Being part of Cleveland’s literary community means not just knowing but revering the work of poet, essayist, and teacher Ali Black—a writer who is, to put it bluntly, a legend in this scene. Black’s dedication to Cleveland, to the people and places, past and present, historic and future, that define the poetics and atmospheres of this can’t be overstated. If you know, you know. So, when the opportunity to talk with Black about her latest work was presented to me, I couldn’t dare pass it up.
Black’s lyric reporting in her newest collection We Look Better Alive graciously guides readers through field trips and funeral homes, group chats and surgery rooms. Ever the astute observer, Black is careful and honest in her storytelling, reminding us that being alive isn’t only keeping two feet up out the grave, but participating in the joy of living like we got something to look forward to. Because we have to believe we do.
This interview has been edited for brevity and clarity.
Stephanie Ginese: Ali, spending time with this collection was such a gorgeous reminder of why you’re such a revered poet locally. I hope you know your name comes up when one thinks of great Ohio writers. What does it mean to you to be in that lineage? We have some of the most important Black writers in history coming from Ohio. What does that mean to you?
Ali Black: It means a lot. You know, I have Nikki Giovanni in my bones and she spent time in Cincinnati. We have Toni Morrison. We have Langston Hughes. I mean, like these are the giants and to be writing and knowing that at some point, years and years from now my name will be mentioned as a Cleveland writer, an Ohio writer, a Midwest writer. That shit gives me chills because I’m following behind this rich lineage of poets and writers who are from Ohio. And then too, it means so much to me because Ohio and specifically Cleveland, we are like the underdog city. The city that has the horrible sports teams or…well, not right now though.
SG: Ayyyyyyyy…
AB: But you know, we’re “the mistake on the lake.” We’re the river that caught on fire. We’re the worst place to live for Black women. So to be a writer and to be writing about these things means a lot. And I think it comes with a responsibility to keep at it because I’m from “the underdog city,” the city where people have a certain view of us. It’s really important. I feel so honored to be in a lineage with Russell Atkins. I mean, the list really just goes on. And some of my peer writers, you know, like you, Noor [Hindi], some writers whose work I really, really respect. My work is very place-based. I write a lot about Cleveland. I’m talking about Kinsman. I’m talking about what’s happening in the city to Black women. The people named in my book, those folks are from here. So it’s really important to me to bring our stories to life. And in many ways, it’s like I’m a poet journalist. You know what I’m saying? Because that’s another problem, we don’t have many Black journalists in this city who can document and write about our experiences. So my work very much has that documentarian vein in it as well. But yeah, it means so much to me to be from Ohio, from the Midwest, from Cleveland, writing and being a Black woman. Writing about what I want to write about.
SG: You mentioned your peers, and thank you for the shoutout! But we have to mention Hanif [Abdurraqib]. We have to say Saeed Jones. Scott Woods. Ruth Awad. Ohio writers are really where it’s at. So many phenomenal writers here. And what you said too, about documentary poetry. I feel like that’s a lot of what we’re all doing. Writing in these very Ohio, very Midwestern aesthetics, but with that keen observation. It’s the details, the documenting of the world as we see it. Our collective history, which isn’t very known, and our individual histories, each of our cultural histories and people don’t know that all that’s happening here in Cleveland. In Ohio. They think it’s just cornfields and white people and racism and it’s like Cleveland’s one of the most historically rich Black cities in the nation. Where I grew up, it’s so Puerto Rican. South Lorain, its own little Midwestern island. And I think folks overlook that and don’t understand the history we have here. They may know Toni Morrison, but they may not necessarily know where she came from. And so I love that all of us are telling our stories. We don’t have journalists. We don’t have Puerto Rican journalists writing about us and our history here. I have to learn these things through conversations, learning that when Puerto Ricans came to Cleveland, they were in Hough first. They were on the east side. Folks always think of Puerto Ricans in Clark-Fulton, on the west side. We don’t have those folks who are doing that work. So it almost feels like we’re sort of taking that on and funneling that information out to the world the best way we know how, which is poetry or, you know, creative writing.
AB: Yeah, it’s serious work that we’re doing. I’m just proud, you know, like for real. That is one of the reasons why the first sentence in my bio is what it is. “Ali Black is a writer from Cleveland, Ohio.” I want people to know where I’m from. You know what I mean?
SG: Exactly! Mine is the same, “from South Lorain,” which is important because I need you to know the specifics. Like I need you to get the visual.
AB: Yeah, we name it.
SG: We name it. And with this book, all of that is here. But it also explores these very universal themes of grief and death, the maternal relationship, the body, feminine identity, Black womanhood, beauty standards in today’s society – which is a topic that you can’t turn your head without hearing or talking about. Especially, you know, as it pertains to women of color and, specifically, Black women. So why all of that in this one collection?
