In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Ty Chapman

You have two poems in Volume 28: ”They Tried to Bury the Neighborhood” and “My Middle Name is Christian,” both of which deal with colonialism and white-perpetuated violence, but in different ways. Where and when did the spark for these poems come from?

As to where the spark for these poems came from, I’d say thirty years of lived experience and observation, but I’ll try to break down my process/thinking around these poems.

“They Tried to Bury the Neighborhood” was written in 2024, for a project that never came to be. It was inspired in part by a trip to New York, where I learned about the destruction of Seneca Village to create Central Park. As a person raised in Saint Paul, I couldn’t help but think of the destruction of the historically Black Rondo neighborhood. Destroying Black communities–especially wildly successful ones–is an American pastime; it’s as central to this country’s core as fireworks, football, lynchings, and concentration camps. (I encourage readers to look up Kowaliga, Little Egypt, Oscarville, Tulsa, Wilmington, and what the Black Panther Party was up to before it was sabotaged and dismantled by the FBI.)

I certainly wrote this poem to be a love letter to the Rondo neighborhood, where I went to school, skipped school, played basketball, and tried to refine my then-abysmal flirting skills. I wanted to write about the neighborhood where I stumbled, made mistakes, and slowly learned what it was to be a Black American adult. But moreover, since the destruction of Black communities has been such a common practice in the USA, I wanted this poem to be something of an ode to Black resilience in general. Yes terrible things are happening today, yes terrible things happened yesterday, but despite this, time and time again, Black folks manage to create joy, culture, and community. While it would be easy to abandon hope, my people never seem to for long. (Much to the chagrin of White America.)

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“My Middle Name is Christian” was written in 2025, at my second Cave Canem writing retreat. It seeks to explore, and perhaps come to terms with, the inescapable reach of Christianity–especially white American Christianity–and how it not only props up white supremacy, but is essential to its survival. Though it would be untrue to assert that they’re one and the same, the two certainly thrive in a terrible symbiotic relationship. 

While I know there are many good Christians (many of my friends and family among them,) it is an objective truth that Christianity has been weaponized against BIPOC communities for thousands of years. It’s easy to look at white American Christianity, and the terror it currently wields in the USA, and sum it up to a few “bad eggs.” However, to my mind, it has long been the goal of Christianity to establish a monoculture by whitewashing the entire world, destroying what it cannot convert. To rob BIPOC communities, and even entire countries, of their original cultures. Why do we suppose there are so many African Christians? Black American Christians? Latinx Christians? Native American Christians? South Asian and East Asian Christians? Why has this white, European-descendant religion found a home in so many BIPOC communities? Do we attribute this to the awesome gravitational pull of the one true religion amongst many? Or do we attribute it to missionaries, slavery, re-education camps, and other brutal tactics?

Christian conversion, and therefore growth, has long thrived on a blend of brutality and missionary work. It’s a complex and layered history that dates all the way back to Christians converting Pagans through a mix of violence and missionary work. I won’t be able to speak to this massive history in its entirety, and I encourage folks to do their research. 

Throughout my life, I’ve met so many “good, upstanding Christians” who were quick to treat me differently based on my race, sexuality, political leanings, and outspokenness. Were it one interaction or two, I could attribute it to extremism or ignorance. But the reality is these experiences are common–profoundly so. All these experiences working in conjunction with one another creates a sort of social and political policing–a surveilling effect. It is one that non-Christian, non-white folk can feel everywhere–at work, in schools, at the grocery store, staring down the barrel of an ICE agent’s gun. And this effect is not solely American. It is the fruit that blooms wherever Christianity lays its roots. 

Consider Nigeria, a once religiously and culturally diverse land–the heart of the Oyo Empire, largely practicing Yoruba faith. Within Yoruba religion and culture, homosexuality is not a wrongdoing. During the height of the Oyo Empire, same gender sex was viewed indifferently and gender itself was not so heavily policed. The very notions of gender norms and policing sexuality came from Christian missionary work, chattel slavery, and other European influence. (Again, a mix of brutality and missionaries.) Flash forward to the present day, and Nigeria, which is roughly half Christian, is one of the least safe countries for LGBTQIA+ people on the entire planet. (Though America is doing its absolute best to give them a run for their money.)

For much of my adult life, I planned to leave this country. To pack my bags, figure out the insane process of getting my cats into a new country legally, and leave this country of systemic oppression at the hands of white Cis-het American Christians. But the more I looked into it, the more I was reminded of Christianity’s awesome reach. I realized it was near impossible to find a place that Christians haven’t influenced–often bringing homophobia and white supremacy with them. “On every continent a cross[…]”

The title, and indeed the very conceit of the poem, revolve around an odd contradiction that has followed me my entire life. The outspoken poet who teeters between atheism and agnosticism is partially named after the religion they are most critical of! It’s been the subject of many jokes throughout my life, though, it sometimes feels comparable to the brands of chattel slavery. No matter where I go on this earth, I will carry Christianity with me if only in name. No matter where I go, I will find evidence of the terrible history of Christian influence and its eternal relationship to white supremacy and homophobia.

In “They Tried to Bury the Neighborhood,” you start off this poem as if in the middle of a sentence, giving this feeling of an ongoing conversation. Can you talk about that and how it plays a part in the poem’s meaning?

The answer is kind of two-fold. 

