I positioned myself on the edge of the young boy’s bed, close to his outstretched legs with tiny wiggly toes dancing in my direction as he smiled wide. His face was glowing in heightened anticipation of impending story and music I had come to share with him. He’s only four, a magical age where the line between enchantment and reality is blurred by an uninitiated fascination with the world and an unhinged imagination.

For our purposes I’ll call him Josh; not his real name of course but you’ll understand why a pseudonym in a second.

Josh was munching on crackers and watching cartoons when I came into his room. He is a cancer patient at Children’s Hospital. His mother has never been more than two steps from his bedside each time I’ve visited.

I sometimes visit Children’s Hospital and they allow me to go room-to-room on various floors and engage the children with songs, music and stories. On this particular day I wanted to visit Josh and his mother because I had met them the week prior and promised to return. Josh has a love for train sets and, more specifically, “Thomas the Train (a cartoon character).”

As I sat there on his bed staring into two beaming, hope filled eyes, his smile overtook me and I broke into a wide grin of my own. It felt like old, long lost friends reuniting and being filled with immense joy over the gift a moment in time brings.

I began playing my harp for him and singing. He loves the sounds of the words being sung in an African language even though he doesn’t comprehend the meaning. I continued playing the strings gently and flowed into a tale about a brave lion who had been king of the jungle. This King Lion was facing a challenge greater than any he had ever faced before.

Little boys tend to love tales of lions and great beasts with gentle natures. Josh’s eyes grew even wider when I described King Lion. Those moment’s when I would pause for effect, Josh would chime in with his own uncontrollable epiphanies on our protagonist’s motivations.

I interrupted the tale two or three times by breaking into song and singing softly. Josh’s toes danced ever so slightly as his head bobbed up and down, right to left in that childish “don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world” way that only the most innocent among us possess.

When I finished my telling of the tale and closed out by letting the loudest string on my harp fade to silence, Josh and his mother clapped enthusiastically for me. It was only an audience of two but it might as well have been thousands at Carnegie Hall because I was feel the same sense of satisfaction.

I sat there on the bed after their clapping subsided and asked Josh what did he think of the story, did he really like it?

He cocked his head to one side, a bit askew, looking up towards the ceiling as if deep in thought over his potential answer to my question.

Josh brought his eyes back down to meet mine and kept those chubby cheeks churning out the brightest, most adorable smile. He then reached into a bag that was resting between his legs and pulled out a cracker and held it out toward me, a square almost covering his entire tiny hand.

I accepted my compensation with grace, as if he had just handed me a million dollars. It felt no different. My heart melted at the thought that this little child found value in me and what I was there to do.

Before leaving the room I wrapped my gift in tissue paper and put it away safe and secure.

When I got home earlier that evening I placed Josh’s gift to me on my office desk.

There it sits as I type these words to you, a reminder to me that life’s affirmations may come in many forms.

After yesterday’s torrent of activity, today seemed almost like a day of ease. I had a single performance in the afternoon, which freed up my morning to take a walk into the city.

My main objective was to visit “El Museo del Hombre Dominicano (Museum of the Dominican Man).” It is the only place I could find here in Santo Domingo that offered information on the original inhabitants of the island before Columbus’ arrival. I had a two-fold reason for wanting to visit the museum; the first being that I love archeology, history and anything to do with learning the culture of another people. Additionally, I feel that visiting the relics of ancient societies is a simple way we can demonstrate our respect for their contributions to the world.

Once I arrived at the museum I was excited to see three large, bronze statues standing in front of the building. Facing the building, and to my right was a full figured statue representing a Taino man. On the opposite side was an African man, arms raised in the air with broken shackles attached to each wrist. In the center of these two was Bartolome de las Casas. There are so many aspects to las Casas that I don’t even know where to begin. There are the stories that we learned in history classes in the U.S. and then there is the additional research we do as adults that give us a more complete picture. I wish I could delve more into the feelings that the three images evoked in me but maybe later, and not in blog form.

The museum visit was fascinating. I was enthralled by the amount of information coming to life right before my eyes that I had only read about previously. I took more pictures than I probably should have but I was here and who knows when, if ever, I’ll return.

The walk back through the city was a bittersweet experience. The traffic congestion, smog and overbearing street peddlers were all impediments to really appreciating the “Island Experience.” Despite this, it was refreshing to be out and among the people of the Dominican Republic. A few times during my visit I received the greatest compliment from Dominicans asking me what part of the island I was from. I worked my butt off in the last 22 years to perfect my Spanish and that is definitely a compliment.

My performance in the afternoon was at an area known as Boca Chica. I arrived there with Enesto Lopez. The children were already seated (about 150) when we were quickly escorted into the building. The children were out back under a covered patio. There was no time to waste. Ernesto and I agreed on performance parameters and he started with a puppet show. The children really enjoyed his performance and I thought it was exceptionally creative the way he engaged them with puppets and stick figures. Before finishing, Ernesto gave me a really glowing introduction and I took the small stage to resounding applause.

My entire performance was in Spanish and I made sure to mix a little history and social commentary between singing and telling a tale. The children’s rhythm during moments of call and response was phenomenal. A few times I caught myself dancing as we sang together. That happens to me sometimes you know.

When Ernesto and I finished we headed for the van awaiting us out front. We were, pleasantly accosted by several employees who wanted to take pictures. I enjoy it when my work is appreciated.

I made it back to my hotel just in enough time to clean up, change and make it to a restaurant called “Shaharazad.” What a wonderful way to end my time at the festival, attending a dinner hosted by the Library for all of the storytellers.

We ate, laughed and even shared tales. It was a short, and fast paced trip but I count myself fortunate to have been able to participate. Late in the evening I returned to my hotel room, exhausted. I don’t remember much from that point. All I remember thinking was that I had a flight to catch back to Los Angeles in the morning and sleep was a welcomed companion.

