their concerns entering into the assignment. In a low-stakes discussion post, students respond to the following questions: 1) What are your anxieties about writing this letter? 2) What is your intended outcome for this letter? 3) What is your expected outcome for this letter? Regarding “anxieties,” we mutually understood it to mean the apprehensions and uneasiness experienced when approaching an assignment dealing with issues rooted in what is considered deeply traumatic or painful. Some students expressed sentiments about conjuring up emotions they have intentionally suppressed for years, some of them their entire lives. They stated things like:
“I know I won't get a response from her even though she was the only person I ever listened to.”
“It's hard to even think about my trauma and memories when writing this letter because I feel I will never actually get the closure I need... well, the closure that I want.”
“If I write this letter, I will have to come back to reality, and I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet. I expect this letter to take a toll on me for a while because though it might lift a burden, it still won’t undo the past.”
Others were concerned with the point of writing to someone who cannot respond, particularly due to death. They cited culturally based ideas about not speaking ill of the deceased:
“I've always been taught to only refer to the positive about people who are deceased. Especially someone like my grandfather. In my letter I won't be disrespectful or anything close to that but it just doesn't feel right to dwell on the past if they are no longer with us physically.”
I have found students are much more willing to express the anxiety the assignment brings in a written forum, where they can also dialogue with other students in a more comfortable environment for them.
As much as this assignment causes a flood of emotions, students are interested in the prospects on the other side of the emotional rollercoaster. In All About Love: New Visions, bell hooks (2001) states, “When we are wounded in the place where we would know love, it is difficult to imagine that love really has the power to change everything” (p. 209). In our discussions of Laymon and Mensa, students were comforted by the hope the letters offered, as well as the practice of writing as a means of releasing and displacing memories of being “belittled when speaking on the subject” (student response). I constantly impress upon them the value of their voices and how trauma thwarts their ability to be vulnerable writers, particularly when utilizing their personal lives as source material.
Through conversations on love, in the text and classroom, students begin to turn away from focusing on what the reader may feel about what is written to focusing on how the act of writing frees them. In the assignment sheet (where I outline the assignment’s objectives, directions, and other guidelines for successful completion), I reiterate the exercise is as much about them becoming whole and healed than it is about assessment and evaluation of their writing abilities or reconciliation of these damaged relationships. This brings students comfort because, for many of them, classroom writing has only ever been a tool to assess their level of traditional literacy, mastery of Standard English (SE), and, far too often, their intellectual abilities and readiness to succeed at the next grade or educational level.
Step 2: Understanding Laymon’s Letter and Mensa’s “Heaven on Earth” as Epistolary Art
While researching and writing about Laymon, his emphasis on writing to the deceased was of considerable interest to me. What is the utility of this practice and how might we better understand grief through this practice? In their article “Love Letters to the Dead: Resurrecting an Epistolary Art,” Lander and Graham-Pole (2009) champion “the art of letter writing, specifically to our beloved dead, as a form of autoethnographic research, pedagogy, and care work” (p. 313). As palliative care researchers, Lander and Graham-Pole examine letter writing to the dead as “direct, non mediated communication,” doubling as a form of healing for bereaved people (2009, p. 313). Focusing on what they call “epistolary art,” they trace the essential conventions of letters written from bereaved family members to their deceased loved ones and the building of narrative relationships between giver and receiver, teller and listener. (Lander and Graham-Pole, 2009, p. 314) Tracing the history of epistolary art, Lander and Graham-Pole state the following information from 19th-century letter writing manuals:
…the letter should give the illusion of oral communication: “A letter is a conversation between people who are absent from one another… To succeed at it, imagine that you are in the presence of whomever you are addressing, that they can hear the sound of your voice and their eyes are fixed on yours.” (2009, p. 316)
Letters, inherently intimate, elevate their intimacy through dialogue invoking emotions and memories. Especially true in letters from loved one to loved one, the mannerisms, voice inflections, and specific languaging quirks (syntax, vernacular, dialect, etc.) become audible, making the interaction more authentic. Lander and Graham-Pole reference Sandra Bertman’s book Grief and the Healing Arts: Creativity as Therapy (1999), which examines creative art outlets in the palliative care process. This practice, according to Bertman, is transformative based on its “power for engaging relation.” Bertman states:
…initially [grief] captures us, but we can capture it back and reshape it; and the expressive arts and therapies function beautifully as vehicles to help us reshape grief. Ultimately, the potential for healing in the midst of suffering exists because grief is about creating and transforming bonds of attachment, not severing them irrevocably.” (as cited in Lander & Graham-Pole, 2009)
Epistolary art as a theory and practice allows for a critical understanding of Laymon’s rhetorical maneuvering in his letter to Uncle Jimmy on his journey through grief, regret, and ultimately, healing. Further, giving students the language to name this genre and practice of writing strengthens their understanding of the possibility of letter writing, academic writing, and out-of-classroom-writing coexisting.
