I voted early, and with great trepidation. I am no seer or soothsayer and I cringe at the thought that someone might apply any degree of mysticism to my words. I simply realize the truth in the old adage that “time is a tutor.” From my forbearers, in this land, I’ve been bequeathed a psyche conditioned by brutal servitude compounded with the mind and spirit that would settle for nothing less than unencumbered freedom. From the mountain top view, I fear nothing for the man Barack Obama. We men make our choices in this life and dare not call ourselves men if we back down from the difficult terrain ahead of us; this I understand. My shame at having cast my vote for Barack Obama has to do with the guilt I possess in knowing that I am taking away a husband and a father from a family unprepared for the eventualities of their lives. My shame is in knowing that I, for selfish reasons, for wanting to see this nation live up to its’ ideals and pronouncements, have relegated this family a suffering that should not have to be endured by any soul. A man makes his choices and it is often his family that must pay the price. This has been, and continues to be our history in this nation, a history of Black Men.

Foremost, I am under no illusion that this man, Obama, or any other human being for that matter, is capable of redirecting this nation’s misdirected foreign/domestic policies or altering its path of implosive, self-destructive behavior. No human being is capable of such Herculean feats. The humor in all of this, if we’re permitted such moments of levity, is that while everyone is looking to this man as an “agent” of change, he staring back at each of us hoping that we realize that we are the “true” agents of change. There is an African proverb that says, “The ruin of a nation begins in the homes of its’ people.” My vote for Obama was a very selfish act on my part due to the fact that I know the outcomes in advance. Many of those who call out his name in joyful tones today will, in tomorrow, possess less than admirable views of him. The psychic pathology rooted in this nation’s soil will have a new enemy within to identify itself against (it cannot survive without an enemy). That pathology will unify itself around the twisted roots of what we euphemistically refer to as racism, which in fact, if truth is to prevail, should be unveiled and known for what it truly is: “evil.” The responsibility for previous administration’s mismanagement of domestic and foreign affairs will disappear in a mist of a selective juxtaposition of fact and fantasy. Many will not understand the compromises he will have to make to push forward on many of the promises he has made. The list of inevitables is endless and I don’t want to appear the pessimist in a time of extreme hope and optimism but I must state things as I am and have been witness to them.

This day, today, the day before the election, there is no doubt in my mind that Senator Barack Obama will be this nation’s next president. No… I am not a pundit, nor an election analyst, just a man who has been tutored by time. The conditions we currently find ourselves suffering under warrant Wednesday morning’s results. It may make little sense to many of you now, but, first and foremost, I must offer my apologies to Mrs. Michelle Obama. I am aware that you are an exceptionally intelligent woman and I believe I know the measure of contemplation that occurred before proceeding down this path but, I am also aware that there is nothing that can prepare us for the type of life journey that you and your family are about to begin. You truly deserve more than what this nation is prepared to offer you and your children. To Malia and Sasha, my apologies to you feel almost empty. There are no words to articulate the remorse I possess in taking from you the right of every young woman to grow in the security and comfort of the shadow of her father until she reaches his height. If I had had your best interest at heart I would have voted against Barack Obama and given your family back your mother’s husband, your father. May God watch over you all in what are sure to be difficult days ahead.

I’m doing pretty good getting these out to you guys. Between family, living life, performing, teaching, family, rehearsals, travel, family and more family stuff; I’m actually managing to complete an album here and there. Wisdom Tales Volume 1 is now available for download but only from “The Storytelling Store” on my site. I’ll let everyone know when it’s up on iTunes, Amazon and all the other stores.

I hope you guys enjoy it. As always, don’t forget to contact me and let me know what you think. I’m looking forward to all of your input.

“Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da!”

This year was a little different in that I decided to open up more of a dialog, talk about what they wanted to talk about with a little music and storytelling mixed in. I was also really pleased to see the majority of the African-American students enter and head straight for the seating up front and not stay seated in the back (we had sort of a Rosa Parks issue last year… honor and respect those who’ve sacrificed for you, etc.)

The most exciting aspect of what occurred that day wasn’t the performance part of the program, but what occurred afterwards. At the close of my performance, when I was about ready to pack it all in, a number of the young women stopped me and asked if I’d mind hanging out for a while longer and answering questions. I saw from my sister friend who bought me there, Mrs. Wirt, that it was ok, so I sat down. It was lunchtime so I let the ladies know that I would take up too much of their time so that they could get to lunch. Their emphatic “No, don’t worry about it” was pleasantly received by me. They didn’t care about their lunchtime; they wanted to get into a serious discussion, because they had questions.