Good night my friends.

When I began my day this morning I entered a vortex of activity that kept me going throughout the entire day until my head hit the pillow at night.

I started the morning with an interview at a radio station, Viva FM, with hosts Carmen Imbert Brugal and José Antonio Rodriguez.  I loved their laid back, relaxed style. They made me feel really comfortable. I played a little music, sang and conversed about the festival and the craft of storytelling. At one point Carmen tossed a question at me that I wasn’t expecting. She spoke of how many people have stated that President Obama isn’t “really” an African American because his father was actually from Kenya and his mother was white. She ended her question by asking me, “so what is your opinion.”

My explanation was rather lengthy and I might publish the audio of it a little later if anyone is interested.

Following the interview I was wisked away by Dulce Elvira, the woman responsible for organizing this amazing festival, and a storyteller and author in her own right. Dulce dropped me off at the main library where I had a talk to facilitate with educators and students.

I thoroughly enjoyed my talk with the teachers and students of Santo Domingo at the Biblioteca Infantil y Juvenil. I mixed the session up with a few tales, a little music and even some game playing.

When I finished that session they had a driver bring me back to the hotel where I had just enough time to clean up, take 7 bites, put my shoes back on and head back to the library for an interview.

As soon as I arrived at the library a few of the staff were waiting for me. I ran through the entrance and halls of the library and into a small room where an interviewer and television camera were awaiting. I really really enjoyed the interview. The fact that I was able to comprehend 97% of what I was being asked and respond boosted my self confidence in my language abilities immensely.

Immediately following the interview I had enough time to go to a quiet, secluded room and tune my Kora (maybe 15 or 20 minutes). I was retrieved from the quiet seclusion of one room and placed upstairs in the library in a room charged with the energy of about 200 children. Wow! Talk about exciting! I started my program by introducing myself, telling a short tale and playing music. I’ll post the video of this after I get back to the United States. I was having such an good time that it was difficult to bring the session to a close. The majority of the Dominican people attending were so gracious and kind that I, quite literally, felt at home.

At the door of the auditorium, Dulce and her assistant Pamela were waiting for me. They quickly escorted me out of the auditorium as I was being chased by half of the audience for who knows what reason. Talk about a Rock-Star moment! I ended up in a room laid out with snacks and drinks. All for me!

The driver arrived to escort me back to my hotel. By the time I made it up to my room I fell face first into the mattress and remember almost nothing else.

Am I enjoying the Internacional Festival de Cuentacuentos here in The Dominican Republic?

Need you ask?

Today I met some really amazing teachers during a workshop I gave on the Power of Storytelling. The questions they asked were so poignant and their passion for their work was inspirational to me. I carried their enthusiasm for their students and the obvious love of their country with me as I set out to explore the city of Santo Domingo.

I started out strolling through the neighborhood nearest my hotel. It was recommended that I only take taxis when venturing out into the city, but anyone who knows me would understand that would never work for me. One of the things I enjoy most about traveling is the time spent with the people. I love the sights and sounds of bustling cities and villages. This city provided me with plenty of both. As I walked, I saw Haitian women walking with baskets of fruit on their heads. Their grace and elegance made me smile as I reminisced about my time in Africa. I listened to the sounds of horns honking and men yelling to each other down the street about the news of the day. I saw children peeking around corners to catch a glimpse of a foreigner walking through their neighborhood.

As I was immersing myself in this sensory experience I arrived at my destination. I looked out across an expansive courtyard, devoid of the sights and sounds of the previous blocks. There were very few Dominicans, but the amount of tourists had definitely increased. The place I had arrived at, was the actual house of Christopher Columbus’ son, Diego. He and his wife (niece of King Ferdinand) were given this palace in the 16^th century. As I entered, it struck me that the people I had read about in history books as a child, Ponce De León and Hernando Cortéz, walked the hallways of this building. I found a quiet corner and sat for a moment reflecting on what I imagine was a time of opulence for some and turmoil for others.

Something that gave me mixed feelings was that I was really enjoying the tour of this historical building. Living in California does not afford me with many opportunities to visit five hundred year old buildings. However, what I couldn’t escape was the fact that an entire population of Taino people was destroyed when Columbus set foot on this island in the late 1400’s. This house was representative of a powerful turning point in European history; One of new beginnings and opportunity for the Spanish.

As I exited the uninhabited building that has become simply another tourist destination, I started back the way that I had come. Only this time, rather than simply enjoying the sights and sounds, I was haunted by the feeling that the struggle to survive in this crowded city, where poverty is rampant did little to quell the uneasiness I had as I walked back to my beautiful and luxurious hotel.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that despite the passage of five hundred years, is it possible that the mark left by the colonization of this island has made time stand still?

Anyone have any ideas how to get an extremely fragile West African harp from Los Angeles to Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic? You know it is too big to carry on, too exotic to gate check, and way too precious to send down a luggage conveyor belt. What any decent griot does is stand at the Delta counter for more than an hour talking with very helpful agents who are also in a quandary as to what to do. After much searching codes on the computer screen, phone calls to headquarters, and locating supervisors…the agent handed over “the situation” to “special assistance needed” representatives. They were able to solve the problem economically in about thirty minutes. The solution, you ask? “CAGPT” stickers placed all over the kora case. Whatever that means….Thank goodness for it. The kora made it to the Dominican Republic in one piece with only one broken string.

The journey begins…

Today I flew into Santo Domingo to participate in the second annual “Festival International de Cuentacuentos” sponsored by the First Lady of the Dominican Republic. When I stepped off the plane I was greeted by a man carrying a sign with my name on it. He escorted me to a VIP room reserved for guests of the Dominican Embassy. Once inside, I was offered water and a comfortable couch to sit on while officials walked my passport through customs and immigration AND picked up my luggage. I was escorted out a private door and into a waiting taxi. My suitcase, kora, and passport were waiting for me as I blissfully exited the VIP room. Is this how the other half live?