“We Will Never Ever Know” are letters through which Laymon and Aunt Sue pour their hearts out to a now-deceased Jimmy, whose life, full of turmoil and bad choices, and death impact them in multiple ways. Laymon’s passionate, honest, and (at times) desperate letter illuminates the warnings left by his Uncle Jimmy in life and death. Laymon reminisces on his memories of Uncle Jimmy, ones leading to his death, and characterizes him as a man who loved his family and their time spent together. In humanizing a troubled Jimmy, Laymon reflects on and assesses his life and how his actions affect his entire family. Laymon sees how ignoring Uncle Jimmy as a warning plays a role in his mistakes, which impacted his mom, grandma, and other family members. Though Laymon is not Jimmy, they bear many similarities, and his family is careful to emphasize this in their stern, yet loving, conversations with him about his life and the choices he makes. The first portion of Laymon’s letter is a space for remembering Jimmy and his sameness with the people who surrounded, knew, and loved him, a necessary realization.
In the second portion of his letter to Jimmy, Laymon writes about his inability to love Jimmy and expresses the needed vulnerability to have conversations with Jimmy grounded in love. He recalls his shortcomings in vocalizing an unconditional love that could have transformed his relationship with Jimmy and their individual lives. He does this by creating space for Jimmy to seemingly respond to him; through rhetorical maneuvering, he steps inside of Jimmy’s metaphorical body, gives it life, and reflects upon the ways in which he overlooks his path merging with Jimmy’s. Laymon offers he “could have finally said ‘Uncle Jimmy, you drowning yourself with that crack and all that hate. Ain’t nothing really behind your smile, man. I love you and I need you to live’” (2020, p. 152). To this, Laymon steps outside of himself and into his deceased uncle and states, “And you could have told me, ‘There’s more than one way to drown, nephew. You looking pretty wet yourself. I know I’m under that water. You know where you at?’” (2020, p. 152). Laymon reimagines, reinscribes, and works toward and through his guilt as a form of radical self-care.
In this conversation between himself and Jimmy, tough life lessons are reflected back to Laymon, and because he is speaking to himself, the space is now reflective of his role in their relationship. Though Laymon does not outright blame himself for the state of their relationship before Jimmy’s demise, he is critical and thoughtful about how those shortcomings worked against the relationship he could have forged with Jimmy. This maneuver is transformative because not only does Laymon purge his unspoken words and feelings about Uncle Jimmy but constructs the space they both were unable to create while Jimmy was alive. He re-imagines their relationship through a praxis of love.
Taking a similar approach to Laymon’s letter writing is Chicago rapper Vic Mensa. As he is personally familiar with the themes of love, loss, and a critical lack of vulnerability, Mensa’s first studio album, The Autobiography narrativizes the hardship of his life as a Black man in America. While Chicago is not geographically, socially, economically, or even ideologically similar to rural Mississippi, the Great Migration of Black folks from the Deep South to the Midwest creates a sense of connectedness between Mensa and Laymon, as well as strengthens the connection of their epistolary art as avenues for Black men (and others engaged in the practice) to reflect, grow, and heal.