I think the smile on my face probably touched my ears. We sat for the entire lunch session, me and about 30 beautiful young African-American sisters, engaged in very deep and meaningful conversation. They shot questions at me ranging from issues of racism to male/female relationships. I have to say, patting myself on the back; I fielded their questions like a seasoned pro. If you are one of those eclectic readers who sometimes question your desire to read/research all types of topics and material, please be aware that you will know the value of it if you are ever placed in a situation like this.
I sometimes don’t like to call what I do “work.” I feel there needs to be another name for it. It is difficult to consider what you do “work” when it touches the very fiber of your being. I can honestly say that I love each and every student I come into contact with. I can further attest that they touch me in more ways than I believe I could ever affect them.
My little sisters of the OAAU at Gahr High School keep putting it down like ya’ll do. Baba loves you!

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

Baba the Storyteller

P.S. While you’re on iTunes, why not leave a review of the CD or podcast letting me know what you think.

As I was entering from the parking lot I was passing this structure with the mural painted on its’ face. My feet, literally, would not move another step. I found myself not thinking about what my next move should be or where I should be headed. All I wanted to do was to stand there and stare at this exceptional work of art.

Initially, in this post, I was going to offer a rich, detailed descriptions of the mural’s multilayered, multidimensional narrative, color scheme and history; but after thinking about it I figured I would just put up its’ image for all to see and let you judge for yourselves. It is inspirational! You’ve got to agree!

Anyway, let me move on. The staff and students were all more than accommodating; in fact they made me feel right at home. This was special for me because I find myself traveling all over and presenting in schools everywhere, except my own back yard. This opportunity was special for me also because one of my closest friends attended this school a few decades ago. That friend died two years ago. In some ways it felt like a homecoming for him that I was able to complete.

My host was Dr. Butler, definitely one of the most passionate, culturally aware intellectuals I have ever met. Dr. Butler set the tone for my day by making feel welcomed and affirming my work as a griot.

I did two gatherings. I don’t usually call them assemblies. I was proud of the fact that each gathering had its’ own personality but that fact that we had full participation during the open discussion portions of the gathering warmed my heart.

I can’t speak for the entire school but every single teacher I encountered seemed to realize they were there at this school as a form of service and life’s purpose. For the teachers that I met, it didn’t appear to be “only” a “job.” I can’t tell you how often I’ve run across teachers who are biding their time until retirement or simply earning an income until they can shift careers. The staff and teachers have my respect, for what its’ worth.

I changed my typical performance and chose to do stories and music that relied a lot more on the participation of those gathered. I was not disappointed. For one of the first times that I can remember, the young men, in the second session actually stepped up to the challenge of responding to their place in the tale. As an African-American Man, I had tears of joy, relief and promise welling up in me but, well, you know, I still got issues so I wasn’t about to let nobody see my crying up there.

I think the thing I’m going to remember most about this experience were the smiles. In every direction I looked, with every eye I came into contact with during our gathering, I was offered smiles. Yeah I got ragged on a couple of times but I’m old school and was doing that when it was still called “The Dozens,” so you know the few unfortunate souls who tried to step that way didn’t stand a chance. I love it when that happens, it offers me a chance to offer up a little of myself or, what I like to call “teaching moments.”

I’m gonna close this out here because I can talk about the joy of this experience for days. I don’t want my sisters at Kennedy High School to think I forgot about them. I know you’re the reason why I had the opportunity to sit with the D-House Students.

Dooni, dooni kononi bé nyaga da

Take a second to check out and subscribe to the storytelling podcast, “Timeless Tales” in iTunes. Enjoy, and let me know what you think of the stories!

Baba the Storyteller

P.S. While you’re on iTunes, why not leave a review of the CD or podcast letting me know what you think.

This wasn’t something I intended to write about but after a few days ago, I just had to sit down and put pen to paper.

Annually I travel to Northern California to commune with a group of young men and women as a form of cultural exchange. Although the lessons are presented in curricula form I like to think we get a little more creative in our exchanges with one another. I like to view our time together as opportunities, not just for developing mental awareness but spiritual growth as well.

As most people are aware the funding for arts related activities is usually the first to suffer the swing of the hatchet man’s axe. Cries and screams of, “we’ve got to tighten our belts,” and “everyone must share in the economic shortfalls” have fallen on deaf ears with me, as I get older. Let’s be honest. Anyone who has lived a few decades is well aware that the first people to suffer in any, supposed, economic downturn are the children. I say “supposed economic downturn” because it seems the belt tightening often occurs with the demographic that cannot even afford to purchase belts while the engineers of the socio/economic train sport suspenders to support their ever expanding waistlines.

