You know you’re doing good when your audience already knows some of your songs, stories and about your life. What an amazing experience.

Day by day I’m getting a more complete picture of Lima Peru. Everyone I meet is excited about the country’s food. Have you tried this, have you tried that? I must get asked these questions twenty times a day. I’m taking things slow. I want to avoid that “uncomfortable, bloated” feeling we see advertised so often in commercials.

I finished my performance early but we had to hang around for another couple of hours being pampered, fed, and doted upon. Ah… what a challenging existence I live.

I’m excited about all of the different types of storytellers I’m meeting. Who knew Peru had so many storytellers? Maybe I’ll be able to profile a few of them here on the blog instead of just me ranting about my food issues.

I’ve been reading the paper daily. Peru has some really unique issues: Rights of Indigenous People’s, Water conservation/preservation, Corruption (nothing new anywhere, right?) and an ever expanding infrastructure.

Well… now that I’ve, officially, achieved “Rock Star Status” here in Peru, I probably won’t have time sit and write, or blog, to the “common folk (nose way way way in the air)”. I really hope ya’ll see me laughing, but I’m sure someone out there will send me an email, taking these words “way” too seriously. It happens.

I’m off this evening to try and hunt down some food. I will probably return to the U.S. twenty pounds heavier but, don’t blame me, blame the people of Peru. They keep forcing it on me.

So, here it goes… on Monday I met up with a Peruvian Storytelling brother that I’ve been communicating with for months. His name is Wayqui (which in the language of Quechua means “Friend”). I appreciate this man so much! He went above and beyond to make sure I felt welcomed here in Peru.

Wayqui and I hit the streets Monday and walked, took buses, walked some more and shared stories along the way. I visited the major Plazas here in Lima and even got some inside scoop background history on a few things. There isn’t anything like passing the day with someone local to learn what “really” going on. My once healthy United States diet has been ravaged by my policy of trying things, at least once when abroad.

Wayqui and I went to a restaurant and I had to order the national dish, Ceviche. Now, first of all, you must know that I am not a fan of “anything” raw unless it’s fruits or vegetables but, when in Peru, do as Peruvians. The waiter brought some peppers to our table to accompany the meal. I love a little spice so I started to drop a few on the side of my plate. Before I could dive in, Wayqui warned me to touch one of the peppers and just taste my finger. I did as requested but there wasn’t anything on my finger after touching the pepper. “Just try it,” he urged.

So I placed my finger on my tongue to taste the nothingness that appeared on it and… my mouth literally erupted in flames. I downed the bottle of water that the waiter had brought to our table and then demanded another. There was nothing on my finger! I pushed to small bowl of peppers over to Wayqui and he commenced to putting them down like little pieces of candy. I was more than happy to let him have them all.

I hope to hook up with Wayqui once again. He teaches a storytelling class and I would love a chance to go and meet with his students. My schedule is really busy but I think I’ll be able to make time to drop in on he and his students.

Monday morning was a performance at the National Library of Lima. A school called Saint George’s brought their students over by bus. From the first to the last performance, I had a ton of fun. What was really interesting though was that the woman who coordinated is married to a very well known storyteller, “Mukashi Mukashi.” He’s man who specializing in a form of Japanese storytelling using decorative boxes with animated scrolls known as Kamishibai. That’s an over simplification. There is so much more to the Art of Kamishibai.

Anyway, his wife was the one coordinating my activities and, as we talked, we found out that we had so many people in common. Her husband has literally inspired each and every person I know doing Kamishibai, from my brother Michael Malinowski in Poland to my friends Victor and Angel in Mexico. I shot an email off to him and hope to meet up with him sometime during this tour.

Oh, ok… something odd did happen after one of my performances. As we were taking pictures, a young girl of about 9 or 10 years old asked for my left hand. Innocent enough right? So I give this little girl my left hand and she pulls it towards her face and kisses my gold cowry shell ring. Now when you travel you don’t know if something is a custom or if your dealing with something from the Outer Limits. I thanked the girl and she ran off to her school bus. After inquiring from several Peruvians I have discovered that “this” was not a Peruvian custom. So… I don’t quite know what happened and I doubt I’ll ever see that child again to ask her.

Let’s talk about traffic in Lima for a second. To understand how people drive here all you know to know is that it is an adrenaline junky’s dream land. In one word to describe the manner of driving, “Threatening.” If I had to use another word, “Suicidal.” Now, I’m the one riding in cabs trusting these Kamikaze pilots so I don’t know what that says about me. Pedestrians offer a whole other mind trip. I’ve actually seen people “consciously” walk out in front of moving cars in the coolest, calmest manner of anyone. I wouldn’t even mention it if I hadn’t witnessed this routinely. In conversation with Wayqui he made things really clear, “Street lights and signs are very decorative here in Peru.”

Alright I think I’ve met my quota of words inundation for one evening.

Let me know you’re reading the blog, leave me a few kind words from home or just check in.

Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da.

Here in Lima the buses are regular buses but operated by private owners/companies. They cost pennies on the dollar but aren’t built for comfort. I rode one for a few miles and wandered the area, meandering through the streets.

It wasn’t too difficult for me to notice that I had walked miles upon miles and had yet to encounter a person of color, specifically someone of African Peruvian descent. It wasn’t as though I started out looking for this but the absence of people of color was too conspicuous to ignore. I put this thought out of my mind and sat in a park reading a local paper “Diarios Peruanos.” I don’t typically drink soda but you can’t visit Peru and not try, at least one, Inca Kola. It did. It was good. Sort of a light cola/vanilla taste to it. Not too far off from the Vernors I used to drink as a kid in Detroit.

