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Camille T. Dungy Books

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“The poetry reading promoted an anthology celebrating the varied voices of the United States. The evening's readers represented several races and ethnicities, a kind of attention to inclusivity I admired. But a few days before my flight, I found out that I was the roster's only woman. I brought this to the attention of the event coordinators, and they said it was too late to correct the lack of gender equity. As a concession, they said that I and the other readers should make a point of reading others' poems to that end. When I joined the seven male readers at the venue, the organizers reminded us of our time limit and suggested I read first. I read my poem from the anthology, as well as one poem each by two other women: a wry, pointed poem by Jane Mead and a focused, hopeful poem by Audre Lorde. I kept to the specified time limit. Then I sat down. Like an obedient girl. The men at the podium, every one, read over their times. They read their own poems from the anthology. Then they read others. Not others as in other people's - women's - poems, which was the idea conveyed to me. No. These men read other poems of their own. I'd flown to New York to read a single poem of my own and watch men drown out my voice and the voices of all the other women in the book.”

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Book:Soil: The Story of a Black Mother's Garden
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“The cat wandered between two women. In one house, kibble and clear water. Sometimes, bits of roast chicken, even, sometimes, translucent fish skin. That’s the house that first called her its own and, for all those nights until she found the other woman, she’d purred there without asking for anything more. But, I’ve already told you, she found the other woman. Whose house held the wondrous calm of no children. A blessing. Wet food in the kitchen. Catnip growing for her in the yard. The women came to be like sister wives. Accepting, if not companionable. Opening and offering everything when the cat came around.”

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Book:America, A Love Story
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