Oh, I apologize I got off on a bit of a tangent there didn’t I.

Well, here’s the point I wanted to make. This year, my trip to Northern California was in peril due to the “Economic Ship is Sinking” mantra makers. My family and I make whatever sacrifices we can to assure that this work continues but we’ve reached our sustainable limit. Just when all seemed that it might be hopeless, we get a call from our “above and beyond, more than dedicated” coordinator in Northern California. It seems that a parent heard about the dilemma that might keep me from making my annual trek and donated, anonymously, $1,000. When my wife contacted me to tell me the news I had to pull the car over. As irony would have it, I was in downtown Los Angeles and up the street, on the hillside; I could clearly see the Hollywood sign staring down at me (but that’s a whole other topic and I don’t want to digress any further).

The message that my wife gave me from our benefactor in Northern California was that the parent knows of and respects the value that we bring to the youth each year and did not want to see it interrupted. I can’t quite describe the emotions I was feeling; it was a strange mix of humility, thankfulness and of being affirmed. The sad part of this for me was that I will never know who the donor was because they chose to remain anonymous. You want to reach out and give someone a hug or tell him or her thank you but you’re unable to. This motivated me even more to continue doing what I do and continue my own growth as a person so that, hopefully, I have something more to offer each visit.

Now, this happened a few weeks ago and, as I said earlier, I hadn’t planned on writing about it. It seemed something rather personal that, I thought, was best kept to myself. And then, a few days ago, my wife got a call from a woman who is a teacher in the Long Beach Unified School District. This is a woman who is actually one of my heroines because of her love and dedication to her craft. She is another person who I work with each year. I visit her classrooms annually for a few weeks out of the year and impart whatever lessons are needed at the time. My wife and I had tried to tell her not to struggle with the funding because I was coming no matter what. She ignored our pleas and continued, not only her regular teaching work with the children but also acting as an advocate on my behalf to secure funding. Anyway, as I was saying, she called my wife to say that a woman who volunteers at the school heard of the shortfall they were having in securing funds for my weekly visits to the classrooms. This unknown volunteer handed her $500 towards funding the residency.

When my wife told me this I felt as if she were talking about someone else’s work not mine. I felt that strange mixture of humility, gratitude and respect once again, but more intense than before. I don’t know about many of you but one of the first things I usually attempt to do is to push the blessing away and say, “I don’t deserve it.” This is a character flaw in many ways and it is something I’m constantly struggling with. I once had a friend from Guinea, West Africa tell me, “you give and give and give; and then when someone tries to give to you, you refuse to accept. This is a very bad thing you do that creates imbalance in our relationships.” His words echoed back to me in this moment.

I guess the reason that I need to write these words is because “I” needed some form of release to express my joy; my gratitude towards souls like these who “see” into what I’m trying to do. I don’t know if these words will ever reach any of “you” but I just want you to know that, from the center of my heart, I thank you for believing in my work.

I apologize but if you’ll allow me a quick rant once more; there’s just one more thing I’ve got to say. I had a friend’s daughter who once called it, “the curse of consciousness;” the concept that once you are aware of a thing you can never become unaware of it. For me, my awareness of the economic shell game being played with the lives of our children by politicians and bureaucrats is an abomination to the ideals of all things humane. “I know” how and why resources are allocated and this causes me a tremendous amount of pain. Many of you know also. It isn’t a secret. The benefactors who I’ve mentioned above are the proverbial Davids hurling stones from their slingshots at the Goliaths of politics and industry who lack the humane and innate qualities which cause most of us to “always” place our children first; to sacrifice for them. It is the Davids of the world who truly embody the idea that “No Child Will Be Left Behind” as a truth and not rhetoric.

These people are the ones who constantly remind me of why I do what I do.

Dooni, dooni kononi bé nyaga da.

When I arrived at the park where the festival was held, I parked and headed to the performance area. As I was walking, there were the unmistakable sounds of a Heavy Metal Band performing on stage. The closer I got, the louder the guitars, drums and vocals got. The small amphitheatre had an intimate; close to the audience look to it. The group of about six kids in this band was performing their lungs and hearts out.

I have to admit, I’ve never been one to kick back and listen to Heavy Metal in my earphones or around the house while cleaning. The band’s audience was sparse. There were maybe four or five people seated a few feet from the stage. This didn’t matter; they performed as if there were thousands before them. I liked that.

The only thing that was a bit disturbing to me was that I was the act that had to follow these kids. That was a bit unsettling. There has never been a time in my career as a storyteller that I had to follow a Heavy Metal Band. This was a first.

