Plucking Grey Hairs
March 8, 2007
This conversation started me thinking about a time, approximately a year ago, when I noticed the first single strand of grey hair prominently displaying itself in my beard.
Now, I have always been the type of guy who laughed at, and poked fun at those guys who rush out to the grocery store for a hair coloring kit to make them appear younger than they actually are. I used to consider these vain, lacking in self-awareness; that is, of course, until I saw my first grey hair. Things definitely seem to change with age.
Well… my vanity overtook me and I found myself standing in front of our bathroom mirror with a set of tweezers, ready to go to work on that infamous single grey hair. I quickly plucked it, looked at myself in the mirror and smiled, “the youngster was back.”
I wish I had been warned, no one told me this but, a few weeks later, there were 10 grey strands that appeared to replace the 1 I had plucked.
I resolutely, at that moment, surrendered to the inevitable. I figured that I had earned those grey hairs and so I might as well make piece with them and let it grow where they see fit.
“Dooni, dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Lyrics, Limericks and Lots of Love
March 8, 2007
I couldn’t contain myself! I had to get this journal written before any of it lapsed from my mind. Earlier today I was visiting a school in San Bernardino, California. I was scheduled to visit the 2nd grade classrooms and teach on the concept of “Telling Your Own Story”. While I was walking into the school a young 5th grade student blocked my path and stood in front of me. She walked up to me and said, just as sweetly as she could, “I really like your clothes.” I was wearing the colorful robes I typically wear. She explained to me that she wears African Clothing also and that, and these are her words without any embellishment, “I am proud to be an African-American!”
Yes, the little girl actually walked up to me and said that she was proud to be African-American. I stood there for a second and for some reason sounds and images of Maya Angelou’s poem “Still I rise” raced through my mind. I felt like I needed to do something for this child or, at least, give her something. I asked her if she liked stories. She smiled up at me and said, “Yes, I love stories!” I then asked her if she would like me to play some music and share a story with her. Her eyes lit up like candles as she yelled, “Yes, Yes, Yes!” It was at this point that this excited young child turned, screaming yes and began running down the hallway of the school, away from me. I stood there a little dumbfounded but I could hear her screaming yes as she ran all the way from around the corner and down another hall. She hadn’t told me her name, I didn’t know what classroom she was in and I didn’t know if I could locate her to share the story I wanted to share with her. Anyway I went into the office, signed in and headed to share the day with my 2nd grader classes, accompanied by my friend and liaison, the wonderful and talented Amy Ruth Ellison (a gifted pianist and all around communicator).
After two visits to two separate 2nd grade classrooms I had a short break. I explained my predicament to Amy about the young girl I had met earlier, before school. Amy promised me that she would track down the child’s classroom and that I could fulfill my music and story debt if the teacher were willing to give up a little class time. It didn’t take much tracking for Amy to find the child. Her name is Noel and apparently she has somewhat of a reputation for being a bit of an extrovert. Amy and I agreed that after I finished with the second graders we would make a visit to her class.
Here’s another reason why I love what I do. During the third session of 2nd graders, Amy was with me but she wasn’t as engaged as she usually was. You see Amy is someone I can usually rely on to be as animated as the children. She the type of teacher/administrator, who sits down on the floor with you and the children, raises her hands with the children to answer questions and laughs out as loud, if not louder, than most of the children. During the third session she was seated at the teacher’s desk, head down and absorbed in writing. I didn’t question her; I just thought that today may have been a little different for her and she was doing what she needed to do.
Once I finished the third session, I started saying my goodbyes to the children when Amy stopped me. “Wait,” she said, “I have something I want to share.”
I sat down with the children and all of our eyes were on her. Amy explained to us that she had felt inspired by the music and storytelling that the class was experiencing and was motivated to write a limerick. She then asked, “May I read it to all of you?” The class, in unison gave her a resounding “Yes,” me included.
Amy stood in front of us and then said excitedly, “The title of my limerick is Asha’s Baba!”
You could have scooped my chin up off of the floor with a forklift. I smiled one of those smiles where the corners of your mouth are beating against your earlobes. You know what I’m talking about, one of those smiles that, when you try to contain it, it just gets wider and wider until the person seated next to you has to move.
The children and I sat quietly waiting the few seconds for her to read the limerick. Here is what Amy wrote:
“Asha’s Baba”
The African harp he will play,
Children will ask him to stay,
Words have great power,
Thoughts bloom like flowers,
Imaginations soar each day.
When Amy finished we all clapped, especially me, really loud. I loved it! I don’t know if or when I have ever inspired someone to write poetry but it felt better than good. Man! I mean really really good! I gave Amy a hug and told her that that was the most wonderful gift. I asked her if I could share it with some of my friends on the web. She consented and so here it remains for all to read.
