You sometimes hear that one sure sign of crazy people is that they often refer to themselves in the third person. If that's true, Larnell Custis Butler, the 65 year-old local African-American letter writer, may qualify for that distinction. After all, she is not completely unfamiliar with mental illness, having spent some time in treatment for severe postpartum depression after her first child was born. During an introductory telephone interview she opened the conversation by reading a lengthy statement about herself written entirely in the third person, referring to herself as an "Afrocentric feminist" (perhaps her most well-known moniker), a "pro-choice Roman Catholic," and "a troublemaker."
She is best known by City Paper readers for her strident, strongly opinionated letters to the editor--letters that seem designed to piss off anyone who is not of color, or who is male, Republican, traditionally Roman Catholic, conservative, or in any position of power, authority, or influence (Charmed Life, Dec. 10, 2003). Butler is quick to provide biting and blunt social commentary when she believes wrongdoing, injustice, unfairness, and inequality have taken place. She wields the letters she writes to newspapers, radio stations, foreign embassies, members of Congress, and even the White House like a gleaming sword of righteousness in a dark, evil, and remorseless world, and she minces no words as she criticizes the abusiveness, ineptness, greed, and selfishness of the governments, organizations, and leaders to whom her letters are addressed.
"I call embassies in Washington, D.C., when I hear about the terrible things that are going on," she says. "I just called the Embassy of Sudan and left a lengthy message. It might not have been very nice, but I just told them how I felt about the lies their leader is telling on national television about rape in the Sudan."
I found myself wondering for a brief moment if her phone line was tapped, but as if she could read my thoughts she said at that precise moment, "and I don't care if my phone line is tapped. They can tap on! George Bush and them! All they're gonna hear is the truth."
Butler will not be hindered by anyone. "I am going to help change the face of humanity," she says. "I'm not going to let someone suffer and not say anything."
The contradictions within a person tell you who they really--simply compare the things people whisper to the things they shout. But Butler never whispers--ever. She is always loud and consistently so. She says what she means forcefully and lives what she says with equal conviction. There is no need to read between the lines with her because the lines say exactly what they mean to say. She openly discusses her hearing impairment, her poverty (her annual income is $11,000, no benefits other than Medicare), the ability to stretch food (great Northern beans are her favorite), and how she skillfully makes use of her resources. She has a budget for the pens, paper, envelopes, and stamps she uses to write her letters, and she boasts that her telephone service plan allows her unlimited local and long-distance phone use, so she can easily get the phone numbers and addresses of all the embassies in Washington.
The closest she may ever come to whispering is in her just released collection of sketches and poetry, Improvise in the Amen Corner, published by University of Baltimore's Passager Books. The expertly presented gritty beauty in her plain-spoken voice and images call to you, draw you in, and hold you as you travel with Butler among the poor people of color in Baltimore. You stop there and spend a few verses with each as Butler points out their foibles and graces with inspired, lyrical, visceral wordplay: "When the baby was born, he lay silently on Wanda's chest feeling the anger swelling out of Wanda's body into his ears" or "the club is a sheltering place for poor folks who do hard work as dishwashers, hotel workers, and jobs of labor that rob the soul of joy and peace."
Her poetry is reminiscent of Gwendolyn Brooks, who Butler cites as a major influence, along with Nikki Giovanni, J. California Cooper, and Sonia Sanchez. "I like strong women," she says. "I like strong women writers with strong voices. Women who aren't afraid to say what they want."
Passager Books, part of the UB School of Communications Design, cites as part of its purpose as "honoring the creativity of our elders, often invisible in our society, and making public the passions of a generation vital to our survival." Its dedication to engaging seniors is a perfect vehicle for Butler, whose work would perhaps not find the audience it deserves if it were not for those seeking her out like editors Mary Azrael and Kendra Kopelke. Improvise in the Amen Corner's design is clearly an inspired labor of love--every element of it perfectly highlights the meaning and the messages of the work, from the layout to the font created from Butler's handwriting to the selection of poems and sketches. The balance between the rawness that makes the work compelling and the polish required to make it palpable is perfectly stuck.
