Kora Musician Baba the Storyteller

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.”