As writing is as much a part of hip-hop as the act of rapping, Mensa does not shy away from consumers understanding the project as primarily a writerly text. The album’s cover art shows Mensa, sitting alone on an apartment floor, surrounded by wads of balled up paper. While he sits, he is actively in the process of writing in a notebook. In discussing this image, students immediately understand hip-hop as first, a practice of writing; that the voice comes alive only after words have been written, and in Mensa’s case, revised and edited. Further, Mensa inserts a book where he inserts pictures of himself, the subjects of his various songs, and lyrics. He amps up the consumer’s awareness of him as a writer through the insertion of these lyrics by incorporating evidence of his active and close reading—using a literal red pen. Mensa uses the red pen to highlight his own usage of figurative language, edits of typographical errors, and revision of sentences and ideas. That he intentionally shows his writing process about his own story begins the process of conflating personal experience and the act of writing in the minds of students. In listening (and reading) Mensa’s track “Heaven on Earth,” the similarities in Laymon’s and Mensa’s approach to letter writing are eerily similar. Further, through “Heaven on Earth,” students compare and comprehend nommo[4] as an indispensable tool when drafting dynamic, dialogic letters.
“Heaven on Earth” is Mensa’s reckoning with the murder of his brother, Cam. Structurally, “Heaven on Earth” operates much like Laymon’s letter to Jimmy; however, there are three letters, all voiced by Mensa, but written from different viewpoints of the events leading up to and immediately following Cam’s murder. In this way, Mensa assumes the role as each speaker: himself, Cam, and his brother’s unidentified shooter. He uses the same rhetorical strategy as Laymon when he voices Uncle Jimmy, allowing the letters to serve as a mirror, a space where he remembers and reflects about not only his brother’s murder but also his process of grieving. In the first letter, Mensa writes/speaks to Cam in Heaven, lamenting about having to attend his funeral and his visceral hurt in digesting the reality of his death. Mensa is open concerning his grief, undoubtedly so because of the private yet intimate space afforded via the letter. Even as he states, “I’m tearing up, man, it’s hard to put this shit in words” (Mensa, 2017, track 11), words are the vehicle through which Mensa expresses and accepts actively grieving Cam’s murder. While in many ways the voice gives way to words on the paper, in this case, Mensa’s written words are brought back to life when vocalized on the track. The gravity of his visceral grief is continually made prominent throughout the song, particularly when Mensa steps outside of himself and creates his echo.
In letter two, Mensa voices the deceased Cam, who responds via letter from Heaven. He uses the first person “I” in voicing Cam, fully stepping outside of himself to using Cam as a mirror through which he can assess his process of grief. As his mirror, Cam reminds Mensa of all the good things going on in his life and career but warns him of poor choices. This self-reflection is poignant because through Cam, Mensa can ask himself “How could you wanna die, shit is so good for you?” (Mensa, 2017, track 11). Cam offers him advice and celebrates his successes which, through this mirrored voicing, is therapeutic for Mensa. Like Laymon, the letter allows him to speak to himself and confront they ways he is not only killing himself, but also those around him. Letter three brings these ideas together: Cam’s anonymous killer responds to Mensa’s letter, detailing his role in Cam’s murder. Mensa highlights the killer’s cognitive dissonance as he reveals himself as Cam’s murderer and one of Mensa’s fans. Through the nuances of the letter, ending with his confession of seeing Mensa’s post about Cam and stating “Damn” (2017, track 11), Mensa avoids the stereotypical ending salutation “sincerely,” leaving space for himself to process how his fan could kill his brother and the process of grief on his journey to healing.
Much like Laymon, death and space impede the conversations between Mensa, Cam, and Cam’s killer from happening face to face, but through letters, both Laymon and Mensa have tough conversations with themselves while processing grief. Both Laymon and Mensa use their letters to process and understand pain, anger, and grief, and use them as a catalyst to adopt a praxis of love on their way to healing. “Heaven on Earth” proves a perfect companion to Laymon’s letter to Uncle Jimmy for students to understand how letters operate as a step toward forgiveness and healing from grief and trauma of relationships (and loved ones) lost. In analyzing these two narrative approaches, students see the value of writing beyond the classroom and the usefulness of personal stories within academic spaces as a valuable tool to find, accept, and depend on their writerly (and audible) voices.
