Never Say That You Know
January 26, 2007
During my apprenticeship in the craft of Jaliyaa, I’ve often come into contact with an issue that, honestly, used to totally confuse me. Whenever I was involved in direct learning with an elder or someone more knowledgeable than me, prior to the session, a peer or someone truly caring would warn me, “Do not say the words, I know.”
Blindly, I’d often follow this advice, not completely understanding. When a certain song that I had learned previously or some part of a genealogy became redundant to me and someone was attempting to teach it to me “again,” I would bite my lower lip to keep the words, “Hey, I know this already,” from escaping my lips.
I did witness one incident that helped me to understand this bit of sage wisdom. A young boy was studying the Koran in a compound in Serrekunda, in The Gambia, when I heard him tell his teacher, “I know this!” The teacher chastised the young boy by asking him if he knew the information already then why was he sitting with him taking up his time.
On another occasion, the lesson came full circle to me here in the United States. I have a young student learning the Kora who, early on, was very aggressive in his approach to learning. I could tell that he was caging much of his innate desires to interrupt me when I was speaking and holding tightly to his opinions and suggestions.
One afternoon, I was teaching him a short kumbengo (repeated passage of a song, somewhat akin to an ostinato) when his eyes grew wide and he blurted out, “I know that! I know that! I can do that!”
I handed him the Kora and instructed him to go ahead and play it then. I retreated to a comfortable chair behind him and resumed reading a book that I had been reading prior to his arrival.
I could see and hear him struggling with the piece I had been trying to teach him. I continued attempting to read a passage of my book, all the while using the pages to hide my excessively wide, “cat that swallowed the canary” grin. I must admit, I don’t think I was able to read a single sentence, but I feigned it well enough.
After about 3 minutes of this charade he turns around in my directions and says, “Baba, can you help me? I don’t think I know it as good as I thought.”
I told him that once I finished reading I might consider trying to help him but that I was sure he already knew how to play this piece. I continued with my mimicking of a man reading a book.
After another 5 minutes or so, I put the book down and asked him if there was a lesson to be learned here.
I was proud to hear him acknowledge the error of his ways. I went back to teach him again but, this time, we started on another song. He asked me if I were going to teach him the last song we were working on. I told him “not today.”
We still haven’t returned to that song yet and it’s been weeks. He will be returning tomorrow for another lesson. I think maybe tomorrow we will return to that song and I will see if he is ready.
If I have any advice for the budding teller of tales it is this: be very wary of the undisciplined words that want to haphazardly fall from your lips. I do not believe we ever truly “know” anything. Even if you have had an experience multiple times or you’ve heard the rendition of some particular tale hundreds of times, they are “never” all the same. The path to mastering your craft is to find the subtle differences. When you speak too quickly about knowing something, you may be cutting your blessings short. There will be many opportunities to tell your tales, but learning to truly listen and remain perceptively silent will probably be the most valued tools you will ever acquire.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Maintaining Connections
January 26, 2007
I just got off of the phone with one of my brothers (in spirit not blood) and I’m feeling really good! His name is Badialy, but more people know him as Boujou. His mother and I call him Boujoubadji.
He left Los Angeles about 3 years ago or so and is living is New York. We don’t talk often, but when we do, it’s almost as if neither one of us wants to hang up the phone.
Badialy was one of my first Kora teachers way back in the day. It is his family that I live with when I am in Senegal. His father Bouba, is one of my elders in the tradition. I’ve kept Bouba up many a night talking and playing Kora until he would finally tell me, it is time to sleep.
The importance of maintaining connections, both spiritual and physical, can not be overemphasized. After sharing some words and music over the phone I’m feeling really refreshed.
I’m looking forward to the rest of this day.
“Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da.”
Where are the Places to Tell Stories?
January 23, 2007
Alright, this is an easy one. I am always getting this question from budding tellers who are looking at the business end of storytelling as a veritable “pot of gold”.
The simple answer to the question of where are places to perform is: “Everywhere.”
Don’t worry I’ll elaborate.
You see, one of the issues with many people who get into any line of work, whether it is storytelling or plumbing, is that it may not be something that they are passionate about. If it is a passion, then this question is relatively easy to handle. It is easy to handle because, if storytelling is a passion, you will tell whenever and wherever the occasion presents itself.
Often when newer tellers come to me they are approaching me following the conclusion of a performance at some big theatre or concert hall and imagining that this is what I’m doing 24/7. Nothing could be further from the truth.
One of the things that they typically fail to realize is that I’ve been doing this for quite a number of years and that what is happening today is a culmination of things put into motion many years ago. It might be better if they could have been with me on some of the dusty, dirt filled back roads in Senegal or Gambia. It might help them to understand better if they were with me years ago when I had to wake up at 3am so that I could get a couple of hours of practice in on my harp before staggering into my 9 to 5.
Listen, if you truly desire to be a teller, a professional teller, then, and it really pains me to be the one to inform you of this, but you are probably going to have to visit alot of places and share a quite a number of stories for, dare I say the dreaded word: “Free!”
Oops, I think I just lost half of my readership.
There should be love in truth and truth in love. I have to be honest. If you have no track record or recognition of your skills, then how are you going to demand compensation? No one would think of walking into a law firm and saying, “I would like to be made partner today, on the hour, in your prestigious firm even though I know nothing about law.”
This sounds ludicrous doesn’t it? But this is how many people approach artistic professions we are considering engaging in. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but, there is no easy street, it doesn’t exist.
After you have spent some time honing your storytelling skills I would suggest you try your new repertoire out on family and friends. Ask them to be honest with you and take the criticism as constructive advice.
If you’re feeling extra brave, you may even volunteer for a local establishment (i.e. library, elder care facility, day-care facility, preschool, the list is endless).
Be honest with your own assessment of your strengths and weaknesses. Make plans and stick to them.
Another wonderful thing to do is find groups of tellers who may be work shopping their tales and join in. Trust me; there are more of these groups out there than you can shake a stick at. You will be surprised once you start inquiring.
Your period of assessment will be different from anyone else. We are all different. This is why I’m saying that you must be honest with yourself about your strengths and weaknesses.