Amy and I finished with the 2nd graders and made our way to the one 5th grade class that I wasn’t supposed to be visiting today. You know, contractually you’re scheduled to do something and do only that thing and once you’ve completed the contract you’re supposed to be done. Right? Well not if you are a storyteller who loves his work. I promised the young girl a story with music and by darn a story with music is what I was going to give her.
Her teacher consented to the interruption of her very busy schedule, for which I was especially grateful. When we entered the class I caught Noel’s eyes and she was absolutely beaming; that made me feel good. Due to the fact that my visit was an interruption to the schedule I tried to limit the amount of time I took up of the class. Before I got started Amy read the limerick to the class and told them that I had inspired it. When she finished, I did some interactive storytelling fused with music and song. When I completed the session and was about to leave the classroom, the children began clapping and wanting to ask questions. I didn’t want to take anymore of the teacher’s instructional time away so I handed the class over to Amy. Amy stood before the class, smiling a very wide mischievous smile and said, “Asha’s Baba inspired me to write another limerick; can I read this one to you also?” The group of eager 5th graders gleefully answered in unison with, “Yes!”
There I was again, grinning like “Mr. Ed.”
Amy began to read her limerick:
“The Kora”
Mandinka is a language he shares
For the African Harp Kora, he cares
Bahteeoh, Bahtee
All listen and see
Mankind he inspires and for life prepares.
The words “Bahteeoh, Bahtee” are actually words that I use which come from the Kru Language but I wasn’t about to stress it. I was riding high. I was feeling good. I don’t know if there is anything that could have brought me down after this visit. Amy and I left the classroom, she escorted me to my car and we parted with a really good hug.
Man do I love my work! I can’t imagine doing anything else.
Now, this is why I do what I do.
“Dooni, dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Gathering Together
March 7, 2007
It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen; those little moments frozen in time where you unexpectedly cross another’s path and feel as though you have met or known them from a previous time. Have you ever looked into another’s eyes and thought, “Where do I know this person from?” I had this experience about a month or so ago one afternoon while performing at the J. Paul Getty Museum. During the performance there was a small but very animated group, a family, seated on the ground and enjoying the performance. They seemed an uninhibited collection, the kind of people I love being around; singing along with the songs, laughing aloud at the humor and generally having a wonderful time.
After the performance we gathered together off to the side to converse. I could not have framed them more poetically had I purposely positioned them myself; the mother, Ianthè, was standing in the center with a child on each side of her, daughter Dahlia, about 4, and son Asher, I think 7 or 8 years old. To her right was her husband, David and directly behind them were their elders (grandparents) Joel and Antonia. It was a beautiful image.
They were all picturesque souls, but my focus was on the soft-spoken, bright-eyed matriarch standing to the rear of everyone. I was attempting to convey a Bamana (West African Culture) concept, some might say metaphysical concept, when the soft-spoken woman completed my phrase. I looked up at her, and immediately, we shared a knowing smile. From that point forward she had taken possession of my heart.
When we finished our conversation, we all hugged, exchanged pleasant words and went our separate ways. Ianthè, before leaving, told me that she wanted me to come to her children’s school. I thanked her for the invitation and told her to just give me a call.
Within the week there was an email in my “inbox” from Ianthè. True to her word she was attempting to schedule me to visit her children’s school. There was one stipulation I placed on my coming to her children’s school: Her mother, Antonia, would have to be present. Ianthè consented, did all of the necessary legwork and put together a date and time for me to perform at her children’s school.
On the appointed day, March 1, 2007, I made my way to Pacific Palisades. I hadn’t been out in that area in quite some time and I was really pleased to be close to an area where you can smell the ocean air. The 10 free way, or Santa Monica Freeway, was, literally, a parking lot. Traffic has a way of agitating even the most calm among us and I’m not different. I’m a real stickler for time. I think it is one of the ways we can show respect for one another, by respecting each other’s time. I didn’t want to be late, but I didn’t want to arrive frazzled either, so I turned my music up, sang along and cruised at 10 mph up the 10 Freeway. As I relaxed a little I approached the Arlington off ramp, about 15 miles from my destination. Near the Arlington off ramp is a sign for the dedication of this section of the freeway (the section of the freeway between the 110 and the 405). I always slow down a little when I get to this section of the freeway. It just feels really good to pass by and read the name of this portion of the freeway aloud, “The Rosa Parks Freeway.” Doesn’t that just sound like sweet music to the ears.
I reconciled the time within myself and simply looked forward to seeing the family once again. My children are all adults and so I love to be around families with young children.
I pulled up in front of the school and who should be standing outside waiting on me but none other than the beautiful Antonia.
I got out of the car and we embraced. Any stress concerning time had long evaporated. We greeted, hugged, greeted again, hugged again, spoke, hugged again, gave blessings, and, yes you got it, hugged again. Only seconds after releasing our embrace, Antonia presented me with a gift of her people, The Cherokee. It was medicine pouch! A white elk skin medicine pouch with the symbol of a turtle sewn on its’ flap. My smile pushed my ears to the back of my head.