1. I’m a big fan of titles that either A) interact with the body of the poem to heighten the meaning of both or B) essentially serve as the first line of the poem, cutting down unnecessary words. To me, poetry is the form of efficiency and truth. The poet’s job is to communicate as much as possible with as few words as possible. Ideally, each word should be a loadbearing pillar. 
2. I absolutely envision this sort of systematic and cyclical evil to be an ongoing issue. And Black resistance in the face of such evil is an ongoing conversation, for sure. Unfortunately, them people will always be trying to bury the neighborhood. And there will always be good neighbors looking to protect one another.

In that same poem, you encompass the hard-cornered city (“Corralled by crosswalks”) with nature (“dandelions sprouting fuzzy heads”). How did you find the balance in these two dynamics?

The very notion of nature and society are capitalistic white supremacist notions hailing from Europe. It’s one of many forms of othering that has created the cognitive distance that enables people to do awful things to beings they deem as “lesser.”

“If we raze a forest to build a military base or for-profit prison, that’s okay because it’s just a bunch of trees and animals,” they say. The very first step to inflicting mass violence is convincing people your target isn’t worthy of consideration, concern, or defense. 

In positioning Black folks with nature imagery, and whiteness with that of hard-cornered cities, I’m seeking to illuminate multiple forms of violent othering. In labeling a person as other, or lesser, we create a space where violence can be forced upon that body without fear of consequence. Why do we suppose white supremacists are so fond of reducing BIPOC folk to various unsophisticated animals? 

White supremacy is old hat and profoundly uncreative. It runs more-or-less the same game plan with every conquest. In a small way, I’m seeking to illuminate that basic game plan, while keeping an intentional focus on Black resistance, beauty, and community. 

(For more on this, I suggest reading Ursula K. Le Guin’s essays on the matter. Cheek By Jowl remains one of my favorite books I’ve ever read. I also recommend The Dark Fantastic by Ebony Elizabeth Thomas).

What themes do you find that you write about most?

It certainly varies. With my picture book work I tend to oscillate between different obsessions, interests, and issues that speak to me. 

With my poetics specifically, I spend a lot of time writing about race, religion, and social issues. In the infancy of my poetic career, and certainly in my debut collection TARTARUS, I did a lot of speaking about these grandiose and heartbreaking issues without offering much in the way of hope. 

These days, I’m very concerned with asking myself “so what?”

Yes, the world is burning. Yes, there are so many injustices it’s challenging to keep up most days. But so what? As poets, our work is partly truth-telling, and partly being brave enough to imagine alternate possibilities. With my work these days, I’m interested in more actively seeking joy and hope within my poetics, as I believe these are among the foundations of sustainable resistance work. I’m interested in not only presenting a problem, but doing my best to offer potential alternatives. 

What books are your favorites? What authors do you admire?

This is my very favorite unfair question. There are so many books by so many authors I’d love to shout out here. The particular trouble is that I both write and read widely. 

But I digress. For poetry, I’m an eternal fan of the homies Danez Smith, and Douglas Kearney. Their poetics push me in different ways, and have encouraged me to consider both life and the written word, differently. I have big love for my Cave Canem siblings generally, and encourage folks to read anything written by a Cave alum. Both Danez and Doug have also been huge influences on my poetic journey in more direct ways. When I was switching from full-time puppetry to launching a career as an author, Danez loaned me so many books to help bolster my chops as a reader and writer. And Doug has offered similarly transformative guidance in the way of workshops and mentorship. 

I’m a huge fan of Jason Reynolds as a writer and person. I feel so fortunate for his being involved in WITNESS, a poetry anthology about policing co-edited by myself and Ari Tison! Reynold’s works have taught me so much about how to write a story that grips young readers–particuarly in a time where attention spans are ever-shrinking. 

My first literary love was, and will forever be, Fantasy. I’ve always loved getting lost in fantastical realms full of magic, monsters, and maybe even swords. N.K. Jemisin is my absolute GOAT where fantasy and sci-fi writing is concerned. Her works sweep me away like few others do, and reading the Inheritance Trilogy played a huge role in my return to the written word back in 2018. I am also such a fan of William Alexander’s approach to writing fantasy for young people. He writes to his audience with such care and respect, and his worlds are as fantastical as they are unique. 

And now, since I love plugging my homies, please go read anything written by John Coy, Shannon Gibney, Ari Tison, and Sun Yung Shin.

What are you working on now?

As of writing this, Witness is freshly off to the printers in anticipation of its September release. With that, I suddenly have more time for other projects! I’m currently working on a YA verse novel that deals with the school-to-prison pipeline among other issues. It’s a project that is near to my heart and has earned me both a McKnight fellowship and an award at Vermont College of Fine Arts. 

I also have a tabled middle grade fantasy novel that I’ll complete and release at some point, and a seemingly endless well of picture book ideas. 

Early in my career, I was obsessed with releasing things as quickly as possible. I wanted to have as many publications as I feasibly could. These days, though, I’m more concerned with taking my time. The works will be published, and with the benefit of incubation time, I think they’ll be great. 

Photo by Anna Min

Ty Chapman is an award-winning author based in Minnesota. He has written many children’s books and a poetry collection, Tartarus. Additionally, he coedited the poetry anthology Witness with his friend and collaborator Ari Tison. He has published poems through The Academy of American Poets, Water~Stone Review, and more. He has received fellowships from the McKnight Foundation, Cave Canem, the Center for Arts + Social Justice, and The Loft Literary Center. He holds an MFA in writing for children and young adults through Vermont College of Fine Arts.