Once you feel that you’ve honed your skills to the point where you’re ready to get paid, then sit down and map out your business goals. I can’t stress this enough. If you are going to be a professional teller, about 25% of your time will be spent telling tales. The rest of your time you will be developing your skills and nurturing your business. I’ll go into more detail about business in another post but, suffice is to say, that you are indeed a business person as much as a teller of tales if you’ve chosen to do this as a profession.
Lastly, once you feel ready to conquer the world, do not limit yourself to venues which sponsor storytelling.
Remember this: words are universal; they have a home anywhere and everywhere. If you can imagine telling a story someplace then make a note of it. Figuring out how to monetize these ideas and locals, well, I’ll save that for another post. For now, this should give you plenty to think about.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Being Thankful
January 23, 2007
When times get a little rough, and ya’ll know what I mean, I sometimes turn to this simple proverb which makes me smile:
“Do not curse the creator for having created the lion, be thankful that it was not given wings.”
Can you imagine?
I know that each of us engages in our own introspective struggles and internal issues, but if, just for a moment, everyone could stop and realize that, no matter how bad you got it, someone else is having it a lot worse.
There probably is another world where lions have wings. Aren’t you glad you don’t live there?
“Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da.”
Performance in the Rain
January 22, 2007
October 1st of 2006 I was scheduled for an outdoor performance of music and stories at the Getty Museum in, normally, sunny southern California. I look forward to outside performance, enjoying the heat of the sun and the feeling of the breeze but this day was slightly different. The sky was overcast, clouds were threatening rain and the temperature had dropped just enough to introduce a small chill.
On the drive to the museum I began to lament the dreadful conditions. I tried to push this negativity out of my mind but, hey, I’m only human. I had thoughts of standing in the rain all by myself telling stories to the birds huddle beneath the branches of nearby trees. When I arrived, I took care of the initial setup and preparation with the staff at the Getty and retired to the green room to tune the Kora, dress and enjoy a little quiet time before performing.
Outside the window of the green room I could see the sky growing darker and darker by the minute. I recalled the old adage, “the show must go on.” I made up my mind to venture out to the plaza where the performance was set to start and, even if no one was present, perform the music and stories I had come to perform.
As I made my way to the plaza I noticed a light drizzle starting to occur. I kept to my decision and tried not to think of the warm, dry, quiet room I had just departed from.
When I got to the plaza, I was pleasantly surprised. There were already about 4 families that were seated and waiting for me. The drizzle had not deterred them. As I began the performance with a song and music of the Kora, the light drizzle turned into a light rain. From the steps behind where my 4 families were seated, I could see the employees from the information kiosk in the main entrance of the museum escorting a convoy of about 30 people down to the plaza for the performance. A feeling very difficult to describe welled up inside of me; it was a mixture of joy, pride, humility and contentment.
These people were actually braving the rain to attend the session!
My enthusiasm kicked my performance into another gear. I sang, played my Kora and delivered narrative as I had never done before. During the performance I could not help but feel grateful to these souls whose actions spoke volumes.
By the middle of the performance, the drops of water had become a bit heavier. Still, no one moved. Parents covered children with blankets; men took off coats for the women they were with. Although these people had come to witness a performance, I was feeling that I was witness to one of the most memorable scenes that any artist could hope to be a part of. I thought for sure that I would lose the attention of the children, most of who were bundled such that a drop of water could not have touched them anywhere even if it had been a downpour, but the children’s attentiveness to the tales did not waiver.
Almost as if on queue, at the completion of the performance, it began to really rain. It felt as if the clouds had been watching the performance and, at the playing of the last note of the Kora and the speaking of the last syllable of narrative, chose release that which they had been holding back so graciously.
This moment was memorable for me in more ways the one. It taught me something about myself and my own expectations. It taught me, more than anything else that my work is more about service than performance. If these people were willing to brave in climate conditions for a simple taste of music and storytelling, then why not give them more than they expect. Every time I think of this moment, I feel the same sense of pleasure that I experienced on that day.
This is one of the reasons why I do what I do.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Worn Torn Ugly Priceless Sandals
January 21, 2007
I just spent the last week, January 13th through January 19th with one of my griot guides. His name is Alhaji Papa Susso and he hails from The Gambia, West Africa. His compound is the one I live in when I am visiting The Gambia.
The week was very grueling as studying the combination of history, music, and stories simultaneously is a bit of a challenge. Add to this Papa’s personal and performance schedule and you have a “no rest for the weary” scenario.
During one of the days we were seated in the living room talking, Papa was telling me about his recent trip to South Africa for an international poetry festival. He waxed poetically about his previous encounters with Nelson Mandela and how Mandela was a main reason for his being invited to the conference.
As Papa was talking I noticed his sandals were completed worn and torn in various portions of the leather. I was trying to listen to him but my mind started wandering to all the places on this earth those sandals have traveled (France, England, Spain, South America, All over Africa and many, many more locations too numerous to list.)
Papa has never been excessively concerned when it comes to appearances; he is more a content oriented person.
As we were talking I interrupted him, a major error, and blurted out, “Papa would you like a newer pair of sandals?”
He looked at me for a moment, glanced down at the tattered mess covering his feet and smiled. “Do you want these?” he asked.
I smiled back at him, excused myself for a moment and went into my wardrobe closet, returning with a pair of similar but newer sandals.
He tried them on and a wide, very wide smile parted his lips. He handed me the old tattered pair and simply said, “Thank you.”
I placed the shoes in an adjacent room and forgot about them for the rest of Papa’s stay.
A few days after Papa left, my wife was cleaning the room when she found the sandals and approached me inquisitively.
“Whose shoes are these?” She didn’t seem pleased to be holding what looked like a pair of old, beat-up rags.
“Papa left those for me,” I explained.
My wife has learned that eccentricities are a part of the life with me and she rarely, if ever, delves any deeper than her initial inquiries.
She placed the sandals back where they were and I just began smiling like the cat that ate the canary.
Some of you will understand, and some will not. For those of you who do, I hope you’re smiling along with me.
