Once, in an alley…

January 18, 2021 | Gregory Adams

“When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.” - Audre Lorde

Having said that of herself, it seems likely Audre Lorde felt herself in the presence of kindred spirits when in the Coffeehouse, a place where people had come to define power for themselves, and where they used all they had in them to show what they could see. She probably sensed not the absence of fear but its temporal inconsequence, not fearlessness, but fierceness instead.

For some, it took the overcoming of fear simply to go to the Coffeehouse. It was in an alley in the very same neighborhood (during the same period) as the alley where the tragic and tragically notorious murder of Catherine Fuller took place. If that could happen to a mother who lived in that community, how safe would it be for LGBT folk walking through an alley there at night? For some, being drawn by something fierce, it didn’t matter. Gathered (sometimes crowded) together in the Coffeehouse, listening to a poet or singer/songwriter, our imaginations and awareness widened by a line or lyric, we were in-the-moment.

It was the memory of such moments that led me in 2017 to e-mail a few friends. Under the subject line, “Let me know if I am mis-remembering,” I wrote two paragraphs about the amorphous community of poets, playwrights and writers; actors and performance artists; singers, songwriters and musicians; dancers and choreographers; and painters, photographers and filmmakers who peopled the Coffeehouse.

Documentarian Michelle Parkerson responded by reminding me that activists were as much a part of our cohort as were artists. Vocalist, poet, performer, and activist Christopher Prince offered to help chronicle our history. Another denizen of the Coffeehouse, painter and printmaker Joyce Wellman, told me to keep writing.

To my regret, I never wrote another word on the subject, so I’m glad to have friends who don’t fault me for my fecklessness but, instead, inspire me. Were it not for their industriousness, I would not be now, four years later, serving on the steering committee of Fierceness Served! The ENIKAlley Coffeehouse and having to italicize those words as I type them because they comprise the title of a film. Michelle is the film’s award-winning director, and Christopher is the project’s indefatigable director. Together with Pamela Jafari and Wayson Jones, the five of us – working with the support of many others – intend to make sure the tale of ENIKAlley is told.

To anyone reading this post, whether you are an artist/activist or not, I pose these questions: do you understand the significance of what you’re doing? Do you have any idea how it might matter not only now but decades from now? When you, as Audre Lorde did, are using your strength in service of your vision, do you imagine someone forty years hence will be referencing it? You probably don’t. We didn’t. You probably are, as we were, in-the-moment. So, let me tell you now: don’t unwittingly dismiss what you and others are doing. If you are daring to be powerful and are caring less and less about your fears, what you are doing matters. Document it. Preserve it. We didn’t, at least not as much as we now know we should have. With the advent of the smartphone and other technologies, you don’t have an excuse.

After having resigned myself to nothing more than a fleeting reminiscence in an e-mail, I’ve now joined friends on a documentary film project. Will wonders never cease? I hope so.

Why Now?

August 9, 2020 | Wayson Jones

I got pissed off, and I decided not to wait.

My anger occurred in the aftermath of a two-part event I attended at the National Gallery of Art, East Wing, in the summer and fall of 2019. A media presentation put together by a DC archivist was presented as telling the story of dc space, a now-defunct nightclub located at the corner of 7th and E Streets NW. “Space” was unique in its blend of local punk bands, poetry, performance art, avant-garde jazz, dinner theater, and more.

I was fortunate to be part of a group of Black lesbian and gay performers and musicians from the ENIKAlley Coffeehouse who began appearing at dc space in the mid-1980s, partly as a result of Coffeehouse founder Ray Melrose being employed at the club as a manager. We were just part of a much larger number of African American performers who graced that stage, including the Sun Ra Arkestra, Don Cherry, Cecil Taylor, The World Saxophone Quartet, Cassandra Wilson, and many others.

None of this Black story was told.

There was plenty about the DC punk rock scene finding a home at dc space, plenty about the punk poets, plenty about the downtown visual arts scene. Our story, not so much. So, after leaving the second of these events, anger freshly stoked, it dawned on me: Why am I waiting for this (white) guy to tell my story?!? I’m going to tell my own story!

Or, rather, our story. The Coffeehouse community was very much like family, and some of its members would go on to national and international renown. But even as we began to spread our wings, the AIDS epidemic cut down some of the brightest lights in their young prime. Those of us who remain face a grim reminder of mortality in the ravages of the Covid-19 pandemic. We also grapple with the assaults of a political regime that seeks to destroy us.

So, once my anger had cooled down to resolve, I told my friends what we should do. They agreed, and we set to work on our documentary project, our storytelling.

More than ever, stories are important. Our stories—the stories of families and friends—are vital, and now is the time to tell them.