Originally from Norfolk, Va., Butler has "been writing poetry and short stories since I was a little girl," she says. "I remember going into the family room of our house where my mother kept all her books . . . she had copies of those Reader's Digest condensed books. In fact, when my mother died and I went home I was surprised to find that she'd kept all my notebooks with my poems and short stories and beginnings of novels."
Right next to the books in her mother's house were canned fruits and vegetables bursting with all kinds of colors and textures. "My momma had an incredible garden," Butler says. "We always had cabbage and potato salad on Sundays, and to this day if I have food in my home I have cabbage and potato salad on Sundays."
She expresses some surprise that she has become a published writer, but not total shock. "When I was a little girl I looked in the mirror and told myself, `I'm going to be a published writer one day,'" she says. "God finally made it a reality."
The activism in her writing began after a trip to East Africa--as a one-time debutante she went there planning to present the epitome of black American stylishness, "right down to my Ferragamo pumps," she says--but ended up finding a connection to herself that heightened her sensitivity to the world's ills. The fire that the trip lit still burns hot within her, fueling her desire to reach out to others. "My poems are my ministry," she says. "If you look closely at them all, there is always a thread or a line that is similar to something in the Bible.
"I wrote the poems in the book over a period of three months," she continues. "I did a lot of drawing in that time and wrote 57 poems. I am very disciplined when I write, and when I start something, I finish it. I walked around Union Square. I looked at people, and listened to people. Sometimes people would ask for money, and I would give them a dollar if I had it. Some people say you shouldn't do that, that homeless people will just use it for drugs, but that's not my job to worry about. It's a shame that politicians don't want to deal with homeless and poverty. But I do. I went out to look for people."
When asked which poems in the book she likes best she says, "The very first poem in the book is good, `Larnell Custis Butler Has Deep Places Hidden in Her Soul'"--note the third-person title. It boasts the line, "I have taken the dark glasses of self-hatred from my eyes."
Her sketches are just as eloquent, and they spring from the same resourcefulness that all her work does. When Butler has no money for art supplies (which is often), she collects sticks from parks, sharpens their ends and uses them like pencils by dipping them in ink. Butler has had art training; she was the first black person to receive a scholarship from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. Two of her drawings are in the permanent collection of the Chrysler Museum of Art in Norfolk , and her work has been exhibited across the country.
All the sketches in the book are portraits of the subjects of the poems, and they share the same direct raw quality that her poetry possesses. The full lips and broad noses are drawn with painstaking care. The varying shades of brown in the skin tones are depicted with meticulous shading. Lines in the faces, wrinkles, keloids, and scars are placed deliberately. And in keeping with the tradition of black women's concern with their hair, each coif is lovingly styled by the artist's twig with an attention to detail that leaps off the page.
Would she like to be rich if the opportunity presented itself, perhaps to combat financially what she sees around her? "No," she says without hesitation. The third-person self-reference returns as she continues, "Larnell Custis Butler knows how to take care of herself. And I always want to be close to my people. There are people in my family with big homes and they really aren't like kin to me. I am going to use the resources I have--my pen, paper, envelopes, stamps, my phone, and my words. And since the Lord brought me back from the depths of hell, I have to say something. It ain't gonna happen on my watch. I worry about black leaders in African countries living well while their people suffer. Why do so many people in New Orleans still not have decent places to live? Why are so many black schoolchildren in Baltimore City schools in special education? We need some crazy good people. And I wanna be one of those crazy good people."
Considering the vitally important ruckus Butler has raised by the sheer force of her will and unending perseverance, she has arguably already achieved that goal. Perhaps the words from the last poem in her book, "When You Kiss Me, You Kiss the Motherland of Africa," summarize Butler best: "I am a Black woman, and my skin is not whiter than snow . . . my darkness is the signature of the motherland of Africa's trustworthy Spirit. When I smile, my thick lips reveal that I am alive, and living well as best I can--free as any state I choose to be."
And that's in the first person no less.
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