My ultimate goal was to push the limits of my Spanish fluency by engaging as many people as possible but this proved to be a bit of a problem. I don’t know if I’ve got a look, or if it’s my walk, but… before I can ever get a word out of my mouth I’m greeted in broken English with “Hey Bro…” or “What’s up man?” I don’t know. Maybe those are typical greetings that have caught on world wide.

When I do speak Spanish, people seemed a bit surprised. I was asked today if I was from Cuba. I loved that!

I returned to Miraflores, the area where I’m staying. When I got off of the bus I walked a few blocks and was walking past a Black Man. He smiled so wide I had to acknowledge him with “the nod.” Some of ya’ll will know what I’m talking about and most probably won’t, but, he shot it right back in rhythm, smiled and said, “Hola hermano.”

I stopped, he stopped. I had to engage him. He only spoke Spanish. He was Peruvian. He almost flipped out when he heard that I was from Los Estados Unidos, especificamente Los Angeles.

He was so engaging that I felt like I had just found a long lost family member.

After getting information on restaurants, clubs (which I don’t do), community centers and the like, we parted. But before we went our separate ways, this brother reached out and grabbed me and gave me the hardest hug I’ve ever had from another brother.

“gracias hermano, gracias…,” he kept saying as we parted ways. I’m not sure what he was thanking me for but I appreciated it.

Wow… that old school nod goes a long way and, apparently, has no language barriers.

Oh… before I go, a quick little cultural fact. Did any of you ever hear of the tradition here in Peru of Black Men being hired to be the Pall Bearers at funerals? Apparently it is a custom, long standing and the affluent pay very well for this traditional service. Interesting, isn’t it?

I’ve already met with my tour manager, Yoli, gotten the instrument put back together (not tuned yet) and reviewed the itinerary for the next five weeks. Common sense would’ve dictated that I try to relax for a few moments for jumping into work-mode but, well… you know… common sense ain’t so common.

I’m looking forward to making some connections with the African Peruvian community here. It is part and parcel of why I do what I do. Whenever I travel and connect with the different communities across the globe I feel like the pieces of a torn fabric have be re-woven much stronger.

I’m in a small three bedroom flat in Mira Flores. I’ll get pics up later if anyone is interested.

On the way to my apartment, the driver made sure to take me by Costa Verde, the coastline that hugs the city of Lima. It is beautiful shore line that has the feeling that the ocean is only moments away from overtaking the city center. Between touring schools and other places performing, I plan to return and shoot some video of the pace of life here.

Well, I’ve made myself a promise to get the Kora tuned tonight before I go to be and I’m feeling like passing out right now so this is going to be a challenge.

I’ll blog as often as time permits for the next six weeks while I’m here in Peru. I have no doubt that I’ll cross some “interesting” paths as always.

I had about 200 students participating in the culmination. Whereas the focus is typically on the speakers, my attention was directed to the audience. Together, me and these six classrooms of middle schoolers had labored through some pretty intense focused listening exercises. This was their time to either succeed or fail as supportive, focused listeners.

Each speaker that approached the stage pushed pasted their individual fears and doubts. It was exciting for me to witness. To say that I swelled with pride would be an understatement. There were a few hiccups in the focused listening of a few in our audience but I will take two or three falling down and getting back up as wonderful odds.

It is an indescribable sense of satisfaction to witness as students implement, in real world situations, practices that you’ve taught them. I watched as “my” kids exercised short, simple breathing exercises to push nervousness away, reposition their postures and move forward towards the edge of their chairs.

When we reached the end of the culmination, I approached the stage to tell them what an amazing group of scholars they’d proven themselves to be when a young boy raised his hand near the center of the audience.

I had never seen this young man. He wasn’t in any of the six classes that I had worked with. His eyes were very sad. I was drawn to him. I walked from the stage, down the aisle and approached him. When I asked him why his hand was raised, he simply said that he had a story to share.

Even though I had never worked with him, or even met him for that matter, I allowed him to take the stage. I have a policy of being as supportive as possible when children exert themselves in a positive manner or express an interest in something.

The young man took the stage and began to tell a tale of a boy suffering being bullied. Initially, a few children giggled, more from nervousness than anything else, but gained their composure as this young man, confidently, stood his ground and continued with his tale.

His speaking was interrupted by long, choking pauses and, eventually, a stream of tears. By the time he finished, he had commanded the audience in a way that demonstrated several of the lessons I had shared with my students.

The protagonist in his tale was obviously him and everyone cheered and clapped loudly as he exited the stage in tears.

I took that moment to articulate to everyone the amount of heart it takes to stand up and speak out when others choose to remain silent. I lauded this young man as an example of courage that they should follow.

I had never met this young man before but I shared how proud I felt of him and what an honor it was to have listened to his words.

When we finally dispersed the classes for lunch, I watched as one of my students approached the young man and placed his arm around him.

My student walked with his arm around the young man’s shoulder and, as they passed the stage, he looked up at me and said, “Baba… I’ve been through what he is going through and I’m going to help him.”

My heart swelled. This young man stepping up to help another had been one of the most meek in the beginning of my Speaking-Listening Residency, but I had watched him grow in confidence over the months. He had taken the lessons on not succumbing to fear and empowering his own voice to heart.

It is a bittersweet existence, continually walking into and out of the lives of so many people for brief periods of time. I know that, with each group of students I encounter, my life is altered in a good way. I would like to think that I contribute something meaningful to each and everyone that I come into contact with as well.

