An Underrated Writer and Survivor Tied to a Controversial Dayton Great
By Janyce Denise Glasper
In a post #MeToo landscape, the United States of America is run by a convicted felon, Woody Allen, Roman Polanski, and Bill Cosby are beloved figures, and cancer ridden Harvey Weinstein tries to garner sympathy. Cars still blast R. Kelly and Chris Brown. People love the late Marvin Gaye despite Jan Hunter’s harrowing autobiography. Fans remain rallying behind Sean “Diddy” Combs and Tory Lanez. This patriarchal society promotes rich, cruel men instead of holding them accountable for their actions, especially their actions towards women. They could be booked and imprisoned. Damning videos leaking evidence of their cruel behaviors spread online. Yet stan communities stay devoted to famous people even after death, committed to showing unwavering support. These manifested parasocial relationships are just a vital reminder that we have always been historically conditioned to put legacies on pedestals— and forsake any attempts to smother the idolization.
Another example lies in Dayton, Ohio’s own late poet Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906). I remember taking part in the “We Wear The Mask” high school mural project. Students were required to creatively reinterpret the poem onto ceramic tiles that would soon be fired in the kiln and collectively displayed beside the library. Teachers cited him as a prolific voice with the phenomenal ability to reconfigure poetic language. I have poetry collections in my home library that include his famous works. Three years ago, the city had several events scheduled throughout libraries and galleries for his one-hundred-fiftieth birthday.
However, I haven’t participated in any Dunbar activities since learning about his past— abusing a woman who would be turning one-hundred-fifty-years-old herself this July. Although not an Ohioan and never having lived in the Buckeye State, Alice Ruth Moore (1875-1935) is noted on the Dayton Aviation Heritage site and Ohio History Connection— the latter including a content warning. Born of a formerly enslaved Black seamstress and a white seaman, Moore grew up among the mixed race inhabitants of New Orleans, Louisiana. She enjoyed writing, publishing here and there in both Boston and Harlem circles. Dunbar discovered her poem next to a portrait and began penning mentorship turned into romantic letters. They married quickly and settled in Washington D. C.
I first heard about Dunbar-Nelson in Gloria T. Hull’s book, “Color, Sex, and Poetry: Three Women Writers of the Harlem Renaissance.” It featured Georgia Douglas Johnson and Angelina Weld Grimké— two women also with mixed race heritages. Dunbar-Nelson’s mellifluous poems rhyme on occasion and stark short stories hint at her biography, her writing style evoking classical literature techniques complete with keen flowery descriptives. At times, she centers melancholic themes, almost to an overwhelmingly morose degree. Yet, her voice is sharp and concise, her talent undeniable. Premiere highlights from her 1895 collection “Violets and Other Tales” include the namesake story and “The Vengeance.” “Violets” reminds me of Stefan Zweng’s poignant “Letter from an Unknown Woman” as both limerent-afflicted lead characters confess sufferings to individuals who do not recollect the encounters. “The Vengeance” contains a swift kick to the heart, its essential point of view bellowing out a regretful nature borne from vicious jealousy.
In her essay “The Woman,” written years before her union, Dunbar-Nelson shared, “marriages might be made in Heaven, but too often they are consummated right here on earth, based on a desire to possess the physical attractions of the woman by the man, pretty much as a child desires a toy, and an innate love of man, a wild desire not to be ridiculed by the foolish as an “old maid,” and a certain delicate shrinking from the work of the world—laziness is a good name for it—by the woman.” Perhaps, Dunbar-Nelson knew what to expect from matrimony beforehand. She must have witnessed the unbalanced dynamics between joint partners in society, how limited the rights of women became, how their identities dissolved.
Throughout their marriage, a drunken Dunbar hit and kicked his wife resulting in her peritonitis— a condition caused by abdominal swelling. Dunbar often told others in their circles, likely using this to humiliate her, to put her in line. After fleeing from Dunbar in 1902, Dunbar-Nelson moved to Wilmington, Delaware, teaching at Howard High School, Delaware State University, and Hampton Institute. She remarried twice, Henry Callis, a physician and professor at Howard University from 1910-1916 and Robert Nelson, poet and civil rights activist from 1917 till her death in 1935. Dunbar-Nelson’s correspondence with Dunbar before and after their turbulent marriage are currently at the University of Delaware Library in Newark.
Separating art from the artist— or in this specific case writing from the writer— allows readers to not consider the various abusive forms that creatives conduct on others in their personal lives. Dunbar’s work holds significant value despite any alleged accusations that could tarnish his legacy. While propped to god-like status alongside the Wright Brothers, Dunbar is the predominant Black figure, a Daytonisn leagues above the rest. His childhood home, now a museum, exists on the street named after him. Many public art works display his face and poetry. He exists in a long extended line of problematic music moguls, athletes, artists, politicians, and other wealthy, powerful individuals who have gotten away with abusing women, men, and children. The work speaks for itself. Not his hands on his wife. The consequences from his generation remain set in place. People idolize others to disturbing degrees, even sacrificing themselves for the cause. It terrifies the imagination to think that the toxic figures threatening the very core of precious human values might one day be written as an enlightened chapter in America.
Someone once said to me, “well, if we canceled every bad person who’s ever contributed great art, we’d have no one left to celebrate.” Maybe there would be few worthwhile men, leaving behind mainly women and nonbinary people occupying the history books pages, especially the nearly absent Alice Dunbar-Nelson. Paul Laurence Dunbar almost parallels Beat poet William S. Burroughs. Dunbar-Nelson survived the violence whereas Jean Vollmer unfortunately did not. Whenever I see Dunbar’s painted face on a building wall or hear his name praised to high heaven, I recollect a battered woman writer’s constant near death experiences and her forgiving nature. The hand that used a pen so gently to write commendable prose was the same hand that struck a person with vicious intent.
To cancel such a timeless entity ingrained in the fabrics of Dayton and the world of Black poetry in general may be the hardest challenge to behold. Now— in the name of Alice Dunbar-Nelson and other survivors like her— is as great a moment as any to start singling out the people who’ve done wrong.
Janyce Denise Glasper is a Dayton, Ohio based multidisciplinary artist, writer, and independent scholar focused on highlighting the historical contributions of Black women visual artists. She obtained her BFA in drawing from the Art Academy of Cincinnati and her post baccalaureate certificate and MFA from the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts; primarily concentrating in painting and writing. Her writings have appeared in RaceBaitr, Black Youth Project, Wear Our Voice Mag, and other publications. Currently, she is a remote contributing arts writer for Philadelphia based artblog and runs two personal blogs: femfilmrogue and Black Women Make Art.