This is one of the reasons that I do what I do.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
ADHD = Front Row Center
January 21, 2007
Before I begin dishing out this piece of advice, I should to place a disclaimer:
By utilizing the abbreviation ADHD and referring to those believed to be suffering symptoms associated with Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder, I am in no way, purposely anyway, labeling these individuals as problematic or disruptive (although this may sometimes be the case).
Ok, now, on with the advice. In traveling on your path to becoming a master teller you will, inevitably, encounter that person, most often a child, whose inability to conform to sensible public decorum is desperately lacking. This individual, usually a child, may interrupt your performance with inappropriate yells, screams, ranting and spontaneous dancing especially when there is no music.
I have referred to this person, usually a child, as compromised by ADHD but this need not be the case. This person, usually a child, may arrive to your performance saturated with sugar draining from his pores (I use the masculine pronoun “his” at this point due to the fact that this person, usually a child, is, more often than not, a young boy. The young girl performing in this manner is also inevitable, but you will not encounter her as often). Factors which might influence or contribute to this child’s behavior include, but are not limited to: sodas, ice cream, popsicles, sugared cereals, candy, cookies, cakes, and cream covered or filled delicacies which there should be a law against.
Where will this child be seated? Ah, now that is a wonderful question of the budding teller to ask. Always, and I do mean “always,” this child will be seated front row center of your performance area, directly in front of you.
What complicates this matter often is the child’s accomplice. I call this accomplice the “Absent Parent.” You may look to the left or the right of your young charge and see someone who looks like a parent, but I guarantee you, they are not really there. It is an illusion of sorts. There is a body but its’ inhabitant has momentarily vacated the premises, possibly due to the inordinate stress or fatigue at having had to handle this child’s ever since he was introduced to the world.
The child may wander during your performance, walking around you or through your legs, tugging at your clothing, untying your shoes. This occurring all the while a very contented looking, smiling “absent-parent” sits before you thoroughly enjoying the tale you are telling.
I have often wondered if I am the only person witnessing what is going on. As you scan the audience you may notice that 90% of the people seem engrossed in the tale, barely cognizant of the disruptive force clinging to your leg.
During my earlier years of performing I used to completely stop my performance and demand to know: “whose child is this?”
This inevitably interrupted to flow of the performance and left me feeling as though I had chastised another adult for not doing a sufficient job of parenting.
I can hear your voices now, “What do we do Baba?” “How do we avoid this situation?” “Couldn’t we just run and hide?”
I have the solution for you. It may not be simple but this craft involves a life time of learning.
First of all, you, the teller, are responsible for the escalation or de-escalation of mood in the environment you are performing. Keep this at the forefront of your mind. Knowing this will guide you in developing your own techniques for dealing with this dilemma.
Here are a few things that have I begun doing over the years.
- If at all possible, I simple ignore the person, usually a child.
- When unable to ignore, I creatively engage (I’ll explain a little more in a second)
- Utilize movement to your advantage, anticipating locations of distractions.
- Eye contact may act as a deterrent.
- Voice inflexion may act as a deterrent.
- Offering a sacrifice to appease the unsettled deity.
- Take control of “your” environment and do what is necessary.
Now allow me to explain, in a little more detail each of the above stratagems. Firstly, ignoring the disrupter is self explanatory. The majority of the time, this method will suffice.
Creatively engaging means using your imagination and playing the disruption to your advantage. Allow me to give you an example:
I once was in a session of storytelling when this child, for some unknown reason, would begin barking like a dog anytime I mentioned the word dog in my story. I altered my telling of the tale to include “his,” yes it was a little boy, sound effects. It worked out brilliantly as his timing was impeccable. I even ended the tale with his sound effect.
Now, this is only a short example, but, as tellers, I am sure you can use your imagination to your advantage.
On the 3rd aspect of my list, I have found that movement is a key to all activities. I am not simply saying run away from your aggressor. It has more to do with re-directing your audience’s attention to where you want it. I never perform in one spot on a stage. I am usually moving about in and around the audience. If my little disrupter is seated from row center, he may never have the opportunity to encounter my presence but for a few brief moments at the beginning of the performance and at the close of the session. If you move throughout your audience you will find inspiration for driving the momentum of your tale. There are many people in your audiences who will enjoy the “up close and personal” touch.
Aspects 4 and 5 of my list are very similar. If you have ever been a parent or a child of a parent, and I’m sure that’s most of you, you are familiar with the “eye.” You know what I’m talking about. The eye occurs when your mom or dad are not pleased with how you’re conducting yourself. The “eye” seems to do more to force you to rethink your actions than yelling or being verbally chastised. Add to the “eye,” simple voice inflexion and you have a veritable arsenal at your disposal. You all know the concept of voice inflexion as well. This also occurs when your mom or dad was displaced with you. It typically involved adding your middle and last name to your first when calling you to appear in their presence.
Now the 6th aspect in my list is a bit more controversial, but it really works. It is controversial because many believe that you should not reward inappropriate behavior. I prefer to view this as appeasing the unsettled deity temporarily until the performance is over. Here is how it works: All disruptors want something. If you can figure out what that something is, you are halfway there. I do not recommend dishing out candy, although I have seen this done. For me, I prefer to employ a bit of psychology and it usually works something like this: I may announce that there will be gifts given out during or at the conclusion of the performance (My gifts are typically cowry shells, given with short historical references, these are also teaching moments). It will all depend on how I am reading the audience or situation prior to and during my performance. I address children whose behavior is that which I desire by issuing loads and loads of positive reinforcement. If, for a split second, my disruptor exhibits appropriate behavior I will fly to his side and commend him as I have done with all of the other children (maybe a bit more exaggerated though). Once the inappropriate behavior resumes, I disappear back into another area of the audience with my music and stories.
Finally, and this is probably the most important: Take control of your environment and do what is necessary. I have, in class room settings, told children to go and sit with their teacher. I have, during performances, escorted small children from the stage to the laps of their parents. The key here is that you must not be afraid to do what is necessary and reasonable. The arena has been given to you to exercise your craft. Only you are fully aware of what needs to occur for the occasion to be successful.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Honest Assessments
January 16, 2007
It is a pity that so many trees are sacrificed to feed our insatiable appetite for the printed page when, often, a few short, succinct spoken words could serve us just as well. Here’s an example of one such proverb:
“The stone and the egg do not sleep in the same bed.”