Yesterday, while I was walking the halls, going from room to room, to see who might enjoy some musical storytelling, I heard a baby crying, loudly.

There are some rooms in Children’s Hospital that are off limits to everyone except medical personnel. I’m not permitted to visit these children because their health is so compromised that contact with outsiders could be dangerous.

The child’s wailing grew louder and louder. I could tell I was coming close to passing by the room. As I was about to pass by I saw that the crying was coming from one of the off-limit rooms. The door was slightly opened and there were large windows facing the hall, similar to those in pediatric viewing rooms.

As I was passing by the room I made eye contact with the crying child. She was about 9 to 12 months old and was  sitting up in a large, modified hospital crib with a sheet of plastic forming a dome over it.

Her crying was that of a person in agony, the type of sound that easily pierces your heart. As soon as I came into view, she, abruptly, went silent. It was almost as if she stopped on cue as soon as our eyes met.

I’m sure I was a a sight to behold. I stood there in the doorway, dressed in large, flowing, colorful robes; holding my kora in my left hand. I must have been something of an oddity for her. Her eyes locked on me and didn’t move. The pain in her eyes tore my heart in half. She was alone in the room. I wanted to rush in and pull her from the crib and just start hugging her but that wasn’t permitted.

The sorrowful helplessness I felt in that moment cannot be conveyed here.

As we stared at one another, I wasn’t sure what to do so I lifted my harp and began playing it. I made sure to maintain a safe distance from the entry way and poured myself into the playing of my harp. I didn’t know what else to do.

She sat there in her modified crib as still as I’ve ever seen any child sit, staring at me.

I wanted to do so much more, give something more but this was all I had so I played a little louder, a little harder, so that she would know I was playing for her.

She made that sniffling sound that children make when they are all cried out with nothing more to let go of emotionally.

I played, she stared.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her chubby little hands. She was studying me.

I began singing and, to my surprise, part way through my first verse, her lips broke into a tiny smile. What a reward!

If I didn’t visit another child the entire day, I could leave feeling as though I had done someone, some good.

I brought my song to a close and my contact with the hospital came to retrieve me to take me to another location where children were waiting to have stories and music shared with them.

When I finished playing the song I couldn’t help but to smile back at her.

As I was walking away, I noticed she didn’t begin crying again. That made me feel good inside.

I’ve worked them pretty hard on advancing their listening skills, on acquiring a voice with which to speak clearly and articulately. I have been really hard on them but they tell me that this is what they want. I don’t only want to give them theory, I want them to possess real-world skills when they graduate. They have had more instruction, role play and information inundating them than most people their age.

Back to my little experiment. I decided that the lecture and story segment of our class would take up the majority of our session, with time allotted for question/answers. I ran off more than 125 copies of my lecture notes, graphs, sample questions  and tucked them away in my bag. I kept three pages out for myself to refer to while I walked the room, engaging them in discussion and facilitating.

I purposely kept referring back to my pages and let them know how valuable the information was. Keep in mind, they all say they want to go to college and they all are vocally adamant about this fact.

Besides instructing them on the typical interview questions they might be asked during a college interview, I also kept reiterating the importance of advanced preparation.

At the end of 45 minutes of role playing, questions/answers and instruction I felt that the time to launch my experiment had arrived.

I let them know that we needed to bring our session to a close. I told them that I was willing to put my notes on the overhead projector if they wanted to copy them down. I let them know that I would give them time to copy my notes. I asked them, “how many of you would like me to put the information on the overhead so that you can write it down for yourself?”

I had four classes I worked with today and each one them had the very same responses. Once I asked who wanted to copy from the overhead projector, they all wailed and moaned vociferously asking me why didn’t I run off copies for them.

I was stoic in my response, “Do you guys want this information or not? If you do, I’ll put it on the overhead.”

They all grumbled once again. It was as if I had placed an undue burden on them that was making their lives more difficult. They were responding to me as though I owed them a greater effort on my part to make things easier for them.

I then asked to see a show of hands as to how many were willing to write down the information for themselves if I put it up on the overhead projector?

In each of my four classes, there were only 2 or 3 per each class who raised their hands. Each of my classes has an average of 28 students. Out of those 28 students, I only had 2 or 3 in each class who valued the information enough to be willing to take notes for themselves from the overhead projector. I had each of these students, willing to take notes for themselves, stand up.

Once the 2 or 3 in each class stood up, I let the rest of the class know that I really wasn’t going to make them write the information down for themselves. I, in fact, had made copies for everyone in each of my classes. I needed to know who was willing to put forth effort. That was my experiment. Real life is competitive. Those who are the most prepared are usually the ones who will succeed. I needed to know who valued the information I was giving them. I wanted to see which of my students was going to step up and take the minimal challenge of “writing down” the information I was imparting using their own hands.

Out of 112 students I had 8 total who wanted to take time to write the information down.

Yes, you read that correctly. I only had 8 students out of 112 willing to do the difficult work of taking their own notes.

In each class, I let those who were standing know that they were not going to be required to take notes. I told them that this was a life lesson. I explained to my entire class that each of them must be self-motivating if they ever expect others to be willing to assist them in achieving their goals and objectives.

In each class there was a sense of exasperation with me when they found out I had made enough copies to pass out to the entire class. They complained that I tricked them, That I was not being fair.

My response to my all of my students, “Life is not fair.”

I only passed out the papers to those who were standing.

If this isn’t a lot like life then I don’t know what is.

I will extend this lesson when I return next week, but it is very telling to say the least.

