From Publishers Weekly
Rooted in an African American urban culture marked by racism and violence, novelist major's first poetry collection charges a take-no-prisoners spirit with stubborn optimism. Musical and energetic, major's work calls for a live voice to release its emotional power. On the page, subjects are presented as deeply felt, but they are not deeply investigated. Generalized references to Africa, offered as shortcut answers to difficult problems, weaken important messages. Predictable imagery also limits her work's effectiveness. It is, for example, unclear how calling up "the benin bronze/ almond queen mother eyes" will rescue an addicted 13-year-old prostitute (in "cracker jacks"). Still, major's stance as community witness pulling hope from painful realities is compelling, as in "'what we gonna do bout dem youth?'": "dem sees the mama and thinks her nuthin'/ but a locked up heart and a empty room of a future/ dem sees the daddy and thinks him nuthin'/ but a street walker with a drug blanket memory.../ soon dem gonna take off dem glasses with the backwards lenses.../ and pull the earth into a righteous orbit."
Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
Major's poetry is a potpourri of street jive, scat singing, blues, hip-hop, and rap-a decidedly nonliterary style that perfectly matches a world of "saturday night specials" and "two-bit twenty twos" firing in "hip-hop ranting rhythms/ with a bass oozi coming in." Always engaging and direct, major sees herself as the voice of African Americans and "mixed breeds" of Creole, Choctaw, or Fulani extraction, in skin tones of "auburn, cinnamon, copper/ cafe au lait, ginger, dun." She constantly reminds her mainstream Caucasian readers that these marginalized folk inhabit a "somewhere you don't live." Yet she refuses to glamorize a black street culture of physical abuse and incest where rape "is always a family affair" and the cocaine addict "roll[s] a crisp bill," inhaling the "snow queen" up his nose. Major (author of the novel An Open Weave, LJ 9/1/95) has a finely tuned ear that perfectly captures the idiom of the street, like the plaintive speech of the young woman whose friend "don't like the color a my mama." Recommended for all general collections.
Daniel L. Guillory, Millikin Univ., Decatur, Ill.Copyright 1996 Reed Business Information, Inc.