Yes, I know, this sounds like common sense, but you would be surprised. There have been volumes upon volumes of books written to explain how to engage in relationships, knowing the right person to fall in love with, navigating the treacherous waters of dating, etc. I have several friends who are addicted to a genre of publishing known as “Self-Help” books. Out of curiosity I’ve perused a few pages of these manuscripts and what I have I found is that they often repeat things that our parents and grandparents told us when we were “too young” and “too smart” to listen and appreciate their sage advice. I’ve found that much of the ancient wisdom that was contained in short, simple sentences has been expanded upon with illustrations added, beautiful binding selected and published by mega-publishing houses for profit.
I am in no way casting disparaging eyes on these works or those involved in the industry of publishing; to the contrary, I know that everyone and everything has its’ place, but in a society where no one seems to have “time” doesn’t it make sense that we would want to simplify our lives a bit?
Why read a 400 page manuscript when reflecting on a few simple words could, potentially, guide you towards the same understanding?
I used to think of the above proverb as only related to relationships we have with others. I’ve now tend to think it is possible that the words can relate to the internal relationship we possess with ourselves, our own internal desire for psychological and spiritual maturity. After all, hasn’t it been said that the greatest battle a person will ever wage is the internal struggle against one’s self; those dual aspects of our personalities (egg and stone) that we are, forever, challenged to make choices between?
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Growth Through Giving
January 15, 2007
I have a new student who just started about two weeks ago. She is a beautiful musician who has a very passionate desire to learn to play the Kora. She contacted me through another student.
One of the things I always attempt to do when I get a new student is to try and learn something of them. I don’t believe that you can effectively teach anyone anything unless you first know them. Each of us has ways of consuming information that is unique to our own constitutions. I am always attempting to find the access points of my students understanding.
Well… this young woman not only wanted to learn the Kora but she also wanted to purchase one. I maintain an inventory of several Koras which I usually use to instruct with. Since the Kora is traditionally played by men, it is built in a way that can challenge upper body strength if you attempt to do any maintenance on it (tuning, repair, etc.).
I prepared one of the better Koras for my new student. Within the week she was calling me concerning the difficulties in maintaining the instrument. I sympathized with her and searched my mind for a solution. I took measure of her passion for, not only the Kora, but for music in general; I reflected on similar struggles which I had when I first started learning the Kora and finally I tried to place myself in her shoes to attempt to know what solution would be best for her.
It hit me. The idea of what I should do. It was not a comforting idea, but it seemed to be the only solution that came to me naturally. I have three Koras that I alternate between for performances. These three instruments are, somewhat, appendages of my person. I have never considered parting with any of them. I took a look at the one I don’t play as often. It is has a small but strong calabash; the tuning rings are thin and easier to manipulate and the bridge is the perfect size for her hands. It was literally calling her name!
Ok, I have to admit this in order for you to know the truth. There was an immediate, reflexive selfish response on my part when the idea first made itself known to me. How could I part with this one, it has been by my side for so many years? It has a majestic feel and tone about it.
I took a little time to escort the theoretical “id” out of my presence and place it in its’ cradle where, hopefully, it will remain. I pondered on what was best for the student and not what was best for my burgeoning ego. I had to release this Kora, it was the only thing to do, and it was the right thing to do. I began to relax once I realized what was necessary, it already belonged to her; it had been waiting on her.
I had finally done it, the Kora had become a gift to give and not a possession to hoard.
After resolving this dilemma, I had to prepare for a visit from one of my mentors, Alhaji Papa Susso. Papa is from The Gambia, West Africa and was born into the griot tradition. He and I try spend a few weeks out of each year together.
Anyway, Papa was coming to stay in my home from January 13th to January 19th of 2007. I’m always excited about Papa’s visits because it gives me an opportunity to attempt to mimic the hospitality that he and his family give me whenever I stay in his compound in The Gambia. There are a number of things I enjoy doing to prepare for his visits.
On the 13th I went to Los Angeles International Airport to pick Papa up. When we saw one another it was like two old friends re-uniting. He came out of baggage claim loaded down with stuff. When I went to lift some of his burden he stopped walking and pushed forward the largest bundle, which was held in his arms. “This is for you,” he shouted. I took the bundle from him and immediately recognized that beneath the strangely wrapped collage of plastic bags and masking tape was “a Kora.” “My son and I made this for you on my last trip back home The Gambia.” I froze for a moment with the widest grin on my face anyone has probably ever been able to manage. After laughing together from some time we finally managed to make it to the car and head off towards my home.
As soon as I got home I unwrapped the ungainly packaging and was revealed a beautiful new Kora made by Papa’s own hands. What a wonderful gift!
My student showed up a few hours later to take her first lesson with Papa. When she arrived, I took the Kora I had originally given her and handed her the one I spoke of earlier. Her eyes grew wide and a smile wider than the one I had performed earlier in the day appeared on her face. It was all the reward I needed.
I’ve been thinking about this day ever since it happened, actually just three days ago. Once I got out of my own way and allowed the natural order of things to occur, as they should, the pieces to the puzzle fell into place. I honestly believe that my realizing the importance of giving or releasing was the most important aspect of this incident. Don’t get me wrong, the Kora made for me by Papa will always be an amazing gift; not only because of it is a beautiful work of art but also because of the fortuitous moment it entered my life.
I love my work! Here is another reason why I do what I do.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
The Dreaded Sourpuss
January 15, 2007
As you venture down your path of tales and telling, you will eventually come across a foreboding figure who has the potential to, literally, drain the desire to tell from your being bit-by-bit.
I like to refer to this person as, “The Dreaded Sourpuss.” Here’s how our old friend “Webster” defines the word sourpuss:
sour·puss (soor’poos’) n. [slang] a person who has a gloomy or disagreeable expression or nature.