I do not have a single day free in February, Black History Month. That, my friends, is a blessing. Any artist working in this day and age, under this economy should jump and shout for joy at being busy.

On the 9th of February @ 2:00 pm, I’ve got a performance that I want to invite as many of you too as can fit in. The theatre only has 45 seats. I want this performance to be small, intimate and engaging. I will be pushing the boundaries of my storytelling skills be authoring this “one-man” show. Attached is the flyer for the performance and here’s a link with a little more information.

http://www.imalosangeles.com/?page_id=53

Let me know if any of you will be able to make it. Unfortunately, it’s best to purchase tickets early because of the limited seating.

If you’ve got any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. For those of you who will be coming, I’ll see you there!

Once again, as always, I give thanks to each and everyone of you for being willing to be on my email list. I appreciate and respect your support of my work.

About a week ago, I walked into one of my classrooms in one of the many schools I work with throughout the year. The students were, quite literally, bouncing off of the walls. Their regular teacher wasn’t present. In his place was an older woman in her late 60’s or early 70’s. She was their substitute teacher.

When I walked in the door, there were students up out of their seats roaming the classroom, some were talking loudly, and others had cell phones out flagrantly texting. It was pandemonium.

The substitute teacher was yelling at the top of her lungs at one of the students. Her focus was “entirely” on this one child. She didn’t even notice me enter until it got quiet really fast. The substitute was exasperated, frustrated and I could tell. She was waving her hands in the air above her head yelling at her focal point.

The transition of the room from chaotic to almost immediate silence caught her off guard. She turned to see me standing behind her and was startled. By now, all of the students were seated and quiet. They had all scurried to their desk and were now seated, appearing as “perfect” young scholars awaiting their next instruction. I explained to her who I was and that I had an hour-long session with the students that needed to start now. She looked so disheveled that all I could do was feel sorry for her. I asked her if it would be all right for me to take over the class. She consented and I told her that she could relax and just have a seat.

What followed was something so familiar to me. Just as my children did when they were young, the students began tripping over one another trying to explain their behavior before I could get a word out. I call this the “adolescent preemptive strike.” I got them quiet but I could see that they were bursting at the seams with explanations that they desperately wanted to get out.

Preceding my lesson, I needed to address what I had seen upon entering the room. As I started to speak, a few of them interrupted me by blurting out the reasons for their behavior. Before I could have a chance to reprimand them, a young girl, let’s just call her “K,” stood up, turned to the disrupters and shouted, in the most forceful voice I’ve ever heard come out of a little girl, “BE QUIET! DON’T SAY NOTHING! BABA IS SPEAKING AND YOU GUYS ARE GOING TO RESPECT BABA!”

Early on I recognized “K” as the alpha personality of the class. She is a born leader and has qualities of character possessed only by soldiers. K’s only problem is that she has never been offered a channel to direct these energies. In my time with the class, actually with every class I work with, I try to find forums for each child’s personality flourish.

After K’s admonition to her peers they, quickly, got quiet. She slowly, and with a bit of trepidation, began sitting back down. I could tell that her action to defend me had been reflexive, catching even her by surprise.

As she was descending into her chair, she looked in my direction, casting her eyes down and said, in an almost shy, sheepish tone, “sorry Baba.”

I wanted to yell out, “That’s my girl right there! That’s my girl!”

This is my typical impromptu response when one of my daughters does something that makes me proud. I get loud. It may not make sense but, hey… I’m a dad before anything else and we dads don’t always do things that make sense.

Yes… I wanted to yell out what I was feeling but I had a classroom of thirty students to get in order.

I cast an involuntary smile in K’s direction. She smiled back at me and sat up straight in her chair, ready to listen.

I proceeded to admonish the class on the issue of respecting adults, any and all adults who come to take charge of their class. They remained exceedingly quiet and attentive to my words.

As I spoke at the front of the room, I watched the substitute teacher seated at the back exhale a huge sigh of relief.

I continued with my lesson but that feeling of pride I experienced at being defended by that little girl sat deeply with me.

I, a six foot two man of about 220 pounds had my honor defended by a scrawny five foot 95 pound kid and I couldn’t feel more proud of her each time I recall the moment.

The man behind the counter kept staring at me as if he had a question he wanted to ask. While I was paying him for my snacks he asked, “what country did you come to America from?” I told him that that I was born here. I then got that look I usually get from people which makes me feel more like an enigma than a person. I explained to the clerk that I dress to celebrate my lineage and pay homage of my ancestors.

My willingness to talk fueled his desire to engage me some more. There was no one else in the store. We must have spent about 20 minutes conversing. I learned that he was from India and, typically, dressed in the same manner as me in his country. He explained that he does not dress in his traditional attire here in the United States because it, and this was his word, “scares” people. I let him know that I was fully aware of the pervasiveness xenophobia in this country. Following a question he asked me about my work, I explained that one of the reasons I chose to be a storyteller was, precisely, to combat that level of ignorance.

When our conversation ended I thanked him for taking time to talk so sincerely with me. He called out to me as I was exiting the double glass doors. I stopped and turned back to see what he wanted as I held the door open.

He looked me in the eyes and, emotionally, slightly choking back his words said, “Thank you “my” brother… thank you for what you do in this world.”

You never know “how,” or “when,” you will touch the life of another.

I’ve decided to write a series in this forum and I’m calling it “Truth be Told.” I may decide to only write a few, or it may end up becoming another aspect of my borderline obsessive-compulsive nature.