Step 3: Drafting, Revision, and “The Black Interior”
After reading and discussing Laymon’s and Mensa’s rhetorical choices and content in the classroom, I have found students display considerable interest in how this approach would work for them; however, as expected, there exists questions in their minds: who would I write to? How would I write to them? What would I gain from writing this letter to someone who I have worked so long at forgetting? How do I/Do I want to handle the expected rush of emotions I will feel when drafting this assignment? I impress upon them that to achieve this, they must use their letter to interrogate what Elizabeth Alexander (2004) calls the “Black interior.” In her book of the same name, Alexander defines the black interior as:
…black life and creativity behind the public face of stereotype and limited imagination. The black interior is a metaphysical space beyond the black public everyday toward power and wild imagination that black people ourselves know we possess but need to be reminded of. It is a space that black people ourselves have policed at various historical moments. Tapping into this black imaginary helps us envision what we are not meant to envision: complex black selves, real and enactable black power, rampant and unfetishized black beauty. (p. x)
Understanding the “Black interior” is necessary to resist anxieties about writing through trauma and toward healing. When students realize wading through their “stank” is necessary to reach the assignment’s desired outcome, they are more comfortable about the emotional, mental, and physical work required by the assignments. They are, as Alexander offers, able to (re)envision themselves beyond monolithic stereotypes, cultural socialization of the showing strength through hiding and suppressing emotions and “keeping business in the house,” and the façade of being “okay.” They understand their hurt and pain as catalysts to their showcase their strength; that without the trauma, the beauty of their resilience and the complexity of their humanity is all but a masquerade.
Once students begin the drafting process, they are transparent about the emotions they experienced, many are shocked at the act of writing as an opened floodgate of suppressed emotions. Further, students expressed sentiments like, “To deal with the emotions I encountered, I would stop for a few minutes and just sit there and calm myself down but sometimes the emotions would help me write more and tell how I felt” (student response). The outpouring of words and emotions were the most notable experiences, as well as the classroom space being safe enough to navigate these experiences.
Step 4: The Post-Assignment Reflection
Upon submission of the final draft of their letters, we all took a moment to breathe and reflect. Students were, in many ways, exhausted and shocked about the physical, mental, and emotional toll the letter had on them. We took time in class to debrief about their experience as writers of this letter, but I rely upon the discussion board for the raw, unfiltered emotions to pour out. While many students were glad it was over, others were hopeful about the practice of writing in the future. Some offered their embrace of writing outside of the classroom as a means to cope with life things; others specifically raved about the letter and its utility to address more specific, person-to-person issues they dealt with. Some students were glad to simply get these feelings off of their chest and onto paper, and some were excited about giving their letter to those who were alive to read them. Love and its transformational possibilities had encouraged them to fully submit to a praxis of grieving and healing.
The act of Black people loving one another is revolutionary in a world where we must continuously vocalize that we—our lives, our experiences, our love—matter. When students expressed “I learned that I’m stronger than I thought I was, especially when thinking back to me going through traumatic experiences I didn’t know were traumatic,” I am filled with hope. I am at once relieved students dove into their “stank” head-first, revealing their “dogged strength alone [that] keeps [them] from being torn asunder” (Du Bois, p. 7), but also proud of the thought and care they took of themselves. Students decried their trauma, choosing love, peace, and healing through a praxis of writing. They understood writing as a journey instead of a destination, and reconciled with writing not as an academic foe, but a loyal and dependable friend. This is the power of the “Laymon Letter”: it takes what brutally bombards our thoughts, feelings, and actions and reimagines our hurt through the lens of love, healing, and forgiveness. Through this assignment—through writing—students learn to heal from within, to let love be our ethic, and they join the fight with bravery and earnestness. Their courage strengthened my call to be an instructor who leads students to freedom (and wholeness) via writing and literature.
Final Thoughts
“I know this is super random, but I would like to let you know that I really enjoyed you as a professor. Your epistle assignment gave me space in my heart to release the anger I had towards my father. His flight lands in the afternoon and I will finally be seeing him again after eight years. Thank you.”
