This is a brief exclamation of the alias A
Corey. My full name is Cordellia Augusta. With the exception of my middle name,
which I wish was Augustine, I love my name. Corey was a nickname I was given by friends the first time I was in college. The first time in college, well, if ugly is an experience I had one in living color. I love writing under aliases. It
started in College the second time I went. I was bored that second time
in college, bored with writing the same old type of academic papers; I thought
it would be more interesting and fun to write academic papers as a White male
vampire named Darius. Me I am an average Black woman of little interest to the
world. Writing as Darius assuaged a need in me to view and write about history,
literature and science from another perspective. As you can imagine, some
professors loved the Darius perspective some demanded re-writes which I never
did. I accepted a lower letter grade since I knew a letter
grade was not indicative of what I had learned.
Corey as a nickname was great it was easy and it
matched my personality. “A Corey” is in the tradition of a war cry. It is my
declaration to self I am a writer. I took a break from writing this post to
read The New Yorker; it was sheer luck for me to click on John
Wray’s piece What’s in a Pen Name. I decided to borrow his
words and include them here:
…From a certain angle, there’s almost no
difference between a piece of fiction and a dramatic monologue, or even a
stand-up comedy routine. The wonder of revision, I’ve always thought, is that
it enables the writer—any writer, regardless of experience or skill—to run
through a given routine again and again, until it suddenly becomes worth
listening to. And the advantage of a pen name—in my case, at least—is that it
gives said writer the courage to perform for his imaginary audience, no matter
how charmless or pretentious he might feel.
Wray’s wisdom more than adequately sums up my
feelings of the use of pen names and aliases for my writing. Despite my “A
Corey” war cry I suffer from a certain fear that my performance may not be
worth the time of the audience. And still I revise.
What’s in a Pen Name? : The New
Yorker
When I wrote this I never dreamed that Maya Angelou would die within the week. The last line in this post was and is a tribute to Still I rise. Love you Maya and I do know why the caged bird sings.
Still I Rise
When I wrote this I never dreamed that Maya Angelou would die within the week. The last line in this post was and is a tribute to Still I rise. Love you Maya and I do know why the caged bird sings.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