I’ve been bogged down in a world of deadlines, paperwork and linear thought processes. For me, an artist, this might be considered a “near death” experience. But to survive in a world of “cash is king” one must pay the cook in order to eat the meal.

I’m not a naive. I fully comprehend the importance of splitting my brain in two, at time, in order to assume the respective roles of “entrepreneur” on left and “free spirited” artist on the right.

I sat down earlier today and decided to do something that required as little thought as possible. I needed to clear my mind of excel spreadsheets, marketing plans, grant writing and php coding (yes, yes… I know coding is an “Art” but it does not feel like it when you temporarily lose the ability to converse with other human beings in a commonly understood language).

What I decided to do was to take a walking stick that I have from Ghana and embellish it. I had beads and other things I wanted to add to it in order for it to reflect more of my personality as an artist, as a storyteller.

When I began working on my walking stick, I felt an acute sense of heavy weight falling from me. Inexplicable? Yes, but I don’t know any other way to describe it. It felt, literally, as though a pressure valve had been lifted and, whatever it was that needed releasing, was being released.

I continued refashioning the cane into something that would be even more visually impressive. I soon lost myself in a space of creative energy. It felt like a thirst being quenched, nourishing. Whenever I would begin to try to analyze the feeling, it would take flight from me like one of those beautiful hummingbirds that appear outside of your window. When I would relax back into my cocoon of creativity, the energy made its presence felt almost immediately.

As I continued working on the cane, I began to envision stories that I could tell. The cane is shaped like a serpent. I’ve got tons of stories relating to the infamous, and historically sinister characteristics of snakes.

There was flood of ideas inundating my consciousness. Stories, proverbs, fables and images swirled around in my mind like a storm. The more I denied myself analysis of what was happening, the more the flood of creativity broke through the damn of my linear thought processes.

When I got to the end of adding beads and shells to the serpent shaped cane, I felt a bit of sadness. I wanted the flow of creative energy to continue unabated.

I rushed into my office and scribbled down notes from the ideas that had free-flowed through my mind.

As I write these words, there is a catharsis that has washed over me. I am feeling balanced at this moment and I can only attribute it to the actions of engaging in something creative.

I am always asked questions about developing creativity. I’ve sat on panels at conferences and discussed the concept of teaching creativity. I have never been able to give clear, concise answers to any audience questioning me on developing creativity. The processes of evolving creatively are so unique to each and every individual. I can only speak authoritatively from my own vantage point.

As with most of the conferences I’ve attended, or panels I’ve sat on, there tends to be a strong sense of urgency associated with finding that “magic button” to push that will unleash the creative aspects in our personalities.

I think sometimes, in our pursuit of answers, we forget to ask the right questions. We place the proverbial cart before the horse.

“Why is it that we desire to harness the elusive nature of creative energies and teach creative processes?”

Is our desire to construct an aesthetically pleasing, more attractive culture of consumerism, or is it to unlock the human potential lying beneath the surface of each and every individual?

The organizers of the fair like to say that it will occur “rain or shine.” Well this year we got the rain, and lots of it.

It was a special day for me because I had my two adult daughters and my granddaughter accompanying me. When you have adult “children” (I know, I know, “Oxymoron alert,” but those of you with maternal or paternal aspects to your personalities get it) it is rare to have everyone in the same place at the same time.

I was hyped that my daughters and granddaughter were with me! As we were setting up I started introducing them to everyone, even people I didn’t know. Like I said, I was a little excited to have them with me.

My storytelling sessions were outdoors in an area set up with colorful, flowing, sheer fabric surrounding me. The attention to detail at this festival is unparalleled.

The drizzle had subsided, so I decided it was safe to set up my sound equipment. There were people gathering and, by the time I sat down to tune the Kora, there were about 40 to 50 people sitting in front of, and around, me on bales of hay, waiting patiently.

I had about 20 more minutes before I had to begin performing but I couldn’t just keep these people waiting. So I started early and decided that I would begin again when the hour struck.

It began to drizzle again but, as I sang, more and more people gathered. It was a wispy drizzle and no one was bothered by it. We sang together, they laughed at the right moments and then the story drew to a close. Just as the story ended, dark clouds burst forth a light rain and we all ran for cover. My daughters jumped into action and covered my equipment, took my instrument and led me to a nearby dry room.

It is an odd feeling seeing people you’ve had to tell; “hey wipe that food off of your nose or stop kicking your brother!” think, function and move as adults. Like I said, odd yes, but good.

My granddaughter was the honorary cloud watcher. Every time the clouds would clear up and the rain subsided, her job was to come and let me know. I wasn’t about to be deterred by a little water. Each time the rain would stop, she would rush in and alert us. “Grandpa, grandpa it’s stopped raining, come tell more stories!” I was enjoying her so much. We would then race outside to the performance area and I’ start up again.

It felt like the rain was knowingly teasing me. It would start and stop almost on cue. There was one moment it didn’t cooperate though.

I had just begun maybe my 3^rd or 4^th performance when it began drizzling again. No big deal right? Well people were gathering as usual, it was becoming a large crowd. Our song was getting stronger and louder. Even the faire’s town crier came by and shouted out to the rafters that some “amazing” storytelling was going on. By the way, I really really got a kick out of that!

So… we’re all gathered outside in our little storytelling community, which was continually growing and growing as the music and singing kept going. Midway into my tale, a torrential mess of water began pummeling us from above!

I was caught off guard and didn’t quite know what to do, so I just kept telling my story. Did I mention it was pouring down rain? Oh, ok, I thought so.