I retreated to a tent they had set up as a dressing room and started trying to figure out a strategy for following this act. Somewhere between panic and serenity, it hit me. What was it that I was stressing about? It hit me that I was sitting here creating stress for myself for no reason. I do what I do and I do it well, I told myself. Instead of focusing on what I might need to do in this situation, I gave myself permission to celebrate my accomplishments and the fact that someone had the confidence and wherewithal to invite me to this festival. This shift in focus had a profound effect the way I was felling.

I won’t go into all of the detail but I will say the show was a great success. There were, literally, about 150 or so people who made their way to the amphitheatre while I was performing and sat close to the stage. In the back areas I saw children sit down in the big blown up jumping houses and castles and listen to my music and stories. Talk about euphoric. I was filled with a great feeling that I can’t really describe (yeah, I know, me a storyteller at a loss for words).

To look out into the crowd and see everyone smiling, laughing was incredible. To see the elderly seated next to children and their parents, to watch teens, voluntarily, come and sit close to the stage and enjoy the music and stories was simply awesome!

This was one of those crossroad moments for me that I won’t soon forget. I didn’t sell a single CD, but I think I got a greater value and lesson out of it just the same.

Dooni, dooni kononi bé nyaga da.

I wonder if any of the mega-star performers ever go through issues like this as they age? I’ve never been a piece of the machine so I can’t imagine the thoughts that plague the mega-star crowd.

Well, anyway, it’s not much of a rant but it is where I find my mind wandering to at this moment, at this time. I love my work!

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

“The Art of Storytelling – Vol.1” is officially available, today, October 26, 2007, on Amazon mp3 for download. Yeah!!!

One word of warning though, and this was simply something not in my control. Somehow, well… it seems… ok, I’ll just spill it out. It appears there is rap artist who has the exact same title as my CD and, well… maybe you’ll want to just look me up on Amazon by name , “Baba the Storyteller,” instead of typing in “The Art of Storytelling”

If you happen to type in “The Art of Storytelling” by accident, I assure you that first title track is not mine. Somehow my tracks are interspersed with those of this rapper. Oh, the pain!

So please, please, please proceed with caution if you’re going to purchase my tracks from Amazon mp3.

Pasaron mucho tiempo hoy hablar español solamente y era una oportunidad practicar mi español. No me falte nada hablar hoy y estoy orgulloso por eso. Alguna vez pienso lo que yo hablo lo mejor como escribir pero trato de hacerlo y esto es la cosa lo mas importante si?

Estoy muy contento con mi presentación hoy. En el futuro deseo mas con mi fluencia en la lenguaje español. Debo preparar espectáculos y presentaciones español de cuentas y música para nuestros niños quien no hablan ingles. Ellos necesitan aprender sobre otras culturas también, verdad? Es parte de mi trabaja hacer comunicaciones con lo mas gente posible. Que piensa tu?

Creo que esto es por eso yo hago esta trabaja.

Dime con quien andas y te diré quien eres.

Amazingly, I haven’t become frustrated at the daunting responsibility of carrying the “Africa is not a Country” banner with me wherever I travel but I’ve got to tell you; it sure is getting heavy after a few decades of holding it.

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

I don’t know how anyone could turn down an event supporting the strengthening of familial bonds. I couldn’t and I didn’t. I’ve worked many jobs over my lifetime and I can honestly say that working as a performing artist is a lot more demanding than I had anticipated in my idealized youth. Earlier that day I had workshops at one school with students and then a couple of assembly performances at another school. I’m somewhat phobic about the business aspects of my craft so I’m always trying to make sure my correspondence is “never” delayed. So, factor in workshops, performances, email returns, phone calls (oh, I almost forgot… eating) and there is little time left for anything else.

To make a long story short, as they say, I arrived at the small church called KRST Unity around 7:30 pm, just in time to hear an extremely dynamic woman talking to the audience about the realities of living in the community as families, current changes in the legal system that everyone needed to be aware of, etc. She was exceptional! I could have listened to her talk for hours on end.

They announced me and I went out and did my thing, a little music mixed with a bit of interactive tale telling. In the middle I might have thrown in a few of my own philosophical morsels. The thing that made this most memorable to me was the response I got from the children in the audience. After I finished my performance and was exiting the area, a good number of the children in the audience also stood up and followed me out of the sanctuary. It was impromptu, it seemed almost like a dance to me, as if they had moved on cue. It was a humbling thing for me to be a part of. We spent time in the back room, while I was preparing to leave, talking. A few of the children were trying to get me to commit to returning or coming to their homes to give them bed time stories. Aren’t children the most amazing thing about life?

I had arrived more tired than anything. I was leaving more refreshed than I had felt all day. Maybe this is why I do what I do.

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.