AB: At the time, I had two major deaths in my family, and so that was the beginning of the book. Then I started reading Ada Limón’s The Carrying, and I came across the poem, “The Vulture and The Body.” That book talks a lot about infertility among other things. But in this specific poem, there’s a line that says something like, “what if instead of carrying a child, I’m supposed to carry grief?” And that just knocked me flat on my back. Because I can relate and thinking about fertility and thinking about not having children, just opened me up to start thinking about the body. Also, simultaneously, there were all of these celebrities getting pregnant or getting BBLs and plastic surgery. I was in a group chat with, like, fifteen other Black women and that’s all they were talking about: surgery and would they get a BBL and Cardi B and Kash Doll and we were talking about snapback culture. And so all of that was happening around me and then dealing with my own personal shit, not being able to have children, but my body still changing because of Lupus. Then, thinking too, about the cost of beauty and what we have to do as women to look good. The purchasing, the spending, the clothes, the knife, the makeup, the hair, the beauty products – all of that was just so very, very much in my face. That’s kind of how the book came to be. It was literally these deaths happening and simultaneously reading The Carrying, coming across “The Vulture and The Body.” And then it all started to come together. I was also talking to my cousin about her losing a friend that traveled overseas to get a tummy tuck and she ended up dying. Then my cousin ends up getting surgery as well. She gets the BBL surgery. And like, I’m talking to her and she can barely walk, she’s barely able to do anything. But all she wants is her fucking hair braided. It was just like, wow, this is wild to me, and no judgment, but it’s like you are in excruciating pain and you’re reaching out to me because I have a mentee who braids. Just that expectation, that desire. We still got to look good, even in our pain. It was all very heavy on my mind.
SG: What I noticed and appreciated was the uncertainty left on the reader about the speaker’s stance on body modifications. They’re not making any declarations. They’re just observing what’s going on. Like, here are the stories that I’m hearing and then it’s kind of left up to the reader to have whatever opinion they’re going to have. There are a few moments of “not my body, not my business” declarations.
AB: Yeah, there’s that line in there that reads “another woman’s body ain’t none of my business.” That was very intentional. I’m observing it and I’m having that conversation all over again about Black women and the hair used for braiding. There are studies coming out showing that the braiding hair has these harsh chemicals in it that can cause cancer. And I’m conflicted! I’m like, oh shit, I need my hair braided. I’m getting ready to go to LA for a week! But at the same time, it’s a battle. I’m not judging anybody for doing anything because here’s the thing, these chemicals are in a lot of the shit that we are inhaling and ingesting, putting on our body. Do I think it’s very strategic and intentional, what they’re putting into what Black and Brown women use when it comes to products and perfumes? Hell yeah! It’s complicated and I’m not coming from it in a judgmental kind of way. I’m just observing and seeing how people are struggling or trying to figure out what to do. You know the mentee who braids I mentioned? This is how she’s making money and she’s having to battle with should she stop braiding? Because she’s touching the hair herself, so those chemicals and that shit is getting inside of her. And does she want to continue doing this? But also she needs to eat. Like this is how she’s getting money so it’s complicated as hell.
SG: The beauty industry employs so many Black and Brown women, you know. No one really talks about these “feminized” spaces and industries, where we spend a lot of our time handling and inhaling all these harsh chemicals. All kinds of stuff that can kill us that they sold us and made us think we need to just exist. But also, alongside all of that, is this gorgeous celebration of femininity, and especially Black femininity throughout these poems. And yet again, there’s also the threat of harm and violence that follows that. In this collection, there’s a poem that after I read it, I needed to close the book for a second and take a breath. It was “Freaknik.” Again that observational, very documentarian style that you have mastered. Just the details of what happened, of the story. The exposure and aggression. This is such a common, unfortunate thing that you hear about when it pertains to large crowds gathering. What always happens at music festivals, any place where young people are getting together in large numbers. There is always aggression towards women that takes place in crowded and party-centered environments.
AB: Yeah, I feel you. It’s definitely a hard story to hear. But again, just the treatment of women and the treatment of Black women and our bodies. It’s just like, wow. Hearing those kinds of stories and thinking about all of that. It’s a lot. You know, these poems are very personal, very autobiographical, and a lot of times my husband, Donald, shows up in my work. This is a story he told me. It’s just really nasty what’s happening to the Black female body, not even just the medical issues that we have to go through. But these issues that we have to go through when it comes to other people touching us and being in our space and violating our bodies. It’s a very real thing. And that poem, it made sense to me to include in the collection, especially thinking about this book and about the Black female body and what happens to it and how it’s on view and display.
SG: Yeah, and that poem, “Field Trip, Cleveland, Ohio” to me also felt like a sort of prelude to get us “Freaknik” a little bit later in the collection. I love that the titles of these particular pieces highlight the complication that exists within these poems. What do we think of when we think of a field trip? A field trip is fun. It’s going to be a good time. But not always, not here in Cleveland. And “Freaknik,”what a beautiful thing, a celebration. Feeling unified in community is such an important thing to experience, but then there are these moments that breed complications or taint the original intention. The tension in this collection is executed so thoughtfully.
AB: Oh, thank you. Thank you. I appreciate that.
SG: And the title, We Look Better Alive…
AB: Yeah, that came from that first poem, “Completion.” There’s a line that says, “my mother looked better alive.” I was having a conversation with Donald and “we look better alive” just kind of spilled off my tongue. And it’s a statement, a fact. I like the fact that the word alive is in there. The word look is in there. The word look is speaking to the gaze of the Black woman and the female body. I just love this declaration, we look better alive, you know, it’s just a fact. And, you know, at the very beginning, I was kind of wary because I don’t want people to read the title and think that this is going to be a “stop killing us” kind of statement. It is but it isn’t. It’s not a plea for death to stop. But it is what it is. Like you can’t twist up what it means. It’s just like, we look better alive. I should have put a period at the end. Loud. Cool, you know. Period. Like the best you could look is alive, however you look, you’re most beautiful alive. And it’s not just like the opposite of death. It’s also alive with energy, with brazenness, with spark and liveliness, not just I’m either dead or alive, but I mean we have to be alive while we are here. We have to.
Stephanie Ginese
Stephanie Ginese is a writer & wannabe comedian from South Lorain, Ohio. She is the daughter of a Puerto Rican mother & an Italian immigrant father. She currently lives in Cleveland, by the lake, with her two children. Find her at: www.sginese.com.