Although I rely heavily on the ancient, traditional methods of finding my word definitions (reading a book), I do also enjoy some of the more contemporary forms of research (Dictionary.com). Here’s how “Dictionary.com” defines the word sourpuss:
sour·puss??? [souuh
r-poos, sou-er-] noun Informal. a person having a grouchy disposition that is often accompanied by a scowling facial expression.
Now that last one really says it all. As you carry on in your journeys from place to place sharing your tales, you will continually encounter this character. Talk with any teller you want and ask them if this is true and you will hear a resounding, yes! Oh, yes! Your sourpuss will usually be someone responsible for acting as your liaison. If your sourpuss is not a liaison, then they are usually an audience member seated in an area where you are forced to make eye-to-eye contact.
Fear not my fellow teller, there is aid for you here. One thing to keep in mind when you are venturing outside the confines of your safe little hermitage filled with books, recordings and items of comfort is this; We are all, each and every individual, having different experiences throughout our day. Some us are falling in love for the first time, some of us are starting families, and some of us are just learning to tie our shoes. Whatever the experience your audience (I prefer to use the word community here instead of audience) has had prior to your arrival they have made a conscious decision to place themselves before you in order to experience your telling of a tale. Now that is a powerful, nonverbal statement if I’ve never heard one. Please keep this powerful affirmation in forefront of your mind. This person, whose countenance rivals that of the saddest looking hound, has come to you for something or has crossed your path for a reason.
As a storyteller, a communicator or a transmitter of truth, you have a responsibility to, not only this individual, but to yourself as well. They have entrusted you with helping them to transcend whatever it is that weighs on them in this moment. The way you do this is by remembering that old sage advice, “above all to thine own self be true.”
I’m reminded of a proverb that says, “for news of the heart ask the face.”
If you engage a person who chooses to be in your presence from their place of pain instead of a position of appreciation for the gift of your craft, then you are doing your craft a disservice. All of your preparation, reflection, planning, reading, interacting and interpersonal growth should arm you with the necessary tools to transcend any interpersonal impediments.
What I have found is that, after a performance, I can never find the dreaded sourpuss. Why? Well, no, it’s not because they have departed the premises; I’m unable to find them because, like the mythic phoenix, they have been transformed. I am now accosted with bright smiles and flashing teeth. The metaphorical ugly duckling has become a swan.
There is no task worth doing that is easy. Every craft has its painful sacrifices. If you can overcome your own personal revulsions at encountering the “unpleasant personality,” then you are well on your way to becoming a master teller. If your heart can remain calm and beat in a smooth rhythm when all else around you calls for your participation in chaos, then you are well on your way to becoming a master teller.
Don’t view the dreaded sourpuss as an impediment to your progress; instead look to them as opportunities to test the quality of your mettle.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Taking Time for Granted
January 13, 2007
I have a little ritual that I perform each morning when I wake up. It’s nothing elaborate, very simple. Each morning when I wake up, I engage in the obligatory cleanse and then I spend about two to three hours reading or playing my Kora. That’s it! I may have some juice, water or little something to eat while I’m reading or playing the Kora but that’s it. I find the really early morning hours to be more suitable for me to actually absorb the content of what I’m reading and the earth’s stillness and silence seems to act as a natural resonator for my harp playing. There’s something about the majority of people still being asleep that seems to issue a sort of calm across the land and being able to greet the sun each morning is something more than energizing.
Anyway, I’ve been doing this for so many years that I don’t really think about it anymore. Like I said, it has become a ritual.
One particular morning, after I had finished the “ritual” I made a phone call to a friend of mine who lives on the east coast, in Maryland. She is from Nigeria and her accent is a thing of beauty. I thought, to hear her speak, would be a wonderful way to start out the day following my little ritual.
When she answered the phone it was great because I could tell she was smiling on the other end of the line. This was a warm welcome into the heart and home of a friend. She asked me what I was doing and I explained that I had just been reading and playing my Kora. I told her that it’s what I do every morning before I venture out into the world.
She began laughing. This caught me off guard. I retraced the steps of my words and couldn’t find any humor in what I had just said. I asked her what was so funny.
After she stopped laughing she said that she was not laughing at me but that what I had just said had told her a lot about me; it pleased her. She said that she was happy for me because I had clarity of mind. She went on to explain that, in order to engage in the reading and music each morning, my mind would have to be unencumbered, free to concentrate on these things. I was starting to feel really glad that I made this call. I mean, who doesn’t like being told good things about themselves? I absorbed her words like a sponge.
She told me that I probably took this time for granted and that many people would love to be able to do this but are unable. She told me that the time I spend each morning should be viewed as a gift, a very precious gift.
I hadn’t really looked at it with this type of depth previously. We went on and talked for probably another hour or so. We both tend to be a bit chatty at times.
After we finished our conversation I had time to reflect. What I engage in each morning is definitely a gift. I made a conscious decision, following our conversation, to try and savor the time I am afforded each morning. My simple ritual has become an occasion I look forward the previous evening before I lay down to go to sleep. I never want to be the type of person who takes time for granted.
This is one of the reasons why I do what I do.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Finding Stories to Tell
January 13, 2007
This has to be the “most asked” question of tellers new to the craft. “Where do I find stories to tell?” While I understand the dilemma, it is still a bit amusing to hear this question as it is a “forest for the trees” issue.
First, let me start by saying this: Stories are ubiquitous. They are not stagnant. They have wings and if you aren’t paying close attention you will surely miss them.
I was once asked what makes a storyteller an excellent teller. I remember my response like it was yesterday. “The teller must be a good listener.” I don’t mean listening only with your ears, no, that’s for novices. I mean listening as an awareness of life and life’s music (activity). You see, for all of our technological advances and cutting edge theories, we often fail to recognize that which is right in front of us. A teller is not afforded the luxury of simply hearing things. No, a teller must be tuned in to her environment and recognize how words are exchanged like currency, the dance between moving bodies boarding and getting off of a bus, the nuances of the person dining and reading a paper, etc. These are all stories. Whether they develop into mythology or legend is up to the imagination of the teller, but beneath it all there must be a purpose for the story’s development.