After a short drive along the beautiful Caribbean coast, I was delivered to my hotel. A gift was waiting for me, along with some of the most hospitable hotel staff I have ever encountered. I was escorted to my room so I could freshen up. I had twenty minutes to change clothes and get ready for an opening reception of the festival. My first thought was that it would have been nice if they could have at least given me time to relax for a few minutes, but then I remembered…they had. There were probably still people from my flight in line at customs. I pulled it together and headed downstairs to another waiting taxi. We drove through the crowded city, giving me an opportunity to see some of the buildings that were hundreds of years old. I was just settling into the “tourist” thing when we pulled into the parking lot of a newer building. This was the site of the reception held to welcome the storytellers who were attending the festival.

I was led into the building and brought into an auditorium filled with storytellers from several different countries. Speeches were made and the festival officially began. The best part for me though, was the reception afterward. I was greeted by about fifteen children and their mothers who were all really eager to learn more about where I was from. I spoke briefly to some of them regarding our shared African ancestry. Some of them seemed genuinely surprised to hear me share that Africans were brought to this island centuries ago. I’m excited to have the opportunity to present my love of ancestry to a warm and welcoming people here in Santo Domingo.

After this, I’m thoroughly exhausted but I wanted to make sure that I blogged something for my most faithful readers. I know as the adventure proceeds into tomorrow I will have more to share.

¡Buenas noches mi familia!

I’ve tried to keep my blogging addiction in check by getting out in the air, taking walks, and dusting off my rollerblades but so many thing continue happening around me that I’ve got to talk about them.

I was in a line just the other day at a video store (Yes there are a few of those still in existence) and a woman was standing a few people behind me. From her place in line she began instructing her teenage son on movie choices.

She was holding their place in line while her son was trying to figure out what movie to choose for their family to watch that evening.

Here were her instructions to him and the words that made me rush to have to pen this blog, “Violence and horror are ok but no sexuality.”

Violence and horror are ok!

This probably won’t be an issue for many of you but it is for me. I spend an inordinate amount of my time in the presence our youth and I’m often perplexed by their collective level of desensitization to violence. When I am storytelling, or simply conversing, with these same children and I begin to speak on issues of love or relationships they act as if I’m introducing them to something salacious.

These stories and conversations that I’m talking about contain the most innocuous content you could possibly imagine but their dissonant responses betray any appreciation for a resonance towards the amorous.

This topic isn’t new. I’ve had conversations over the years with many parents and organizations about the acceptance of violence in our children’s video games but the covering of eyes when certain “inappropriate” scenes make their way to television or movie screens.

How can we accept little boys yelling at video screens, “Kill’em! Kill’em! Kill’em!” and then cover the eyes of these same kids when witnessing two consenting adults engaged in a warm embrace or sharing a tender kiss? The question isn’t rhetorical. I’d really like an answer.

I know the mother I was standing in front of in that line had the best of intentions in mind concerning the movie she and her family were going to watch that night but telling her teenage son “violence and horror are ok but no sexuality.”

Really?

Here in the United States there have been people who have openly threatened to burn Islam’s holy book, the Koran. Most of the people I’ve seen making these threats appear possessed by anger, fear and, often, an irrational hubris crying out for immediate medication or therapy.

I’ve listened to these zealots of myopic thought pontificate vehemently on the savagery and ignorance of other cultures; commanding time on major television news networks, radio stations, and mainstream print media.

If I am to believe the popular, and consistent, commentary of the social/political far-right in their assessment of Muslims the world over, then I must ask, “Why are Muslim’s not burning Bibles?”

Last friday two young girls agreed to meet off-campus from their school to fight one another here in the City of Long Beach California. According to witnesses the fight only lasted about a minute after which each of the girls went home.

Later that evening Joanna Ramos, 10 years old, complained that her head was hurting to her parents. Within hours she was dead. Today the coroner ruled her death a homicide as a result of blunt force trauma.

Part of my work involves visiting many of the schools here in Long Beach and I take pride in the honor of being able to serve our community in this capacity. I did not know the little girl or any of the children involved. I am touched because just a day prior to Joanna’s death I was in a classroom talking to 10 and 11 year olds about the choices they make having unimaginable consequences. During these classroom visits I feel a sense of urgency to reach as many of our children as I can to get them to begin thinking critically and see one another as allies rather than adversaries. Among many young girls there is a mantra of confrontation ignited by words as benign as, “She was looking at me!” There is even a trend among our youth participating in an activity known as “Bumping.’

“Bumping” occurs on campuses when a child will purposely bump into another child as a signal that they are challenging them to a fight. The two children involved in the bumping ritual agree to meet somewhere off campus and fight one another.

I don’t know if this is what occurred with Joanna Ramos but it is a pattern of behavior among our youth that adults in the community seem oblivious to.

What is not happening, and may not happen even now, is that the right questions are not being asked and answered. The death of Joanna Ramos is an indication of much greater systemic problems in our schools and communities. We are very good at asking the questions and treating the symptoms after the fact. That does not serve our children well at all. In fact, it is a disservice to function from a reactionary stance when it comes to our children.

Here is one question that should be asked: “Why do our youth feel compelled to engage in violent behavior?”

I assure you that there is no innate capacity for violence in “any” child and I am willing to stand by that statement against any evidence to the contrary.

As I continue to visit more schools and classrooms, this little girl’s death is going to weigh heavy on my heart.

I will ask one more time, “Why do our children feel compelled to engage in violent behavior?”

