About AD
A.D. Miller was an African American poet born in South Carolina in 1922. Fall Rising is a sequel to Ticket to Exile which was published by Heyday Books in Berkeley in 2007 a Finalist for Northern California Book Reviewers Award for 2008 and finalist for William Saroyan International Prize for Writing. When Ticket ends, A. D. is nineteen and has been exiled from Orangeburg, South Carolina for the “crime” of writing a white girl a seven word note: I would like to know you better. For this, he was arrested by two armed policemen, interrogated, charged with “attempted rape,” jailed, and released only on condition that he leave town.
A. D. published five books of poetry: The Sky is a Page, (Eshu House Publishing, Berkeley, CA, 2009); Land Between, (Eshu House Publishing, 2000); Apocalypse is My Garden, (Eshu House Publishing, 1997); Forever Afternoon, (Michigan State University Press, 1994: Winner of the first Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award, 1994); Neighborhood and Other Poems, (Mina Press, 1992.)
In the 1960’s, Miller toured with The Aldridge Players West, a theater company he co-founded. They produced and performed in Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. In an all- expense paid tour, they performed before standing room only audiences to great applause and standing ovations.
Miller had a B.A., English, Speech, Mathematics; an M.A. English and did post-M.A. work in U.S. Theatre and Dramatic Literature at UC Berkeley. He was an Instructor of English, Creative Writing, and Literature at UC Berkeley from 1987-1991 and at Laney Community College (Oakland, CA) from 1967-1988. He helped establish a Reading Center, Writing Center and Peer Tutoring Center (1969) when he taught at San Francisco State College (now SFSU) from 1962-67.
Miller worked in northern California for five decades as a teacher, writer, poet, publisher, and radio and television producer.
He lived with his wife of 32 years,Elise Peeples, until his death in November, 2020 at his home of 55 years in Berkeley, California.
MY TRIP
My trip begins
in a slender house
in a thick wood.
Weak light
guides the midwife
as she pulls me out.
Grandma Ozelia shouts,
“Praise the Lord!”
Then grandma’s farm
its cows, pigs, the mule,
and my rabbit
suffocates
under a pile
of barnyard lumber.
Aunts and uncles
who tend me
when my mother
has to leave
my father,
and who are soon to join
the 20’s Migration
North.
“Snake holes”
to stand over,
my first punishment
for theft, of my
youngest uncle’s
elderberry wine.
Then the small town,
many houses, each
we live in for
far too short a time.
My sisters’ books
from school
amo, amas, amat,
they practice
their Latin lessons
on four-year old me.
The pre-Depression
store we own
one winter;
my step-father
gives credit
to his friends
despite my mother’s
warning, then
sawmill whistle
lays them all off.
On railroad tracks
kerosene holder
for kitchen stove
drops and smashes
while moving
to cheaper house;
no money
to replace.
Barefoot to negro school,
white children torment us
as we pass their place;
never to use public
library or any
tax-supported
leisure space;
bright enough
to sense a wrong.
Working from age nine
like my buddies
at odd jobs,
after school, week-ends;
Eleven-year old
favorite sister dies;
why, why, why?
Good times, eating
hot candied yams,
butter dripping,
stone-ground
whole wheat rolls
from government issue
flour, a puppy
one whole summer long.
Reading books,
winning a bible verse
contest at ten.
Mulatto-run House
for white men
down the street
where I make
good money
shining shoes;
madam mistress
to police chief.
Falling from
every ladder,
fence or tree
I climb, yet
forever climbing.
“That boy live
to see twelve
will be a miracle,”
my mother swears.
I do live
and in my most
Jesus voice
announce:
“I must be about
my Father’s business,
now that I’m twelve.”
“You better sit down here
and eat your dinner
before it gets cold.
Father’s business
your big foot,”
my mother scoffs.
A prophet is never
received well
in his own country,
I remind her.
Like the Rock of Ages
She can not
be moved.