I know I know … I’ve been told that my advice is often very unconventional but something you should realize is that, this advice is not meant for everyone. This advice is meant for that soul whose creative energies are agitated by conventionality. There are those with whom these words will have immediate resonance. And then they are many that are still scratching their heads from a previous post that I published.
So, where do you find your stories young bard? You find them inside of yourself, outside of yourself and everywhere in between. Learn to listen in a more refined way. Take time to listen in a more refined way. Stories are like little children who dance in front of the television when their parents are trying to watch a show. They long to be acknowledged but we tend to not recognize them because our thoughts are trapped by extraneous noise (bill paying, career trajectories, child rearing, car repairs, etc.).
Now that I’ve taken you completely to the edge of the land of the metaphysician, allow me to draw you back a little.
There is another tool in the professional storyteller’s arsenal that is little talked about. It is often whispered amongst ourselves in the dark corners of cafés or workshops. It is a little know secret that I dare to share with you here and now.
One of the things you must do, that will set apart from the rest of the herd is “read.”
Yes, I said it. Read! I’ll say it again, read! I know that I will suffer the slings and arrows of misfortune from my sisters and brethren in the storytelling universe for revealing these ancient secrets but I must exercise truth.
You must read, read, read and, when you have grown thoroughly exhausted of reading, well, then read some more. By reading I don’t mean viewing the words of a page, I mean that the words you read must engage your emotional being. If you do not laugh, cry or gasp when you read then you are not reading. If the words of the page that you are reading do not resonate with you or do not give you an adrenaline rush, then you need to change material.
Through reading you will discover not only stories, but things about yourself that other forms of introspection cannot give you.
If you follow these paths toward discovery, then you will not need to find stories, they will find you.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Ignorance of Africa
January 12, 2007
There are a number of tellers out there who do stories related to all types of cultures from all over the world. This is a very lucrative stance to take in that it opens you up for all sorts of opportunities to perform and earn a living. I’m often asked by other storytellers why I focus so much on Africa. This is easy to explain. Allow me to share with you a very short anecdote.
One day I was visiting a school. It was an elementary school in Southern California. I could tell that the staff was excited, which translated into the children being excited.
As I was setting up for the assembly in the cafeteria/auditorium, a teacher approached me. Her enthusiasm was infectious. She asked me if I could help her. She wanted to know how to say “hello” in African.
I’ve had a lot of experience with this question so I’ve learned how to handle it gracefully. I explained to her that there are more than 800 distinct languages on the continent of Africa and that my fluency was limited to only one: Bamankan. I then taught her how to say: “hello,” “thank you,” and “goodbye.” When we finished she looked a little dumbfounded and asked me, “Are there really more than 800 languages in Africa?”
I saw this as an opening to instruct so I went on to tell her that Africa is 30 million square km. In fact, the whole United States, India, Europe, New Zealand, and China would fit inside the continent of Africa. You should have seen her face light up!
We talked for a little while longer while I continued setting up. She admitted that she didn’t know any of this stuff.
Later that day I reflected on the fact that this young woman is charged with the delicate responsibility of educating our children. The disappointment wasn’t that she didn’t possess a basic cultural knowledge but that her unawareness was not an isolated theme in our educational system. I don’t claim that everyone should know everything about Africa. I would never do that. What I would like to see is a little more respect and attention awarded the site of humanity’s birth.
So, even though the road to telling tales from around the world may be a bit more lucrative, I have to remain with, what I believe to be, my work as a teller: teaching, through storytelling and music, the beauty, history and diverse cultures who inhabit the continent we call Africa.
This is one reason why I do what I do.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Who is Nelson Mandela?
January 11, 2007
Much like the social critique and author Jonothan Kozol, I manage to visit a large numbers of schools throughout the year. The socio-economic scales of the schools I visit range from the most economically impoverished to the “state of the art” experimental. I often find myself comparing my own background to the children at each of these schools.
I will keep the name of the school that I’m writing about anonymous for several reasons that I’m sure you’ll understand. The school had requested I come and spend a few days there as part of an artist residency. I was free to inculcate their students at 45 minute intervals with whatever issues and topics I deemed culturally relevant to their academic growth. When I’m approached by these types of requests I’m usually overjoyed at the prospects but try to remain aware of the time constraints. For many of these children, I realize it may be the one and only time I am in their presence.
On the scheduled day of my first residency at this school, when I arrived, my breath was taken away. The landscaping was immaculate, the surrounding residential area filled with 5,000 – 10,000 square foot homes and scent of fresh hot breakfast wafting from the cafeteria vents. The caravan expensive foreign cars and suvs dropping the children off in front of the school were endless.
I made my way to the office and was escorted by my liaison to the library. A section of the library was partitioned off for my use and all other activities in the library were suspended during my stay so that my sessions would not be disturbed.
After setting up my screen, projector and laptop and re-checking my PowerPoint presentations, I had time to walk the campus before my first session began. I always try to do this to get a feel for the environment. While walking this campus I felt at ease. It seemed more like an environment for a retreat than an actual school. Artwork was everywhere, both the children’s and that of professional artists.
Something that I did notice missing was a cultural diversity in the artwork, images around campus, student body and faculty. The architecture and art of the institution had a definitive eurocentric look and feel.
I had to get back to my workshops before they began so that I could double check my setup. When the first class arrived, they all seemed bright cheerful and eager to learn. They were a well disciplined group, as were the rest throughout the day. They hung on every word. It was an amazing experience. And then something happened in that first session that gave me pause.
When I am instructing on topics such as history or current events, I like to mix music and storytelling with just a little direct narrative. You can probably tell that I’m not a fan of the antiquated Socratic method of instruction. What I’ve learned from the West African craft of Jaliyaa, I, usually, attempt to fuse with Western notions of how we learn. I was in the process of doing this when one of my PowerPoint slides transitioned to an image of Nelson Mandela. Now, typically, I may spend only a few on this slide because of Mandela’s iconic presence in the media. I started speaking about the social and political transitions which have occurred in the world and are continuing to occur. One of the young girls seated in the front row raise her hand and asked, “Who is that?” pointing to the image of Nelson Mandela’s face on the screen. I was awe struck. Like I said earlier, I paused. I looked around the room and saw in the eyes of many of the others that they had the same questions. I asked, “Does anyone know who this man is?”