I think the truth is more frightening to us then we care to admit, which is why questions such questions as these continue to go unanswered. If we answer questions such as these then we are forced to have to do something about them.

I just left a church in Pomona California where I performed. I experienced such warmth and true affection that I’m  inspired to pull my car over and pen thoughts to paper. I travel the world, literally, and I’ve met with people from every station in life. I’ve spoken at, or performed in, synagogues, temples, mosques, churches, schools and even a few smokey bars but there is something about presenting before a room full of people, passionate our history, that imbues me with a deeper sense of purpose.

Less than 10 minutes ago I was in a room filled with people singing loudly with me, responsive to my insights, and not ashamed to shout words of encouragement during the performance. We laughed out loud and shared in the storytelling. At no time did I ever feel less than held in high esteem by those present. We shared in a level of timing and communication that can only be described as transcendent. The pastor of the church, Pastor Smith, came to me after my performance and pulled me into a deep, heartfelt embrace before inviting me back to perform for more of his parishioners. What a gift.

I like to think that I, and many others who do the type of work that I do, are continuing the legacy of Carter G. Woodson; the man who inaugurated, in 1926, a week recognizing the contributions of our ancestors to the world. With my life, I am attempting to represent with as much precision, class and integrity the inheritance of our history. The men and women of Primm Tabernacle AME Church in Pomona fed me in a way that is not easily described in words. I am humbled by the outpouring of love and respect heaped upon me during our time together this afternoon.

When my brother Jeff or Pastor Smith call, you can rest assure that I will be returning to do what I do for the good people of Primm Tabernacle AME Church in Pomona.

I know what I’m about to ask is going to sound a bit strange but recent events have me re-thinking of lot of what I had considered the norm. Here’s my question, “Why is it important to teach our children that they must be able to stand in a line?”

Before you answer, hear me out.

Over the years, as a storyteller, I’ve traveled to, quite literally, thousands of schools. Yesterday I noticed something that struck me for a greater desire of insight. It wasn’t as if it was the first time I was seeing this, but yesterday, for some reason, it stood out.

All schools are not equal. That goes without saying and I don’t think many will debate the thesis, but there seems to be a shift in the equality of our expectations on our children.

I visit more public schools than any other type. Occasionally a private school will bring me to their campus to share tales of my travels, music and even allow me to do a little storytelling every now and then. In every single public school I’ve ever entered, the importance of getting students to form and remain in “straight” lines has been an “entry-level” aspect of the meta-curricula. There are a host of other reasons why educators and parents deem it of paramount importance that our children be able to form lines but I’ll leave that to the more informed among us to expound on.

Yesterday I visited one of those campuses where resources are not in question and equestrian instruction is a part of physical education. One of the things that struck me immediately as I watched whole classrooms of children walking to their dinning hall (they had a dinning hall, not a cafeteria), was that they were not walking in a line. The student’s were walking across their campus similar to the way college students do. They were chatting, laughing and playing around but moving in the direction of their desired destination. There was no disruption to the campus, no classrooms were being disturbed. These were young elementary age children, not middle or high schoolers.

As I watched these children able to move themselves from place to place on this campus without standing in line, I really started to question the importance of the concept of “standing in line.”

So, I ask this once again, “What is the importance of teaching our children to stand in a line and why is this not important at “all” socio-economic levels of education?”

I spent the day at Covina High School today. As I write this I’ve got a huge smile plastered across my face.

I was invited to play my Kora and do a little singing for the school’s “Multicultural Festival.” It seems each day the students celebrate different cultures from around the world. Today, my day, they were focusing on the continent of Africa.

The students from the ASB set the tone with me. They were all accommodating beyond belief and made me feel right at home. They even helped me get set up by hanging my banner and asking if there was anything else I needed. I have “never” got that kind of treatment at high school before… never.

As I walked around getting the lay of the land before performing I was greeted with smiles and warm greetings. Did I say that this is a high school? It wasn’t what I had anticipated. There was maturity about the kids I was encountering that put me right at ease.

When I came time for me to perform, it was during the student’s lunch time. I wasn’t expecting to get a large crowd gathered around me, and I didn’t. Most stood off in the distance enjoying their meals, talking with friends and horsing around. It reminded me of my days in high school. I was feeling a bit nostalgic as I glanced up from my Kora to the sights and sounds surrounding me from the outdoor stage.

I had an hour to play for them and so I went though the songs on my new CD, playing each of them in extended form, live. It was fun! I was really enjoying this and they seemed to as well. Usually I combine the music with storytelling and colorful commentary, but not today. Today I went into a musical zone and just poured my heart out through the strings of my harp. It was amazing, therapeutic even.

When I finished with the final song the entire campus erupted in loud applause. I wasn’t expecting it and so it surprised me. I wasn’t sure how many had actually been listening. As I looked up I could see hundreds of kids, all over the campus, and staff too, all applauding. I beamed a bright, uncontrollable smile and felt affirmed on a grand scale.

If anyone from Covina High ends up reading this, let me just say, “Thank you for today, your school has gone a long way in renewing my faith in our youth… thank you Covina High staff and students for an unforgettable day.”

I’ve just finished posting a short video of highlights of my tour of schools in Mexico.

Enjoy! Leave me a comment or a little message letting me know what you thought once you’ve had a chance to watch it.

Peace and a multitude of blessings to one and all!

Baba the Storyteller

Seven years ago my preferred beverage at “every” meal was Coca Cola in a nice tall glass and poured over several small cubes of ice. It is embarrassing to admit now, but I used to drink at least four 12 oz. cans with every meal. I am not joking! I had grown up drinking the beverage and, to this day, can’t even recall the first time I tasted it.

I ended my relationship with Coke oh so reluctantly. I made the choice to end my ritual of having four 12 oz. cans at every meal simply because I was packing on the pounds like a sumo wrestler. I also had been given advice by several friends that there would be other health consequences if my over consumption continued unabated.

