Art Essay #1 - "Knock, Knock" by Russell Simmons

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8E0DMcZ23kE

This is the most powerful piece of poetry I have ever heard. I first came across this ironically because my Dad sent me the link on Facebook. Although I don’t exactly share the same situation as the one that Russell Simmons does in this poem, I still feel his story and see every image he describes. The tone with which he speaks changes throughout the course of the performance and this tone is what sets this piece apart. His presentation of this poem reminds me of the “I Have a Dream” speech by Martin Luther King Jr. in Washington on August 28, 1963. Simmons speaks with so much fervor that it is impossible not to be enthralled by his story.

He introduces this story with a game: “knock, knock.” And tells of his childhood when he and his father had a close connection through this act of knocking on the door. As the end of that section of the story arrives, he states the words “and my Papa he would tell me that he loved me.” The tone with which he says these words is full of longing and sadness.

Next he tells us how he finds his father in prison, and tries to “knock, knock” through the glass to get to his father. Through this whole section Simmons supplies us with vivid imagery of the car ride there, and of the room where his father is being kept. In his words we can feel his confusion as a young boy not being able to understand the events that took his father from him. Then at the end of that section he changes his tone and grows up into the man he is on stage, showing us the little boy inside of him.

He begins by showing us that he is still confused, and still wishing that he had his father by his side. “Papa come home ‘cause I miss you.” “Papa come home ‘cause there’s things I don’t know.” He pleads with his father to teach him how to grow up to be a man, as Simmons believes fathers should do. Then he comes to the realization that he has lost his father for good: “I wanna be just like you, but I’m forgetting who you are.” And at this point in the narrative comes the climactic change: Simmons decides that he will father himself to replace the father he never had.

In this next section his tone changes to emulate the father-figure that he has created. His new father apologizes for leaving and explains the lessons that Simmons wished he had learned. (Ironically I heard this poem about when I was learning to shave and took my first lesson from this line “shave in one direction with strong deliberate strokes to avoid irritation”). In this section, Simmons imaginary father became my father, I still never learned how to shave from my own dad.

Then the piece takes a completely different twist from any that I expected, but it is equally moving and powerful. His new father reminds me of a man similar to one that Martin Luther King had been. The ending of this speech parallels the lines of Dr. King’s dream. His father calls for him to “knock, knock down doors of racism and poverty” for Simmons is free to change the world which his father became trapped in. And finally to close the narrative Simmons offers some respite from the depression of his story and presents his status in the world with defiance of past generations, calling upon his own to rise up with him. To close the piece he brings the phrase “knock, knock” full circle. He began the piece with childhood, grew up, and to close the poem uses the phrase as a classic knock, knock “joke.” “Knock, Knock. Who’s there? WE ARE.” This exclamation of identity breaks all the barriers that had been set throughout his father’s story.

As each successive layer of the narrative is told, the title of the piece takes on new meaning. As I said he uses the words "knock, knock" as a chronological framework but he also uses them to convey certain meanings throughout the piece. The knock at first symbolizes the connection with his father, and still through the second section of the poem it retains this meaning (although the purpose of its use is to show that the connection has been broken). By the final section of the poem, though, the knock represents power. The knock is a symbol of strength.

Every time I watch this performance (which has been a countless number of times) I am moved by the sentiment of missing your father. Throughout my life my father and I have always been on good terms, but never been really close. When I listen to this poem I become the little boy who remembers when his father would wake him up and he would hear the words “I love you.” When I listen to this piece I become the little boy wanting to be just like who he thought his father was (I was absolutely that boy). Now that I know more about my dad I’ve found that I want to be much more than what he grew up to be. The line at the end of the poem rings true for me every time “we are our father’s sons and daughters, but we are not their choices.” This reminds me that I will become the man that I choose to be. Nobody is perfect, but I want to be closer to that mark than my father was.

This poem in my opinion is undeniably the highest form of art. One definition of high art is its ability to move the audience. If you are not moved by this piece, either by relating to Simmons or at least by being inspired by his final statement, I’m not sure what kind of art could move you.

*Disclaimer* I know this is a little lengthy and a little personal, but I had a lot to say. Also, below I have included a copy of the poem in written word (I wrote them out myself, forgive me if they are not broken up in the correct poetic format). I also don't mean to offend anyone by my last sentence, everyone is entitled to their opinion of art.

-Allijah Motika

Knock, Knock – Russell Simmons

As a boy I shared a game with my father,

Played it every morning ‘til I was three

He would knock, knock on my door

And I’d pretend to be asleep ‘til he got right next to the bed

And I would get up and jump into his arms

“Good morning Papa”

And my Papa he would tell me that he loved me

-

We shared a game

Knock, knock

Until that day when the knock never came

And my Mama takes me on a ride past corn fields on this never-ending highway

‘Til we reach a place of high rusty gates

A confused little boy I enter the building carried in my Mama’s arms

Knock, knock

We reach a room of windows and brown faces

Behind one of the windows sits my father

I jump out of my Mama’s arms and run joyously towards my Papa

Only to be confronted by this window

I knock, knock trying to break through the glass, trying to get to my father

I knock, knock as my Mama pulls me away before my Papa even says a word

And for years he has never said a word

And so twenty-five years later I write these words

For the little boy in me who still awaits his Papa’s knock

-

Papa come home ‘cause I miss you

I miss you waking me up in the morning and telling me you love me

Papa come home ‘cause there’s things I don’t know and I thought maybe you could teach me

How to shave, how to dribble a ball, how to talk to a lady, how to walk like a man

Papa come home ‘cause I decided a while back I wanna be just like you

But I’m forgetting who you are

And 25 years later a little boy cries and so I write these words

And try to heal and try to father myself

And I dream up a father who says the words my father did not:

-

“Dear son, I’m sorry I never came home

For every lesson I failed to teach, hear these words…

Shave in one direction with strong deliberate strokes to avoid irritation,

Dribble the page with the brilliance of your ball-point pen,

Walk like a God and your Goddess will come to you

No longer will I be there to knock on your door so you must learn to knock for yourself

Knock, knock down doors of racism and poverty that I could not

Knock, knock on doors of opportunity for the lost brilliance of the black men who crowd these cells

Knock, knock with diligence for the sake of your children

Knock, knock for me for as long as you are free these prison gates cannot contain my spirit

The best of me still lives in you

Knock, knock with the knowledge that you are my son, but you are not my choices”

-

Yes we are our father’s sons and daughters, but we are not their choices

For despite their absences we are still here, still alive, still breathing

With the power to change this world, one little boy and girl at a time

Knock, knock

Who’s there?

WE ARE