Water is pouring down my face, soaking my clothing and my feet are becoming submerged in a puddle of mud when I notice something. This was such an awesome thing to witness from my vantage point. No one, I mean not a single solitary soul was moving. Everyone was standing in the rain with me, not moving a muscle and listening to the tale.

At that moment I felt a warmth of human emotion and pride in everyone standing out there in the rain with me that can only be summed up as euphoric.

You might think that this is where our tale of human kindness ends but no, it doesn’t.

As I was sitting there telling my story and contemplating building an ark, my eldest daughter walks across the grounds, in front of the audience and holds an umbrella over me.

I wanted to stop my performance and jump up, grab her and give her the tightest hug of her life.

I don’t know how many people will understand this but, as parents, there are signposts on the roads of our lives. These ephemeral, subtle signs have a way of affirming our roles as parents; they let us know that we’ve contributed something to the lives of our children that has taken root.

I looked at my granddaughter’s face and eyes as her mother stood over me holding the umbrella and just felt like crying tears of joy. My granddaughter had this look of pride on her face over what she was seeing her mother do. Wow, it does something to my heart just thinking about it right now.

I altered the tale so that I could end it sooner and get everyone out of the rain.

When my tale ended, our little storytelling community scattered to the four directions to escape the downpour.

That day, my participation in the 27^th Annual Elves’ Faire gave me a gift that cannot be quantified or explained in words. It gave me memories that I will cherish and carry with me for the rest of my life.

The proprietor, Michelle, made sure that we each were situated comfortably.

I had a lot of work to do so I retired from the group early and went to my room.

The next morning I woke thinking about how fast paced this trip had been and the things I wish I had gotten to do. I was having a few minuscule regrets but this is typical when travel involves work.

Three of the storytellers headed to the airport early in the morning and I made sure to get up to see them off; Jeeva of India, Namsa and Zowda of South Africa. It was truly a blessing crossing their paths and sharing time with each of them.

After seeing them off, I had another four hours before I had to head to the airport. I guess that Michelle, the owner of the B & B could see something in my eyes because, during a conversation, she volunteered to show me around Kingston.

That got my blood flowing. There was only one place that I really needed to get to and that was the National Heroes Park where the body of The Honorable Marcus Mosiah Garvey lay in rest. It actually broke my heart somewhat to know that I had come so far and would be leaving Jamaica without paying respects to the memory of this great man.

Michelle offering me this opportunity re-energized me. I had my shoes on in a flash and camera in hand. I was not about to miss this opportunity.

We made it to National Heroes Park and Michelle gave me instructions on where Garvey’s memorial was located. It was 1964 that Garvey’s body was brought back to Jamaica from England and interred in this National site.

I will admit to having poked fun at people who visit gravesites of famous people and here I was doing pretty much the same thing. But for me Marcus Garvey is no ordinary hero, he is a symbol of perseverance and pride.

I took pictures, sat for a while and walked around his memorial. It was an experience more than 30 years in the making. I learned of Marcus Garvey as a child, studied him as a young man and came to respect his struggle from a more mature vantage point as I aged.

Following the visit to National Heroes Park, Michelle drove through Kingston and was the perfect tour guide, blending history with little known facts and humorous anecdotes.

We made it back to the B & B just in time to catch the taxi for the airport.

Once at the airport I began to decompress and reflect on my experience.

While boarding the plane, I experienced one of those slight, dull pains to the heart that occur when you are leaving your family and beginning a long journey. I was returning to the U.S but the people of Jamaica had made me feeling as though I was leaving home.

The storytellers involved in the festival have been phenomenal. Being a cultural artist can be challenging, both mentally and spiritually, at times. There are moments when you begin to feel as though you are working in isolation, far from the voice of like-minded souls. Conferences such as these pull you back into the warmth of community.

My participation in the festival closed out with festivities at Seville Heritage Park. When our group arrived, I had the feeling that I was entering a historical landmark long before seeing any signs of it. The acreage of the park was lush and green. Along the drive into the park we encountered the rubble of old stone structures, an enormous furnace and various small wildlife.

As we gathered for the opening of the day, Amina introduced us to the story of the bodies of three Africans that had been found during an archeological dig on the site. One of the bodies, that of a young woman, remains buried on the grounds of the Seville House. The locals affectionately refer to her as “Christi.” Part of the plaque on her memorial reads “Tribute to our African Ancestors: God Bless Their Souls.”

The festival activities for the day kicked off in typical Jamaican fashion with music and dancing. In the beginning, there was only one man demonstrating traditional Jamaican moves. Without invitation, two beautiful little girls jumped from their seats and started dancing together.  They were well rehearsed. I love watching children in their natural, uninhibited play. It reminds me of how much we lose as adults through our trials of “growth” and “maturing.”

Not one to be outdone by any child, I bolted from my seat and ran towards the front of the tent where a group of students sat from a local elementary school. “I need someone to teach me some dance steps!” I shouted above the music excitedly. They all laughed as I started imitating some of the moves I’ve seen. I was hoping one of them would take pity on an old man and guide me in the right direction. One brave little girl’s hand shot up high into the sky and she darted from around her peers with a big, bright smile on her face. She’s the one pictured in this blog post.

She grabbed my hand with confidence and said, “Look me!” She then started dancing. I did my best to imitate the moves and I think I was doing all right.  Her bravery inspired many others to want to jump up and help me out but I remained faithful to my dance partner. It reminded me of dancing with my daughters and granddaughter. Being lost in that moment of joy was a highlight of this trip. If there was any ice to be broken among the assembled crowd, then it was indeed shattered during our collective singing and dancing.