This message was sent to me months after my first attempt of the “Laymon Letter” in a first-year writing class at FAMU. I was overcome with emotion and decided I would continue to assign (the now) “Laymon Letter” to each first-year writing course I taught, especially at HBCUs. In assigning this letter, perhaps for the first time, I felt a nearness to my students in terms of the dynamics of power in the classroom. I often verbalize how my classroom is a community based on a mutually beneficial dynamic: I learn from my students as much as they learn from me. However, the discussions on Laymon and this assignment allows me to see myself as in the boat with students versus solely navigating the ship. In All About Love, hooks (2001) writes:
“Individuals who choose to love can do and alter our lives in ways that honor the primacy of a love ethic. We do this by choosing to work with individuals we admire and respect; by committing to give our all to relationships; by embracing a global vision wherein we see our lives and our fate as intimately connected to those of everyone else on the planet.” (pp. 87-88)
While I focused on the experiences of my students’ abilities to overcome barriers created by traumatic experiences, selfishly, I removed myself from the process – I never participated alongside them, even as I was constantly asked “who would you write a letter to?” Now, more than ever, I relate to Laymon’s withholding of love from Jimmy, or, as he references Baldwin, “knock[ing]” his “hustle”[5] (2020, p. 70). The “Laymon Letter” assignment helped me understand and feel the impact of depriving myself of the freedom I was desperately exposing to my students. In creating and teaching this assignment, I exposed myself and my students to a transgressive pedagogy of love through letters and hip-hop, through which student and teacher learn to value the power of writing as an act of radical self-love and transformation. Although I felt I never had anyone to write to alongside my students, I often reflected on my personal experiences and how art therapy helped me to understand and resolve internal conflicts I carried with me daily. I would often have lightbulb moments in front of students, where discussions led me to connect dots in my life. We created a shared spaced of healing, and in doing so, the students became more vulnerable. Although there is always anxiety about what the letter would conjure, they joined me in taking the risk of letting love lead them on a journey to healing through writing.
Recently, while moving to begin a new academic appointment, I found an old notebook with the last letter I wrote to Chance but never sent. This moment was different; it was defining. As I reflect on the strength of my students and their trust in me to guide them toward healing and forgiveness, I am emboldened and embrace love as I revisit, revise, and mail the letter I never sent.
[1] The first version of How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America was published in 2013. Laymon bought back the rights to his book and republished the revised version in 2020.
[2] James Baldwin published The Fire Next Time in 1963 and Ta-Nehisi Coates published Between the World and Me in 2015.
[3] In his essay “Da Art of Storytellin’ (A Prequel),” Laymon states “stank” is “root and residue of black Southern poverty, and devalued black Southern labor, black Southern excellence, black Southern imagination, and black Southern woman magic. This was the stank from whence black Southern life, love, and labor came.”
[4] In Keepin’ it Hushed: The Barbershop and African American Hush Harbor Rhetoric, Vorris L. Nunley defines nommo as “the material and symbolic power of the spoken word” (p. 3).
[5] In How to Slowly Kill Yourself, Laymon discusses “knocking one’s hustle” was to not withhold truth; to verbalize the hurt, pain, and trauma one imposes upon you, directly or indirectly. He states that to knock another Black man’s hustle was “not how one Black man should love another” (p. 72).
References
Alexander, E. (2004). The black interior. Graywolf Press.
Bertman, S. (1999). Grief and the healing arts: Creativity as therapy. Baywood Publishing Company.
Du Bois, W.E.B. (2009). The souls of black folk. Simon & Schuster Paperbacks.
Gee, J. P. (2015). “The new literacy studies.” The Routledge handbook of literacy studies. Routledge.
hooks, bell. (2001). All about love: New visions. William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
Golub, A (2012). Teaching American Studies as a habit of mind. In S. Bronner, ed., Encyclopedia of American Studies Online Forum 3. https://www.theasa.net/node/4919.
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Kenneth L. Johnson, II is an Assistant Professor of African American Literature at the College of Charleston in Charleston, SC. He has taught courses on Kiese Laymon, Toni Morrison, contemporary Black men’s memoirs, and “Fire in Little Africa,” a hip-hop album commemorating the centennial of the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre. Currently, he is working on a monograph tentatively entitled Knocking the Hustle: Epistolary Echoes in Black Men’s Public Letter Writing, an exploration of the utility of Black men’s letter writing toward healing, a praxis of love, and revisioning the definition and expression of Black masculinity.