Resolving Conflicts: A Poet's Residency in Tulsa

During March, 1996, poet Alice Lovelace was invited to spend one week in Tulsa, Oklahoma, to participate in a year-long series of events highlighting women's lives through the arts and humanities. Events were sponsored by a coalition of Tulsa cultural and social organizations and coordinated by Planned Parenthood of Eastern Oklahoma and Western Arkansas, Inc. Her goals were "to celebrate the private and communal life; to question societal values regarding women; to provoke critical thinking around deeply rooted social issues and conflicts." —Eds.

The Beginning

Georgia Williams:

I attended the Community Arts Revival in Durham, N.C., sponsored by Alternate ROOTS. Alice read her poems "Freakin' Out," "Tomahawk Poem," "A Daughter of Trial (A Sister of Tribulation)." I remember thinking that she could burn poetry into your psyche and I wanted to share her with my community. I have worked as a community arts coordinator for nearly 20 years, and developed good instincts for placing artists with audiences appropriate for their needs and the needs of our community.

There is an excellent core of artists within my own community who need work, so it is important that I have a darn good reason to bring in an artist from outside our region. Knowing Alice's background in arts-in-education and performance, our agency worked with Planned Parenthood, Resonance Listening & Growth For Women and Theatre North to design an introductory one-week residency that would allow us not only to become familiar with her teaching style but to showcase her poetry.

Alice Lovelace:

It was during the 1993 Community Arts Revival that I met Georgia Williams. We shared a meal and talked about the need for community-based residencies that serve the social and emotional needs of a diverse community. Several months later, I gladly accepted Georgia's invitation to visit Tulsa. When she told me my sponsoring partner was Planned Parenthood, I knew Georgia understood how important it was to me that my residency and performance combine the arts and education. I was eager to use this opportunity to bring together my ongoing studies in narrative performance and my unfolding knowledge in the analysis of conflict and the practice of resolution.

Narrative Performance and Conflict Resolution

People often ask me why a poet would decide to get a master's degree in conflict resolution. The first few times I was asked this question, I stuttered, searching for words to convey the connections. But in my heart, I knew this was a natural match. For the past three years I had worked with schools and community organizations to design poetry/narrative-based, conflict-resolution programs for elementary students and incarcerated youth.

My goal: teach them to utilize narrative poetry to access deeply held values and beliefs about conflict, subtle and overt. To explore the possibilities of resolution. But while the institutions gave a lot of lip service to conflict resolution, their concerns were to make the youth more manageable and their jobs easier.

Between the time I agreed to this residency and the day of my departure, the world changed. The images of tortured steel and twisted bodies simmered fresh. As I packed, I recalled the faces of the Oklahoma City tragedy; I remembered my cynicism giving way to tears as rescuers lifted the bodies of children trapped in their daycare center.

The United States spends more tax dollars on munitions than on all social-service programs combined. We are a nation armed for war, yet we are a people uneasy with the idea of being involved in a conflict. The word connotes something wild and out of control. Our choice of responses has not changed since the cave days: fight or flee! Too often violence has become the response of choice, even for our children.

Calling for reconciliation between white and black Americans during a recent visit to Texas, President Clinton blamed the O.J. Simpson trial for exposing the racial gulf that divides Americans by race and class. Those who honor the legacy of the peace and justice movements know that the wounds of intolerance and disparity are old wounds open for all to see; the problem is, few care to examine them.

We need to learn new skills and ways of bridging the social conflicts that separate us. We have yet to assume individual responsibility for the state of our union. To foster understanding, we must keep open the lines of communications.

Clinton was correct when he asserted that "blacks and whites see the world in vastly different ways." (Atlanta Journal/Constitution, 10/17/95). The tragedy is, while blacks are educated to see the world as whites do, few whites take the time or effort to see the other side of the story. And we all need to cease thinking of Native Americans in the past tense or as museum artifacts. The bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City was a wake-up call.

Angry white men are poor white men just like angry black men are poor black men. And while I do not believe we are headed for a race war, I do believe we are building up for a cross-cultural confrontation based on class.

So What Happened?

Despite flight delays and a missed connecting flight, I finally arrive in Tulsa, three hours late. This means Georgia has to drive me directly to my first site, Apache Manor, a secured and gated public housing complex. Apache Manor is clean, the streets appear lifeless—no pets or children. No people sitting on the stoop, no one walking. A guard checks our identification (Georgia vouches for me) and we drive to the apartment where Planned Parenthood operates the "It's Your Future" program:

This is an innovative educational program designed for teenagers in areas of the city where teen pregnancy rates are the highest. It is a holistic approach...which provides the teens with a place where they can go after school, as well as a variety of planned activities that expand their horizons and give them hope for the future.