There was silence. Now one thing I’ve learned over the years in interacting with youth is this: when they know the answer to a question, step out of the way because they are “never” shy about speaking out. When they do not know the answer to a question, the tension in a room can be sliced with a knife.
I had made a critical error in assuming that I could just speak about social and political transitions around the world and employ an image of Nelson Mandela, as sort of an archetype of the topic, without having to address who he is.
The rest of the day went pretty much the same. Almost no one, except for one of the classes that had a very enterprising and inventive teacher who, I later learned, was constantly fighting for diversity within the school, knew who Nelson Mandela was.
Here I was in an institution whose resources rivaled those of many college campuses in the country and the children were not aware of who Nelson Mandela was.
I could go on and on about this experience but I will end with this thought. I was present in the lives of these children for a reason. I was prepared for a reason. My feelings of sadness related to this occurrence remain a marker that motivates me.
This is one of the reasons I do what I do.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyagaa da.”
Butterflies
January 9, 2007
This advice isn’t only for storytellers, it’s for all of those who have ever had to present before a group of people. It doesn’t matter if it is a group of 10 or 1,000; the physiological reactions are universal. First, the mouth may get a little dry, then the palms might start to sweat and finally, the butterflies begin a free-fall in the belly. These are a few examples of what is commonly known as “stage fright.”
The funny thing is that none of us ever seems to escape this phenomenon. No one is immune. Just when you think you will never have to stand before a group of people again, there is it: That teacher telling you that you have an oral report to present, an office manager requesting you to do a PowerPoint presentation before the top execs, or the local amphitheatre requesting your performance to fill 1,200 seats.
I’m going to tell you a little of how I’ve managed to deal with this form of stress.
The first step I took in understanding how to cope with this ever present stressful associate was to examine it from different angle. I simply became an audience member. I sought out various types of performances and went to see them as an “audience member.” While in the audience, I paid very close attention to how I was feeling during each performer’s performance. I noticed that I felt really at ease when the performer was relaxed and comfortable on stage. I noticed that I felt a touch of anxiety whenever a performer seemed ill equipped or uncomfortable on stage. With every performance I attended I seemed to experience vicariously the power, or lack thereof, of the performer. During performances I recall wanting the best possible outcome for everyone on stage. It seemed as though my humanity was greatest at the possibility that something might go wrong during the performance. I never wanted anything to go wrong.
After attending a number of performances I decided to reflect on them and see if I could gain any new insights. I began questioning whether I was hyper-sensitive because I was a performer myself or were my feelings common of a typical audience member.
I sought out friends and associates who were not performers and asked them a series of questions related to their experiences at live performances. I was really glad to learn that they all, well almost all, had similar experiences to mine.
Here’s the lesson, or advice if you will. I don’t believe that people who voluntarily come to see you perform are coming to witness your downfall. Nor do I believe that these same people are entering the theatre disgusted with you as a person, they don’t even know you. I prefer to look at it this way: The people who come to my performances come in support of me. They believe that I will deliver what it is that the brochure of promotional material says that I will deliver. Their hopes for me are high. They are affirming my choice to engage them with music and narrative. There is no downside to this.
If you keep these things in mind whenever you have to perform or present before a group or audience, it becomes an empowering perspective.
Your only responsibility in this equation is to deliver what is expected of you and, if you love what you do and you have prepared appropriately… strap in and enjoy the ride!
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Responsibility to Others
January 9, 2007
Here’s another example of a proverb that can be understood on several levels.
“When elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers.”
I used to employ this one years ago when I was using storytelling as a tool to aid in teaching parenting skills. It seemed to really hit home with those couples who were constantly arguing in front of their children. It became a favorite of mine during a day I was sitting outside watching my children play, when they were very young at the time and my son said it to one of his playmates. I don’t recall the context and I think my son was around 9 years old at the time. I was so shocked that I just sat there with my mouth open. None of the children noticed me sitting there with this dumb-struck look on my face, they just resumed the game they were playing as if nothing had happened.
A very pivotal moment for me. I was filled with pride at the fact that my son actually used a proverb.
Needless to say, this proverb can relate to anyone from politicians to parents, from school administrators to generals and everyone in between.
Personally, I’ve always tried to keep this in mind when charged with the responsibility of engaging young minds. I know that we, adults, are always being watched by those ever inquisitive eyes of the young.
“Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da.”
Social Cohesion
January 8, 2007
I was once told that there is no proverb without an occasion. I really didn’t grasp the true meaning of this lesson until a few years ago when, after having committed a vast number of proverbs to memory; they began cropping up in my mind during various conversations. Very recently I experienced this phenomenon again when some friends and I were sitting around discussing everything from politics to sports and, well, yes, “Desperate Housewives.” When we broached the topic of contemporary morality, or lack thereof, I remembered the following proverb:
“The ruin of a nation begins in the homes of its’ people.”
It was a readily succinct way to express what I was thinking at the time. I can’t recall where I originally heard it or read it but it feels really good when an old friend returns for a visit.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Storytelling is not Acting
January 8, 2007
The craft of storytelling and the craft of acting are accessed by two completely divergent paths. This needs to be stressed especially to the beginning teller. Each craft has its respective trials and tribulations in attaining mastery but similarities stop there. To the casual observer it might appear that both, the actor and the storyteller are engaged in the same venture, but they are not. Having experience in both realms of activity I am in a very good position to explain, what I see, as the differences between them.
The first thing I should say is that mastery of one does not preclude a person from mastering another.
The finely honed skills of an actor revolve around ancient and contemporary methodologies of embodying your subject, becoming the object and convincing, not only yourself, but observers as well, that you are that which you claim to be.