Antonia explained that, among the Cherokee, the turtle is considered a symbol of wisdom and that she felt it was something I should have. I let her know that among many cultures in Africa the turtle is also considered a symbol of wisdom, teaching, time and many other things. I told her about the Ghanaian Adinkra symbol of the turtle. I talked about the Yoruba trickster character of “Ijapa” the turtle and his exploits. I bent at the waist so that she could place the stoned/beaded necklace around my neck. I was caught in the moment, wanting it to last.
As an aside, it is truly incredible how things work out. Some years ago I was given a sacred item from the Dagara of Burkino Faso. I have kept this item tucked away in a very safe place. As fate would have it, this piece I was given fits perfectly in the Cherokee Medicine Pouch I received from my Antonio.
Our short communion was so wonderful that I almost forgot that I was scheduled to perform in the school we were standing across the street from. Antonia and I hurried across the street and, running out of the school, arms open wide open for a hug came little Dahlia. She ran straight at me, full speed. I bent down to greet her and we exchange hugs. I have only seen this child once, at the Getty Museum, but her greeting reminded me of days gone by when my sons and daughters were this age (Oh how I really miss those days.) Aren’t children truly a blessing?
We made our way to the auditorium where Ianthè was already introducing me (the consummate professional). The performance went absolutely great! I enjoyed the kids, they enjoyed me and we exchanged laughs and ideas through the music and stories. I had a ball!
There was something extraordinary that occurred after the performance. Well, it was extraordinary for me anyway. After the performance, Asher, David and Ianthè’s son, approached me. He had a wide smile on his face. He looked me in the eyes and said plainly, “I got something for you.” He then presented me with the most beautiful little red book. It was a sort of red velvet, beaded edge book, about 4″ x 4″. It had four rows of 6 tiny diamond shaped cut mirrors alternating with three rows of tiny flowers with white pearl petals and various ruby colored stone centers. Inside of the book here is what he wrote for me:
“The stories all have a meaning. They all have good characters. Every story is great.”
This was truly turning into one of those days; one of those days when I’m reminded of what a blessing to be able to do the work I do.
I gave him the hardest hug I could muster without hurting him and told him how grateful and humbled I was by his majestic gesture of giving.
Many people in North America aren’t aware of it but it is a great tradition among the Mande people that griots, traditional bards, are presented with gifts, sometimes simple (i.e. chickens, money, clothing, etc.) and sometimes elaborate (homes, cars and I know of one woman who received an airplane). The gifts given to the griots are not so much gifts as they are symbols of recognition of community and cultural continuity. Gifts are usually given to griots by members of designated noble families and represent respect for the griot as an embodiment of the memory of his/her people. There’s so much more to this but I see I am digressing so let me get back.
I tried to accept this young man’s gift with as much humility and graciousness as I could call upon. I also tried to get him to understand that what he had done had really touched me deeply. David and Ianthè must know that they are doing a wonderful job in nurturing this young soul’s mind and spirit. I would be proud of this young man if he were my son.
I later found out, from Ianthè, that Asher had used his own chore money to purchase my gift. It had all been his idea and he had set about executing it without any assistance from anyone. I need to remember this sort of thing when my faith in our youth is feeling challenged. Thank you Asher, thank you so much! I cannot say it enough, thank you.
After the performance, the family treated me to a lunch. We had time to share, talk, laugh and compare notes on parenting. It was great! I had another performance to get to but we took pictures and walked. Antonia, Ianthè and Dahlia escorted me back to my car. Before leaving my Antonia, we embraced one last time. It was the long embrace of two dear friends departing to travel their separate ways, not knowing when the reunion will happen.
I got into my car to head to the next performance (an hour and a half away with traffic) but I didn’t care. I had experienced the kind of day that I live for. Meeting new friends, sharing meals, exchanging ideas and feeling a part of something wonderful.
This is why I do what I do.
“Dooni, dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”
Concerning Consciousness
March 1, 2007
Here’s another one of those proverbs which was embedded somewhere in the back of my mind from years ago. Some years back when I was working in the community doing “Rites-of-Passage” programs, I was fond of using these words. I loved watching the way the youth would take a few seconds to contemplate the words and then flash bright smiles when the epiphany occured.
The greatest blessing during that time was hearing some of the children using these words amongst themselves. I can’t place it for sure but I think I might have absorbed these words during my “Kwame Nkrumah” period. I have different phases and crossroads which mark changes in my life for me and I usually label them. This one feels like something Nkrumah used to say. Don’t quote me on this, I’m just thinking aloud.
“To not know is not a bad thing. To not want to know is a very bad thing.”