During that time I never viewed my little guilty pleasure of Coke consumption as an addiction; that was until I tried to stop drinking it.

Initially I figured, “No big deal, I’ll just stop cold turkey and change up what I drink at meals.”

I received a rude awakening each time I attempted, early on, to deny myself my favorite drink. I, quite literally, was going through withdrawals. I had headaches for the first time in my life and felt agitated, easy to anger. This was not my personality. Those who know me, know how even tempered I am.

I began my path to being Coke free by cutting my consumption in half and giving myself a timeline of gradually decreasing the amounts I drank over time.

It took me more than a year to reach the point where I could say that I was no longer drinking Coke. A year! Well… that was seven years ago and I could have said, before yesterday, that I was seven years Coke free.

Now, about my little experiment yesterday.

Oh, before I start getting the emails, phone calls and strange looks in the streets let me clarify something. This was not an “official” Scientific Method variable compensated blind double blind type of experiment. No it was not. This exercise was purely anecdotal so don’t run off to the presses with an application of my results as evidence for anyone’s social or political agendas.

Here’s what happened yesterday.

I had a long drive I was making, listening to music and felling a little nostalgic. Somehow, some way, and I don’t know where the thought came from but, I got the idea that having a nice cold Coke  would be refreshing. I rationalized the decision by telling myself that the caffeine would help keep me awake for the drive.

So I stopped into a gas station convenience store and purchased a bottle of Coke.

I got into the car, opened the bottle, heard the familiar sizzle and fizz and then tilted the bottle back to enjoy my first sip in seven years.

It was disgusting!

There was no familiarity in the taste at all. My first impression was that it tasted like watered down carbonated castor oil. To add to the horrible taste in my mouth, the interior of my nose felt a slight burning sensation and my  eyes watered a bit.

It was only a sip!

These physical responses were immediately followed by me belching about four times in a row.

I thought my experience had ended after the final belch but then I was left with a nasty chemical-like castor oil after-taste in my mouth and what felt like a thin layer of milky coating on my tongue.

It took me half a bottle of water to wash down the majority of the after-taste and that still did not do it completely.

My Coke experiment was a disaster for me physically but a success mentally. I won’t be trying Coke again and I am quite sure that I’ve been cured of my nostalgic reflections over the good old days when I could sit and drink four 12 oz. cans with each meal.

Yesterday I definitely did not have a Coke and a smile.

Note: Because I know so many of you will ask, I am just going to tell you. The symbol on my head in the post picture is an Adinkra symbol known as Kuntunkantan. Kuntunkantan is a symbol representing consciousness, among many other things.

I recently returned from a school where I spent the day in classrooms, performing assemblies and having lunch with students and staff. The school was immaculate with manicured landscaping, plenty of windows, a huge gymnasium and even an Olympic size swimming pool. Art was displayed “everywhere,” both student work and that of professional artists. The cafeteria prepared meals upon student requests and all of the children had unfettered access to the campus library. Oh… by the way, did I mention that this school is an elementary school serving grades K though 5?

I am dismayed at the inequity of resources distributed to our educational institutions. It is unconscionable what we are doing to entire generations of citizens in many of our schools.

Equally, I can speak about schools I’ve visited where poverty, in all of its insidious forms, is devouring the hearts and minds of our children; where educators, pummeled by political agendas appear desperate and destitute of a desire to teach.

I am well aware that there are those among us with a desire to totally dismantle public systems of education. I am also aware that these same ideologues have been hard at work over the decades deconstructing what has taken centuries to build.

Are we a society or simply a population sharing a landmass?

I think that I periodically write these blog posts decrying the state of miseducation because it is difficult visiting schools and bearing first-hand witness to the inequalities.

While so much attention is being given to the financial crisis and the domestic political wars waged in partisan politics; little, or no, focus is being directed to the deconstruction and dismantling of our educational infrastructure.

If education is our passport to the future and tomorrow belongs to those who prepare for it today, then our future is not very bright.

Please disagree with me or offer a rebuttal that will change my perspective. I am so open to it.

While in Mexico I received an email from the director of volunteers and bereavement services, Kaiser Permanente. It was a request that I perform for a group of hospice volunteers during one of their social gatherings.

My heart was touched that someone would think to include me. I felt honored. There was “no-way” that I was going to miss participating in that gathering, even if it meant that I had to move a few mountains to be there.

So much of my work, over the years, has consisted of being at the bed-side of the ill or those in transition and playing my Kora. It may seem like a terribly heart wrenching experience to voluntarily subject oneself to an environment where another human being has passed or is dying but, there is an indescribable beauty that is born in those moments.

My most cherished memories are not the performances where I’ve had a few thousand people in the audience, but the rare  opportunities I’ve been invited to play my Kora in a room of family members helping their loved one ascend onto the next levels of life.

So… like I said before, there was no way that I was going to miss sharing space and time with men and women who give of themselves so completely as do hospice volunteers.

Patty, the director and I, completed coordination my participation while I was still performing on tour in Mexico. We were all scheduled and set before I returned back to the States.

December 3rd was the day of my performance for the group. I couldn’t wait to be there! Hospice volunteers possess a rare and special soul. My admiration for their work extends far beyond simple respect into adoration.

Not too long after I arrived, I was on stage playing my Kora, singing and sharing a few tales. For me, it was magical. The gathering was small intimate gathering of about 30 or 40 people, all hospice volunteers. They were a lively, energetic crowd. Active participating wasn’t an issue as they were more than ready, willing and totally able.

When I requested they sing with me, they sang with such enthusiasm that I felt like I was sitting at home among friends and family. When they unearthed little tidbits of my tales, they laughed and spoke out unapologetically. I was in performer’s heaven.