"Tell us about you," the girls inquire, and I remind myself that a residency begins with the first word uttered:

We birth the babies.
We birth the men folk too.
All the joy in life,
We bring to you.
Wild Womyn,
Come Follow.

I choose this poem because we have only two sessions planned and a lot to talk about.

On the drive to my hotel, Georgia fills me in on the local history and issues, and offers insight on life in Tulsa. Being part of the great movement west, Tulsa continues to hold fast to its image as solitary pioneer struggling against the elements: the rugged individual who neither wants nor seeks help.

My recollection of my stay comes back in fragments. The second day I visit Holland Hall, a private Episcopalian school; my hostess is Ruth Brelsford. For 8 a.m. chapel I deliver a lecture-demo for high-school students. This is the kind of school where emotion-based response is drilled out. All intellect and no emotion. I talk to them about why I write, what I write and what performance means to me. Georgia tells me about one restrained young man seated in front of her who turned to his buddies during chapel reading and confessed, "I just want to get up and dance!"

Journal Entry 3/21/96: I came down from my room in the hotel to find a conference on Native American education. This reminds me of an article where the writer referred to Native Americans as "super Citizens," implying that they get more than they are due. I take a 40-minute walk around downtown Tulsa at 11 a.m. I nod and say hello, but the only person who speaks to me says, "Hey, nice coat."

Following the intergenerational workshop at Osage Hills Apartment Community, I beg for a home-cooked meal. Georgia takes me to Wanda J's. We drive through the remains of a once prosperous community, now vacant lots, unregulated dumps and a sparse display of small businesses. This is the African-American side of Tulsa. It is obvious that for generations there has been no investment, no development. This community has been sucked dry and exposed, like a dust bowl. But the food at Wanda J's is heaven and home.

My thoughts turn to a letter I read in the local free paper, Urban Tulsa. A man wrote, "Civil human contact, if it occurs at all, has dwindled to a few locations—work, stores and social circles." I ask Georgia if this is true. "It's true," she answers, "it's true."

At the Write Place, I am greeted by a room filled with a diverse group of writers. We begin. I share with them my ideas about the role of poet as performer and the power of the human voice. They ask what I require. Flexibility in space, audience and script. What do I strive for? Minimal separation between me and the audience. I ask them to tell me what they think, to tell me stories, urge them to speak. I press for a dialogue.

In all of my work this dialogue is essential. This asking is my way of seeking permission to involve myself in my audiences' affairs, an essential part of the ritual leading up to the performance.

Next is a workshop at Resonance, a volunteer-based nonprofit organization dedicated to providing programs of support for women of all ages who are experiencing change or adversity, or wish to realize their full potential. My audience is composed of social-service providers from several agencies. More talk about the performer as a mediator of social conflict. I share with them what I have come to know and understand about the work of Augusto Boal and his process of Theatre of the Oppressed (TO).

Every day, like those faithful circuit riders of the old west, Georgia delivers me to my post. Along the way, we collect audience and interest. I listen for local issues and perspectives, listening mostly for the unsaid. From several people, black and white, I hear whispers of "Little Africa." Bits and pieces about a mass lynching and an affluent black community wiped out during a white riot in 1921. I hear scars deep and silencing; the unspoken message I receive loud and clear: harmony above all.

I ask Georgia if she knows any local drummers who might be willing to join me. It is essential that someone from this community stand with me. She refers me to Askia Toure. On Saturday, we meet at the Living Arts Gallery and sort of rehearse. I begin reading a poem and he comes in with a beat on his djimba. We settle on four or five tunes. He will rehearse the other drummers, which include his wife, Carmen, and another couple, Jason and Borah. I am off to find incense and objects for the altar.

Narrative Performance as a Social Conciliation

Conciliation, as an alternative dispute-resolution strategy, provides a forum for disputing parties to deal with emotion and values perceived as barriers to forward movement, personal or social. Like the mediator in conciliation, as a narrative performer I have the power to carry the message—this power exists as long as the audience is together and they want to possess it. I act as a facilitator of issues, separating the people from the problem. Through the saying, I probe deep feelings and thoughts. My obligation is to honor the audience and respect the limits of their emotional/social situation.

I accept the responsibility to facilitate a process (performance) to improve the emotional health of disputants (audience). Combining the theory and practice of narrative performance and conflict resolution in a process of community artmaking allows the parties (audience) to hear the difficult. It encourages the discovery of common territory, and aspires to transform conflict into energy, to conceive of and strive for social change.

