Legacy and Memory in Rudy Francisco’s I’ll Fly Away

Thematic Claim: Art, Names, and Actions as Defiance Against Oblivion

In I’ll Fly Away, Rudy Francisco presents legacy and memory not as passive inheritances but as active, creative acts of resistance. The collection argues that a person remains alive as long as their name is spoken, their art is shared, or their love is handed forward. Legacy is a relay race, a “baton” passed from one runner to the next; memory is a fistfight with Alzheimer’s, a defiant snarl in the face of erasure. Yet Francisco also acknowledges the contradictions of legacy—how celebrity can forgive harm, or how a community’s history can be gentrified into silence. This analysis traces the theme across three distinct parts of the book: the tribute to fallen artists, the intimate father-son ritual, and the speaker’s transformation through fatherhood.

Part One: The Artist as Dust That Travels

In the poem “Legend has it,” Francisco recounts how J Dilla, the legendary hip-hop producer, continued making music from his hospital bed, grinding himself into “sand” so that listeners might “carry your debris into places you’ll never go” (chapter 4). The metaphor frames artistic output as a material extension of the self that outlives the body. Dilla’s legacy is not a static monument but a grain that scatters across time. The speaker follows this with “What I know is this,” where he directly states: “a person is still alive, if you remember to say their name. Nipsey.” (chapter 6). The internal link to Nipsey Hussle reminds readers that Francisco invokes the slain rapper and activist as a real-world example. A “baton can look like a microphone depending on how you hold it,” transforming a marathon—one person’s journey—into a relay that others continue. These poems establish the foundational metaphor: legacy is carried forward through conscious naming and creative labor.

The pen as shovel symbol from “This is how I scare the dirt” reinforces this: writing is the tool that unearths the dead, defying burial. Francisco doesn’t just talk about legacy; he performs it by resurrecting Dilla and Nipsey through verse.

Part Two: Safeguarding Memory Against Erasure

A more intimate iteration of the theme appears in “Whoever said a choir.” The speaker describes riding in a car with his father, both singing Bob Marley so loudly that they “safeguard the memory of us” and “challenge Alzheimer’s to a fist fight” (chapter 46). Here memory is not public monument but private ritual—a shared song that actively pushes back against a disease that steals identity. The father-son duet becomes a “choir” of two, proving that community doesn’t require numbers. The act of singing together creates a living archive of their relationship. Francisco’s own childhood stutter, described in chapter 23 (“I had to concentrate just to say the simplest things”), adds weight: speaking itself is hard-won, and the voice used to remember is a victory.

This section complicates the idea of legacy by locating it in the everyday. Legacy doesn’t require a public stage; it can be the refusal to let a loved one’s presence fade, sung in a car. The speaker’s personal voice becomes the vessel for this memory work.

Part Three: Passing the Torch Through Fatherhood

The speaker’s daughter Zoey embodies the most forward-looking form of legacy. In “I say black fatherhood,” a racist joke provokes violent rage, but the speaker whispers “Zoey” twice, and the name “cools his boiling anger” (chapter 52). His daughter’s name functions as a moral anchor, a legacy he intends to shape. Then in “Zoey,” the speaker discloses that his world now measures only “three feet tall and sixteen pounds” (chapter 53). Love has miniaturized the universe to the scale of a child. This is not a loss but a recalibration: legacy becomes the act of pouring oneself into another person. The dandelion symbol—associated with wishes and dispersal—can be read as the speaker scattering seeds of care into his daughter, hoping they take root.

Morning rituals reinforce daily renewal. In “and the morning shows up,” the speaker treats each new day as a “free refill,” a chance to make the present so joyful that “Friday and Saturday” will have “something to talk about” (chapter 54). Legacy, then, is not only about what you leave behind but how you live the hours you have—modeling joy for those who watch.

Complexity and Contradiction

Francisco does not romanticize legacy uncritically. In “The youth choir sings ‘I believe I can fly’,” he points out how a performer’s music can make audiences “forget Aaliyah was 15” and overlook the harm done to Black women (chapter 43). Legacy can whitewash transgression when the art is pleasurable. The poem asks: what happens when the torch is passed to someone unworthy? Similarly, in “Alternate endings for the black movies that I can’t stop watching,” Francisco rewrites tragic film endings so that Black characters live—but then questions whether audiences would “pay money just to see black people living?” (chapter 37). Legacy in pop culture often requires death to be valued. These poems force readers to examine whose memories are preserved and whose are erased.

The checkered flag symbol—a finish line—appears in tension with the relay metaphor. A runner may not cross the line, but the race continues. Francisco suggests that legacy is unfinished, handed off, and inevitably includes loss. The poem “I remember when this neighborhood was an orchard” mourns how gentrification replaces memory: the apple orchard becomes cider in a bottle the locals “can’t pronounce” (chapter 42). Even cherished places lose their names.

Conclusion

“I’ll Fly Away” insists that legacy is a verb. It is the act of naming the dead, singing in a car, cooling one’s anger with a daughter’s name, and crafting alternate endings. Memory is not stored in archives but performed through art, daily choices, and the hands we hold. Francisco uses the peace lily as a symbol of remembrance and hope, tying the poems together in a bouquet that survives the poet. Ultimately, the collection offers a roadmap: to live on, make yourself into sand, say the names, and teach the next runner how to hold the baton.

Study Questions and Answers

1. How does Francisco use the image of a baton (chapter 6) to define legacy?
The baton represents a shared mission. A runner may not finish the marathon, but by handing the baton—here the microphone—to another, the race continues. Legacy is collective and ongoing; the artist’s work becomes someone else’s starting point.

2. Why does the speaker’s daughter’s name (“Zoey”) stop him from retaliating in “I say black fatherhood”?
Zoey’s name symbolizes future legacy. As a father, the speaker chooses nonviolence to model strength and love, redefining Black fatherhood. The name acts as an “ice cube” that cools anger, grounding him in the legacy he wants to create for his child.

3. What contradiction does Francisco expose in “The youth choir sings ‘I believe I can fly’”?
The poem critiques how society celebrates art by artists who have harmed others, especially Black women. Legacy can sanitize abuse when the art is popular. Francisco questions why accountability fades when a melody is danceable—forcing readers to weigh the value of a legacy against its cost.

4. How does the father-son car scene (chapter 46) expand the definition of a choir?
A choir traditionally implies many voices. Here two people singing Bob Marley become a choir because they sing with purpose: to fight Alzheimer’s and preserve shared memory. This redefines legacy as an intimate, everyday act of resistance against erasure.

5. In “Alternate endings,” what does Francisco imply about the relationship between Black life and storytelling?
He suggests that mainstream narratives rarely imagine Black characters living fully. By rewriting endings where Black men survive and thrive, he claims legacy for the living. But the final question—would we pay to see Black people living?—challenges audiences to value Black life beyond tragedy.