By the close of my performance I felt like I had made a lot of new friends. I even found one woman who loves sewing and volunteered to help me out if I needed any tailoring (what a find!). I may have also been talked into doing a “Cure for Cancer Walk.”

I can honestly say that I loved being a part of this gathering. It was one of those small, intimate performances that feels most gratifying. There is something about being in the presence of people who are not only giving but equally demonstrative as well that feeds the spirit.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time with the Kaiser Permanente Hospice Volunteers. I think I walked away with more from than I was able to give.

It was truly a blessing to have been permitted to be of service to such selfless souls.

I’ve been sitting here in the airport of the City of Culiacán for the last hour and a half. I finished performing for the students of Instituto Senda. It is an odd feeling sitting in this tiny airport listening to the Blues being played over the loudspeakers and hearing everyone speak Spanish.

I really must relate my experience at Senda because it was extra ordinary. This the school held an assembly of all of the students, parents, administrators and staff. Apparently they do this every Monday. The children have been raising money for causes such as Cancer, feeding the hungry and other things. There was a young child there who was on stage saying thank you to the entire school for the support and resources he received to treat a hearing defect.

I was taken onto a stage of an outdoor amphitheater and introduced to the school. It grew silent when I took the microphone. I began addressing the audience in Spanish and you should have seen the smiles explode all across the audience. It felt so good! Parents were nodding their heads in agreement with me and students were cheering. One of the administrators approached me after the address and hugged me and said, “We weren’t expecting you to be able to speak Spanish.” Another small triumph for decisions made in my youth.

I performed for three separate sessions, which went really well. I also visited a several classrooms. My classroom visits ranged in age from children 4 and 5 years of age to those much older, a few rooms of 14 and 15 year olds. My host, Edgar Sandoval was the most magnanimous host I’ve ever had. You can tell he really cares about his students. He treated me with such deference and respect that it made me want to not leave Senda. If I could’ve stayed a few more days then I would have. The school has a fantastic and enthusiastic population of learners.

Last night when I arrived in Culiacán I was a bit wary of how my visit my go, I mean, well… when you arrive at your hotel room and there are women dancing professionally on tables immediately next door to your room… well you get my drift.

Edgar drove me around a little in the city and then was kind enough to drop me off at the airport.

Culiacán has a reputation for being the drug capital of Mexico but I didn’t encounter anything sinister during my brief stay.

John Lee Hooker just started playing his guitar and singing on over the speakers here in the airport. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. It is sacrilegious to do anything when the Blues Man is pouring out his soul. I’m going to kick back and take in some of Hooker’s wisdom.

I’ll be writing again once I get back to Mexico City. I’ve got another school early tomorrow morning.

I did say I could use a nap didn’t I?

There are many things to dislike about Mexico City: the smog, the insane traffic, profligate smoking, where 51.2% of all men can be found toking on cancer sticks in every crevice of public space. Add to these issues the congestion of 8 million souls populating a land mass not meant to sustain half that number and you have a recipe for sustained urban planning nightmares.

What is it about this city that continues to attract and inspire people in spite of its many faults? For me it is quite simple. Art.

In this city reside some of the world’s most gifted artists and installations of breathtaking works of art.

While walking through the city I couldn’t help but notice the over abundance of public art and displays. Every corner of the city, the center of every public park, on sidewalks and the walls of buildings are canvases for all mediums of artwork. There are also “traveling” displays, which move from parkways to the larger squares on weekends, allowing people to savor the beauty of Mexico.

In the United States artists struggle to find places to display their art and are often confronted with miles of red tape and bureaucracies if they have the “audacity” to desire a display their work publicly. I am not aware of the process that artists in Mexico have to go through, but upon quick glance it would appear that the process is less then intensive. To the outside observer, artists seem to be welcomed and supported here.

What caught my attention even more is that amidst all of this amazing art are ruin, overcrowding, and poverty. There are still many buildings destroyed in the 1985 earthquake that have been left as though no time had passed. There are signs everywhere to be careful with water consumption because the city has a difficult time getting water to all of its inhabitants. There are large holes in the streets, lead paint peeling openly off of buildings, and many structures leaning precariously due to the city having been built upon a lakebed. The roads are crowded and some streets even reverse directions at certain times during the day to handle congestion. There are problems with infrastructure that would make most engineers shudder. Many of the places that these people call home would be condemned and labeled uninhabitable in the USA.

Despite all these things, the art is still beautifully displayed for everyone, rich or poor, tourist or resident. Some people might wonder why a government would prioritize funding toward public art displays rather than infrastructure. Any ideas?

As a professional artist of more than 20 years, I’ve engaged in this “Either-Or” debate concerning Infrastructure vs. Art in the U.S.

It is difficult to get myopic minds to envision a conversation facilitated by infrastructure “and” art.  Poverty manifests itself in more ways than economically. In the U.S. we are currently suffering as much from a poverty of vision as anything else.

Mexico’s public art surrounds and envelopes its citizens and, its beauty, provides a vision of hope for a future that is bright. Mexico City has the potential to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

As an artist, I see art as an ingredient in unification. Art unites people in a way that no other discipline is able to. It promotes identity, self-awareness and a sense of pride. Nations are identified more by their art than reams of pedantic legislation or governmental structures.

Most people I have come into contact with here in Mexico City love and appreciate it despite the obvious issues. I have lived in places with much more in resources and beautifully supported infrastructure where people have less a sense of community and commitment than I experienced during my travels here in Mexico.

It would be a misnomer to say that last night I attended a “dinner party” because the gathering was so much more than that. Ever since I first began this tour of Mexico I’ve been looking forward to meeting two phenomenal storytellers, Victor Árjona and Ángel del Pilar. They are cornerstones of the Storytelling Movement here in Mexico and represent my aspirations as a cultural artist really well. The fact that they offered their home as an oasis in the evening made my respect for them grow exponentially.