When the music ended, I thanked the fearless young lady for her bravery and willingness to help an “old man” learn something new.

During the rest of the festival we facilitated workshops, ate together, laughed, and, in between all of that, we shared stories.

Possibly the most touching experience for me came during a break. There was popcorn being served and I love popcorn! I went and got two bags. Yes two bags! I’m a grown man and they were serving this popcorn in little “kid-size” bags. No human being alive can, reasonably, be expected to eat only a few handfuls of popcorn.

Anyway, I grabbed my two bags of popcorn and headed off to a spot for solitary contemplation before having to get back into the swing of the excitement of the festival. I tend to need time to be in my own head during the day.

So… I found the perfect spot. A beautiful patch of grass where dozens upon dozens of butterflies were flittering around brightly colored orange and yellow flowers. My little patch of seclusion ran adjacent to a little trench. I kicked my sandals off, sat down and dangled my feet over the edge to prepare for nature’s delicacy of fresh popped popcorn.

As I sat there munching, about 15 to 20 children started running in my direction. Have you ever seen a mass of birds flying in the sky and they all, without a sound or visible signal, alter their direction midflight? This is what I saw with this group of children. I don’t think any of them said anything to one another; they all just started running in my direction simultaneously.

I was pelted with questions, “Where you from storyman?” “Why you take them shoes off ya feet out here storyman?”

Their comfort level was very high with me. That always feels good. I engaged them as the father and grandfather that I am. I pelted them back with questions. “Which one of ya’ll is a storyteller?” “Who is the fastest runner here?”

The lack of organization in our discourse was so much fun!

As I sat there munching on my 1^st bag of popcorn, I became acutely aware of the fact that I had two bags. I began to have that gnawing pain of consciousness that plagues my daily existence and I asked myself, “Are you really going to sit here and eat both bags of popcorn in front of these children?” I’m not going to lie; there was a side of me that seriously considered not sharing. That was some good popcorn! But you know me and you know I couldn’t do that.

I had them share the second bag and, although it was not a huge amount of popcorn, they managed to distribute it evenly and share in a manner that international governments could learn a lesson from.

The music started back up and that was our signal to return to the tent. Walking across the field with the children was fun. They were like little bees buzzing around honey. I think we could have sat out there for the rest of the day and held our own little festival-conference.

Throughout the rest of the day there was a blending of soulful energies and joy that cannot be put into words. The musicians and tellers from Jamaica floored me. They all represented their culture with such flare and style.

As we closed out the day I became a bit sad. I had to head over to our van that was taking half of us back to Kingston for our flights the next day. I took my time before entering the van to make sure that I looked each and every soul in the eye.

The drive back to Kingston was long and quiet. I think we were all exhausted. Occasionally we would run out of paved road. The rocking and tilting of our van on the uneven surfaces would jolt everyone wide-awake. We would remain awake until our van touched paved road again. In between the periods of silence, there was wonderful conversation.

I think this is what I’m going to miss most about Jamaica, those brief moments between planned activities and agendas when we would just sit and talk.

I have about sixteen hours left in Jamaica. I’m going to sleep but, while in Kingston, there are a few things that I “must” do before heading back to the US.

The school is packed and there isn’t any space that is going unused. The staff and students made me feel more than welcomed. We even had a chance to sit in the principal’s office and, even though he was extremely busy, he made time for us.

I think the thing the moved me the most at the school was the flag raising ceremony. The three students who conducted the flag raising ceremony did it with such dignity and flare well beyond their young years.

Following my presentation at Marcus Garvey Technical School I was rushed over to the Ocho Rios Baptist Church and arrived just in time to do a phone interview. My interviewer was none other than DJ Amber of IRIE FM Radio.. I wanted to call her the “Conscious DJ” after spending a few minutes speaking to her. She definitely has her finger on the pulse of the community.

Listen to the full interview here: Download audio file (IRIE-FM_interview-11-22-2012.mp3)

It was nice being recognized for the work that I’ve put in for the craft of storytelling and my work in communities around the world. As I’m getting older I’m not finding the need for validation any longer like I did in my younger years. The daily, sometimes hourly affirmations from the universe are more than enough.

The festival’s organizer and inspiration, Amina Blackwood-Meeks, is a tireless soul. I don’t even think this woman sleeps! She has two brilliant young women, both named Stephanie by her side who, I believe, could possibly run a small country on their own without any assistance.

If I had to get a little selfish and say what the highlight of my day was then I’d have to say “coconuts.” Yes “coconuts.” I ate almost two coconuts on my own. I’m not proud of how that might make me look but ya’ll got to understand, these Jamaican coconuts were sweet, fresh and filling.

All of a sudden, I’m hungry again. Tomorrow morning we head to Seville Heritage Park, one of Jamaica’s most celebrated cultural heritage sites. Some believe that the land of Seville Heritage Park is the birthplace of modern Jamaica.

I can’t wait! I expect the level of intensity not to subside. This conference has been one non-stop adrenaline rush. I’ll sleep when I get back to the states but, for now, there’s work here to be done in Jamaica. I got stories to tell and people to hug!

I felt like I was prepared. I had done an excessive amount of due diligence and felt I could do this paper in my sleep, and the way I was feeling after the late drive across the country was quickly making that a possibility. Knowing your prepared doesn’t prevent you from battling with your own thoughts.

The title of my paper is “Storytelling as Technology: A Culturally Centered Approach to Techniques for Progressive Instruction with an Emphasis on Global Learning.” Here’s a link to the entire paper.