Marie MacLean, author of Narrative as Performance, believes narrative is, "...how we organize our verbal thinking...essential to how we develop memory, communicate ideas and learn. Narrative performance...involves an intimate relationship which, like all such relationships, is at once a co-operation and a contest, an exercise in harmony and a mutual display of power."

West Africans and Native Americans have high regard for the story and the teller as a source of magic. Michelle LaBaron Duryea, associate professor of conflict analysis and resolution at George Mason University, understands why these cultures value stories: "Stories communicate values, beliefs, hopes, fears and dreams of a people in a way that engenders respect and understanding in the listener. They are vehicles that touch not only the intellect but the spirit. They move us beyond the rational 'yes' towards getting to the more fundamental 'heart.'"

Reflections on the Performance

In the beginning was the word
and the word was power
the word was protection

Georgia:

The culminating event, Saturday night's performance at Living Arts, filled the room with youth from private schools and housing communities, and adults from several areas of the community. Standing room only. This was the first time, that I know of, that our community was so enthusiastic about attending a poetry event.

Alice challenged them to find a way to honor anger and understand that it doesn't mean danger or violence is evident, only that something is out of sync. As a white female, I know that my people suppress our anger. Anger suppressed turns into denial because you learn to fear the expression of anger. We think nothing of expecting others to suppress their anger to maintain harmony. Following the performance, people shared conversation and food. It was a time to meet new people, to cross a few bridges.

Alice:

My work is rooted in ritual and myth. I pay homage to the past and ask permission from those present to proceed. Narrative performance predates the advent of literature and drama. The theoretical and aesthetic root of my work is narrative performance. Narrative is performance married in the body of the performer (sayer), the text (saying) and the audience (hearer). Narrative depends on the relationship between context—what is capable and what is expected—and the requirement that it engage an audience in a dialogue.

The ability to maintain "textual authority" and the audience's acceptance of my guidance depends on constant feedback. Eye contact and silent cues lets them know that I am actively listening for their input. Identifying the fringes—pulling all towards center—creating a place for the difficult to be heard. Success, according to MacLean, depends on "the power of the text over the players involved."

The challenge is to use the energy generated by anger, first to address issues that incite anger, to seize the thoughts that trigger the anger and to challenge the thoughts in an effort to deflate and redirect the anger. As the sayer, I mitigate the conflict the audience feels because the message is sent in ways that allow people to hear what is being said. Together we begin the process of evaluation and reflection. I hope this will encourage qualitative critical thinking about our situation, turning conflict into energy to create social change.

I strive to create segments that reflect the greater whole. My role as the sayer parallels the roles assigned to the Joker in Boal's process of Theatre of the Oppressed and the Third Party Intervener in conflict resolution.

Askia Toure, lead drummer:

Ritual paved the way for Alice to touch those folks. In many ways it became more than a performance—a conversation and dialogue. She got that permission—like a preacher gets his amen in church. Permission to go deeper, let's talk about this. She made the audience aware of some issues that I know people in Tulsa have never thought about. What was said is often not said in Tulsa—but often felt. That was the gift of [her] saying.

Harriet Harris, who was in the audience that night:

I went willingly into Alice's life through her poetry that eloquently expressed her love, pain, fears, hopes, dreams, and what it feels like to be a revolutionary woman.... Her poems are contributing in all ways—socially, culturally, politically and intellectually...[they] transcend race, religion and political affiliation.

What Next?

Georgia:

Even though we are a deeply troubled society, our future is being redefined by people of capacity and conscience—like Alice. She allowed me to achieve my goal as a community coordinator, to redefine what the spirit of community is about. My community wants her to return.

The workshop with service providers from Planned Parenthood, Resonance, Call Rape and Theatre North inspired the staff at Resonance to work to develop a way to use intervention theater/TO techniques. This would include working with women who are participating in a post-release program that helps them determine a positive future. The idea is to bring Alice back to work with our community artists and social-service providers on the philosophy and practice of intervention theater. We were inspired by Alice's skills as a facilitator of social transformation and as a mentor. And, of course, another public performance.

The Last Word

Alice:

I am a narrative performer, giving voice to the sayings, feelings, images and sounds of my people. Together, narrator and audience, we make art. Creation and reflection. Tradition demands that I honor the past. My pledge is to sustain and pass on the cultural evolution representative of a community of people and a community of spirit. I assist in the maintenance of a free society by providing a crucial social intervention, mediating conflicts of class, race and religion.

I am the metaphor, crossed with time,
defying traditional dimensions.
Bridging the tri-continental cultural
divides of this, my nation, to nourish
the emotional intellect of my audience.

This essay originally appeared in High Performance magazine, Summer 1996.

Original CAN/API publication: September 2002