We arrived, a few other storytellers and I, around 7:40 pm or so. The electricity was out in the building and we had to ascend about five flights of steps. As an aside… it seems to me that there exist an incalculable number of steps in this country, from the ancient Pyramids of Teotihuacan to ones inside of the mountains and mountains of contemporary buildings that dissect Mexico City.

The Angel was gracious enough to come down and meet us at the entrance of their flat. Yes… her name is Angel and not “The Angel” but I prefer to follow my first impressions. My imagination runs rampant and I find stories, poetry, humor and symbols in almost everything. I loved the fact that we were ascending a dark stairway being guided by a woman named Angel who was the only one who possessed light. I’m smiling to myself right now.

Once The Angel got us safely to the entrance of their home, we were greeted by a snowy white cat with more personality and vigor than any cat I’ve come across to date. He ran around, excitedly in circles and darted into a little box on the floor. He would disappear and reappear at the most odd moments, reminiscent of an “Alice in Wonderland” Cheshire cat manner. It was an entertaining sight to behold.

From around the corner of the kitchen Victor appeared. The first thing you notice about Victor are his eyes. Victor has the most honest eyes of any man I’ve ever met. They are both childlike and mature at the same time. A smile graced his face that made me feel as if I were at home. The scent of something cooking, something unfamiliar, permeated the house. It was both a pleasant and curiosity inducing smell.

Their home is an artist haven, it has art everywhere and an atmosphere of both creativity and well managed business. There seemed to have achieved a purpose filled balance in their home.

While Victor was busy preparing the evening’s meal, The Angel seated us and conversed with our little group.

I had had a moment a few days before, while traveling to the City of Mixquic. My cab driver was passing a mountain called “The Sleeping Woman.” It is actually a dormant volcano. The driver shared with me the legend of a young warrior and woman who were in love. The story possesses an enormous dose of pure enchantment and I thoroughly enjoyed it when the driver related it to me.

As synchronistic as my life tends to be, it was not surprising when Victor and The Angel shared a bit of the same tale, but with a twist. They had actually created, with the help of family and friends, a Kamishibai version of the ancient Mexican Tale. Kamishibai is an ancient Japanese form of storytelling where a box houses a rolling scroll of images that the storyteller rotates while telling the tale. They had beautifully decorated Kamishibai boxes with images of the themes of their stories and illustrations which slid into the back of the box. Most traditional Kamishibai boxes are plain, rather simple but these had a Mexican cultural spin put on them with lots of bright colors and images.

I was excited because my friend in Poland, Michael, has been working with Kamishibai for some time now and encouraging me to do the same.

They had several decorative Kamishiai boxes and well planned out tales to tell with them. I was impressed. These two are definitely storytellers heart and soul.

A couple of other local storytellers arrived and we all gathered around a circular dining room table. A circle. Yes… really, a circular table. For some of you that won’t mean much but for others it will have metaphysical and cultural significance. I was delighted to be seated at “The Round Table” with this gathering of other storytellers.

Initially I was going to say that Victor is a wonderful cook but, after having tasted the caramelized onion he prepared for us to start the meal with, I have to retract and declare that he is an authentic chef with tantalizing culinary skills.

I had some hesitation in biting into an onion that had been oven baked for a few hours but I quickly overcame in favor of desiring the experience. I was not disappointed. I wanted so badly to savor every single bite of that onion but I would have held up the evening. Seriously, I think I could have taken an hour to slowly and purposefully eat that caramelized onion. The textures, the flavors, the meat of the vegetable that melted in your mouth… oh my God! Ok, obviously it was good. To let you know how detail oriented Victor can be, our main dish was comprised of chopped vegetables whose colors mirrored the many colors you find all over Mexico and in Mexican Art. I was in a scene from “Como Agua para Chocolate” and loving every second of it.

The conversation flowed around the table easily. No one competed with anyone else to be heard. One of the tellers, Andy from New Zealand, and his son, performed a soul stirring Haka for everyone. If you’ve never watched a Rugby match or seen a Tongan Haka performed then go to YouTube and put the work in and be prepared to have an experience. I thought the walls and floors were going to come tumbling down. It was one of the highlights of the night, besides Victor’s culinary delights of course.

It was part dinner party, part ritual and part gathering of kindred spirits. There were laughs, tears and a ton of sharing. I found myself so at ease with the members of this gathering that it reminded me of the rites and rituals I’ve been blessed to be a part of over the decades.

I left late in the evening with a deep desire for all of our paths to cross once again. It was an evening of being fed both physically and spiritually that I will not soon forget.

Last week I visited a school called “Crecer” which means “to grow” in Spanish. The school is located in the City of Tlaxcala. I didn’t know much about the city except that it was located outside of the metropolis of Mexico City. I always love getting away from the noise and crowds of big cities so a trip to Tlaxcala was perfect for me. I had already suffered a week of hearing sirens every few minutes, incessant horn honking and music blaring around every corner I turned. The fact that I was going to have a two-hour bus ride to get there was even more of an enticement.

I boarded the bus and felt that, “sit back and relax” feeling you get when someone else is doing the driving. My plan was simple. I would stare out of the large window of the bus for two hours taking in the country’s landscape.

No sooner did the driver pull away from our stall when, miraculously, television monitors descended from the ceiling of the bus with their volumes already set on maximum. Television monitors! I could have screamed!

I rode for two hours being subjected to a diaper-wearing Panda who apparently knows kung-fu and simultaneously channels the spirits of Larry, Curly and Moe. I knew I was in the minority as someone who was desperately seeking solace in silence because, the entire trip, there were bursts of raucous laughter, loud conversations and, believe this or not, people actually playing music aloud from their phones.

