The highest praise I can offer Toni Morrison, a masterful writer no doubt worthy of it, is the intent to give her to my children. Not force her onto them—because Toni Morrison herself wouldn't have that; in fact, her body of work is one collective voice, poetic and powerful, against forcing anything on anyone—but merely introduce her to them, my children.
And I intend to do that by telling them the truth: That not only is she an unfailing joy for me, like floating face up across a warm and waveless ocean under the splendor of a pastel twilight; and not only did she alone move me to start writing, some six years ago and some three decades after she had written her first novel, to carry on that lineage of individuals who write of nothing but the old verities of the heart, truth and honor and courage and compassion and even pity, too, just like Steinbeck in Central California and Faulkner in Mississippi and Woolf on the other side of the Atlantic; but also that she, Toni Morrison, that black woman born and raised and immortalized in rural Ohio, and touched by divinity, taught me something much more important than all of that, something that had nothing to do with the reading or writing of books: She showed me how to view life differently. Yes: That robust African-American woman, just by writing out of the ebb and flow of her big, colorless, sexless heart, led me to see this world, its people, and even myself just a little differently. And for that gift my debt to her is an eternal one.
But not only that: I will tell my children that there is just one way to repay someone for such a gift. And it's neither money nor material goods—nor even saying thank you to the gift-giver in person, as I will have a chance to do on April 6, when Toni Morrison comes to speak at UNLV—for that would do nothing but devalue the gift, if not demean it. No: All I can do is carry on that lineage that she herself passed along to me and others like me when she sacrificed the time and sweat and anguish to write her stories, by doing the same right here in Las Vegas, and also by passing her along to my children, whether or not they even share my skin or gender or last name.
There is no doubt that long after she is not around to offer books or lectures anymore, and all that's left of the Nobel Laureate is her name—Toni Morrison—her work will be recognized for what it is: the best of her time, of her people. And then my children, if I have done well to lead them to Morrison's inexhaustible world, will say to me with incredulous awe: "You not only lived in her time but also got to see her too?" And it will be my honor and privilege and great satisfaction to respond: It's true.
Toni Morrison will speak at UNLV on April 6 at 7:30 p.m. in the Artemus Ham Hall. All 1,800 or so free tickets have been given out, but a standby line will form at the south door of Ham Hall the night of the lecture. Call 895-2787 for details.