For the storyteller, content and context is king. Within the context of a tale there are messages to be delivered, morals to be taught, and valuable insights to be gained. The teller is not attempting to “get into character,” if I may borrow a phrase from the thespian’s vocabulary, but she is attempting to alter the environment. By altering her surroundings the teller is creating an ambient setting conducive to a comfortable exchange of creative energies. In this type of environment, the observer, unwittingly at times, becomes a participant. The observer is a participant because his mind is constantly assessing the tale he is receiving, searching for its logic, enjoying its rhetoric, rejecting or objecting to what he is subjected to. The masterful storyteller is continually scanning the mood of her audience. The masterful storyteller employs eye contact as a tool of assessing the audience’s temperature. Believe it or not, in an audience of 1,000, if you can make eye contact with 10, you will get an intimate feel for most others present, even if you cannot see them because of the lights of a stage. These immediate assessments may alter the outcome of the story. These immediate assessments may alter the pacing of the story. This is the context in which a teller’s performance is charted.
With the actor, the scripted line will dictate the emotive character of her subject. With a storyteller, those present, the mood and current events will dictate the emotions involved in the performance. The actor, in essence, has a road map if you will or script that guides her in directing her audience through conflict, climax and, ultimately, resolution. The teller is performing on the figurative tightrope without a net.
I have to pause here for a moment to explain something about my generalizations. Not “all” tellers perform the way which I am explaining. It is the approach to storytelling that I employ. Secondly, acting is not a stagnant craft which is limited in creative scope. My approach to storytelling comes from my training in the ancient West African Griot’s craft of Jaliyaa, so my reference points might be a bit skewed in that direction. I’m sure other tellers have differing opinions to the ones I’ve state here.
I have had students who have sought the craft of storytelling professionally through me. Many of them think they can come, learn a few stories and hit the money making market by storm. Nothing could be further from the truth. First of all, if storytelling is not a passion of yours, do not attempt it. Secondly, if your primary reason for venturing into the arena of storytelling is financial, don’t do it. Life’s metaphorical lions will eat you alive (bills, familial responsibilities, time, physiological health, psychological health, etc.) I have been honest with anyone who has come to me professing to want to be a professional teller that this road has a lot of gravel on it.
Alright, all that having been said, would I prefer a different employ? No, never! I love what I do too much.
Whether you choose acting or storytelling as a craft to master, know that neither is easy and both are extremely dissimilar. Also know, and know this well, you are committing yourself to a lifetime of learning.
A storyteller’s repertoire must be as vast as an ocean an as accessible as a mother to her child.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Common Sense
January 6, 2007
I don’t know why, but since the first day I heard this saying I can’t stop laughing. Each time I think about it, it’s almost as if I’m hearing it for the first time:
“If you see an old woman running, don’t try to stop her to ask why, just start running.”
Maybe my sense of this aphorism has to do with being bought up in a community full of “mature” women. I’m proceeding cautiously because I know many of them will eventually read this post. I can honestly say that I never, and I do mean never, witnessed my grandmother or any of her peers running! I mean, sure, they all wore running shoes and sweat suits, but I can honestly say that I never saw any of them move at a pace greater than what was necessary or required of the moment.
I should also add that if I ever saw any of these women running, it would frighten me beyond any chilling experience I’ve had thus far in my life.
Our social and cultural relationships to words have a greater significance than is commonly talked about. Language is not acquired through rote memorization or exclusively in a classroom setting. No, our familiarity with language is acquired in the rooms of our homes, going to the store with our parents or elders and bearing witness to their linguistic norms. This is why I may comprehend the meaning of the above aphorism completely different than someone reared in another social and cultural setting.
At a really basic level we could say that the phrase relates to using one’s common sense (whatever that is). We could also say that the phrase relates to trusting one’s community. There are many levels to this phrase and I’m sure many of you will offer your insights.
“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
The Student Who Wouldn’t
January 5, 2007
I have a student who I am teaching to play Kora. He’s a very hard-working, ambitious young man who is constantly in a hurry, wanting to learn the next thing or be shown more complex ways of playing. Even I’m beginning to tire of my reprimands to him: “Slow down!” “Take your time!” “Don’t rush!” “Start over.”
In spite of the constant admonishing he continues to display an “acute affinity for the fast.” I have to admit that, sometimes, and only sometimes, I am actually impressed with his adrenaline driven desire to learn the Kora, but I would never admit that to him. He is fond of reminding me that he has gotten a late start in life learning this traditional instrument. He’s only 16!
For weeks we have been working on some basics in Kora technique. He’s coming along really well but still has a very long road to travel.
This young man works in a store that imports musical instruments from several countries in Africa. Well, as fate would have it, the owner of the store had a Kora brought in from Mali, West Africa. I was unaware of this until I got a phone call from my student which went something like this:
Student: Hello Baba.
Me: Yes?
Student: There’s a Kora in the shop and I told the owner that I could tune it for him.
Me: But we haven’t worked on tuning yet.
Student: Yeah, I know, but I thought I could do it!
Me: Thought? What do you mean “thought?” What happened?
Student: Well, I was trying to tune the Kora you see, and I was getting the tuning ring to move up the pole when… when… when one of the strings on it broke.
Me: The string broke or you broke the string?
Student: I guess I kinda broke the string but I think there was something wrong with that string! I need you show me how to fix it?
I won’t go into the rest of the conversation at this time but I found myself faced with a few conflicting reactions. On the one hand, I hadn’t given him instruction on repairing the Kora yet. We are still working on the basics and here he goes again rushing ahead. On the other hand, here was a young man taking initiative, he has ambition and is willing to attempt something new, even if it is beyond his skill level. You gotta admire that.
After I hung up the phone, I made a call to the owner of the shop, we’ve known each other for a long time, and I told him to have my student bring the instrument to me and I’d make the repairs. He was grateful.
Later that day, the young man showed up for another lesson. I wanted to take this opportunity to explain, once again, why we should take our time, slow down and “never” rush things. When he walked in I took the Kora that needed repair from him, sat him down and we started talking. I explained how being in a hurry forces you to miss things. There are valuable lessons which can be learned if you only take the time to relax, watch and listen. He didn’t seem to acknowledge that he hadn’t been taught how to make these repairs yet, he was adamant that there must have been something wrong with the string on the Kora. When he finished talking I handed him the instrument back. He looked at me kind of puzzled and asked, “Aren’t you going to fix it?”
I just smiled at him and said, “I did.”
“Dooni, dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