I did manage to stare out into the vast expanse that is Mexico and view some beautiful land. Dormant volcanoes, snow capped mountains, fields upon fields of corn and other vegetation. Mexico is truly a blessed piece of earth.

I was met at the bus station in Tlaxcala by Martha Jáuregui, director of Crecer. From the beginning, Martha’s warm and inviting demeanor made me feel welcomed in her city. On our way through Tlaxcala to her school I was treated to some of the most picturesque sites of colonial architecture and baroque inspired iglesias. Prior to arriving, Martha warned me that her campus was very small. What Martha didn’t know at the time was that “small” and “quaint” was just what I was in need of after Mexico City.

The campus was indeed small but grand in vision. The feel of the campus reminded me of a throwback to an era when a small community shaped the environment of its school.

I was scheduled to perform for the upper grades only. The youngest, kinder and pre-k, had been excluded. I didn’t feel so good about those children, on such a small campus, having been excluded so I asked Martha if it would be alright for me to visit their classrooms for just a few minutes. She was excited to consent and escorted to me the kinder and pre-k classrooms. It was so much fun!

I got a chance to sing “Los Pollitos” with the children and find out their names. One little girl, about 4 or 5 years of age, wrapped her arms around my neck when I squatted down to get eye-to-eye with her group. What a wonderful feeling.

The sessions with the older groups went exceptionally well. I got the feeling  from these small groups of teens that they had not yet been tainted by the cynicism or angst of their peers in the larger cities. Their questions were both thoughtful and probing. By the time I had to leave I felt as though I had been in the company of an extremely mature group of young adults. How refreshing!

I told Martha of my interest in I.B. Schools (International Baccalaureate) and she introduced me to their I.B. coordinator, Guadalupe. There was a light shining in Guadalupe’s eyes that immediately enamored me with her. As we spoke I could tell that her passion for learning and teaching was beyond the pale. She and Martha are definitely two peas in a pod. I think that by the time I left the school I must have hugged everyone 4 or 5 times each. It was a refreshing experience to visit “Crecer.”

You might have thought that I would have been left with my good feeling and placed back on the bus to head back to Mexico City but that was not in Martha’s plans. She and her husband personally escorted me around the city of Tlaxcala and patiently answered my touristy questions. There is a bull- fighting ring in the city that I got to see, a beautiful church and, in the square, some amazing artwork.

My visit to Tlaxcala gave me back the solace that I was so desperately seeking. I can honestly say that I found tranquility in Tlaxcala. Thank you Martha and the entire staff of Crecer.

While in Mexico I decided that I would make sure to use public transportation. I honestly feel that public transportation is a sure fire way to get to know the city and people up close and personal. Little did I know when I boarded the subway in Zona Rosa that I was going to experience one particular person up close and “real” personally.

Here’s what happened…

I jumped onto the subway just as the doors were closing. I scanned the train car looking for a seat. There was only one available so I raced toward it trying to beat the crowd. I didn’t even take time to see who it was near or next to. I flew into the available seat and noticed, for the first time, that no one else was competing to get there before me. I’ve caught this train before and this was the “first” time that I was able to get a seat. I was feeling really lucky until I looked to my left and saw an elderly woman who was obviously homeless and, as her eyes indicated, a bit unbalanced mentally.

I have to speak honestly. She smelled badly, her long black raven satin hair was oily and dirty. The many layers of soiled clothing and tattered coats would have given the average person a heat stroke. In her hands, falling from her toothless mouth and covering her clothes and the floor around her were pieces of a half eaten, very messy sandwich. It didn’t seem that much of it was making it into her mouth.

In that moment I had a decision to make (I seem to be faced with these a lot lately). I could either sit down next to her and brace myself for all that might come with sharing space with her, or I could walk a little bit further away and stand comfortably by myself. Ok… You know me by now. You know that I chose to stay seated next to her. After all, she is a human being simply down on her luck economically. What could go wrong?

So I sat down there, turned toward her, and looked her in the eyes to validate that I saw her as a human being, not simply an “undesirable” in society. I was feeling pretty good about my decision until her demeanor flipped and my eyes felt an empty, glassy stare that looked through me to some distant point behind me.

I wasn’t prepared for what she did next. She totally caught me off guard. I’m looking into her vacant eyes and expression when, out of nowhere she draws back and, with her full force, punched me in the arm.

Yes! She punched me!

It didn’t really hurt, but it was in that moment that I realized I was going to have to up my game exponentially if I was going to remain seated next to her. In that split second, I turned to her and gave it my best shot.

“I love you!”  I whispered aloud to her.

Immediately she softened, her entire disposition changed to one of an enamored, flirtatious little girl.

At this point, she extended her hand, food and condiments dripping and falling from the side, and offered me some of her sandwich. Sensing that this was going in the right direction I immediately asked her a few things about herself. She was genuinely pleased with having someone to talk with. I thought things were really looking up. She was happy. I was comfortable. It was at this point that I felt her shift in her seat and begin leaning over to move closer to me. Before I knew it she was rubbing her grubby head and oily hair affectionately against the side of mine. She was really moving our “budding friendship” along faster, and more intimately, than I expected. Fortunately, for me she wanted more sandwich than cuddling. She sat back in her seat, flashing her wide toothless smile every few minutes as we continued with a little more small talk. I could see the faces of the passengers around me. I think they either felt sorry for me or they may have been questioning my sanity.

When my stop came up I turned to her and told her it had been nice chatting with her, as I would have done in any “typical” encounter. She smiled that wide, toothless, gummy smile once more and I could see that those few moments of discomfort on my part might have given her the gift of feeling “normal”. Maybe in that moment she didn’t feel invisible.  It gave me the chance to reflect on how easy it is to overlook some people in society.