If you’d like, you can download the entire paper here as a pdf.

The morning started with the a good breakfast but the incessant, nagging thoughts about presenting my paper kept me from fully enjoying it.

It’s funny looking back now as I type this blog from my hotel room. There I was this morning sitting across from one of the most amazing ocean views that the island of Jamaica has to offer and all I could think about was the structure of my presentation. Instead of listening to the birds chirping above my head during breakfast, I was focused on whether or not I had completed enough analysis of each of the issues covered in my paper.

Ok… let me fast forward.

This section of the conference was being held at The Ocho Rios Baptist Church, in their community room. There were two schools invited to attend, one college and one high school. I was very pleased with the number of people present, especially those from the college because they were all young people working towards their degrees in education.

I sat at the back of the room as each of the presenters scheduled before me went up. My nervousness subsided but it was replaced by a concern for the attendees. They had been sitting for a long while and the majority of them were young.

I made a quick, command decision to discard every bit of my well-honed presentation and replace it with something that might be more engaging for the audience.

I have to admit that it hurt throwing out the presentation I had painstakingly labored over for hours, days and months. Yes, it actually hurt my heart but I know that I must “speak to each according to her ability to understand.” This was not the audience for a purely academic rant on the virtues of my cutting edge dialectics.

I switched gears and engaged them in the art form of my paper, Jaliyaa. We sang, I danced, they laughed, we chanted and then we got comfortable enough for my story to begin. I demonstrated how the ancient West African craft of Jaliyaa fuses movement, music and narrative into an entertaining, but educational presentation.

By the time I ended I was very pleased with the decision to change up the presentation of my paper and tailor what I did to the audience that was present.

When I stepped outside I was affirmed by a large group of aspiring educators who followed me out the door. It was a gift to see the smiles on their faces and feel their enthusiasm for what I had just done. These young people were excited and the fact that I had something to do with creating that excitement had me feeling re-energized.

This was a scholarly and brilliant collection of young people. They pelted me with challenging questions and enlightening insights. It was a joy for me to introduce them to Walter Rodney and engage them about Marcus Garvey. I could not have dreamed up a better collection of kindred spirits if I had tried.

Once again, hugs galore, pictures taken all around with everyone and I even had some of them asking me for my autograph. Sometimes I wonder when I get this kind of treatment, “Do I really need to return to the United States?”

When the conference closed for the day I wasn’t ready to leave. The youth continued engaging me as other adults were trying to pull them away to their bus.

I don’t know how many careers there are that are as affirming as mine, but I thank the young men and women I met today in Jamaica for a day filled with positivity.

There was one thing that made me pause and take notice. The young men and women kept responding to me with, “No sir,” or “Yes sir.” It was like taking a time machine back to when I was a kid and we didn’t dare attempt to treat adults as equals. I thought this type of behavior was a relic of an ancient past. I have to admit, I rather enjoyed that level of respect. Thank you Jamaica! You are doing an absolutely amazing job with these children.

After my workshop, I had a brief “introductory” performance on an outdoor stage. Many people, mostly Jamaicans, had been telling Ananse Tales. Anyone who knows anything about Jamaica knows that, other than Ghana West Africa, they own Ananse Tale (Lock, Stock and Barrel). It would take a guy with lot of moxy to get up in front of a large community of Jamaicans and tell an Ananse story.

Do you know what type of tale I told?

Yeah… I guess I’m that guy… LOL.

Anyway I told a short Ananse tale and it was well received. There was laughter where laughter was necessary. There was rapt attention from the youngest in the crowd and the resounding applause was all I needed to affirm my choice of tales.

I think I hugged and shook hands with more people in this one day than I have in the last year.

If I may be allowed to generalize for a moment, “Jamaicans are chill!” The mood and temperament here remind me so much of Africa that I’m starting to question if I’m really in the Caribbean.

We headed out from Kingston and took a bus to Ocho Rios. We just got in about 10 minutes ago and I whipped out my laptop to blog as promised. It is after midnight and I’ve got to be up and out of here early.

Stay tuned. More exciting adventures of BABA THE STORYTELLER (all caps was meant to sound like one of those cool echoes that major movie stars get when their names are said in theaters) coming your way.

When I left Los Angeles this morning there was a familiarity with the environment that I take for granted. Exiting the airport here in Kingston Jamaica through me back to a feeling of West Africa. The evening heat and humidity, the cluster of people waiting outside felt familiar. There were competing sounds of car stereos, laughter and various people trying to get their hustle-on. All of this had me feeling a little nostalgic for Senegal and Mali.

Travel, thus far, has been the smoothest I’ve experienced in years. Maybe I’m becoming a much more seasoned traveler or maybe I’m just getting old, but I like it.

The hotel, The Spanish Court Hotel, is beautiful and the staff have obviously been trained in the nuances of customer services. I haven’t seen a single person without a smile yet. Although I don’t drink it was still nice to be greeted in the lobby with a tall glass of champagne.

It’s 11:00 pm here and I’ve got to be up early for the opening day of the Conference-Festival. I’ll make sure to keep blogging each day of the conference so make sure to be looking out for it.

When most people think of traveling to Jamaica they dream of the country’s beaches, scenic landscapes and Bob Marley. When I think about visiting Jamaica I think about cow horns, Maroon Societies, Marcus Garvey and Walter Rodney.

I am looking forward to communing with like minded intellectuals, celebrations of ancestry and listening to enlightening minds speak. I am hoping to learn something from each and ever soul that I cross paths with, whether they be the cab driver, government diplomat or children.

As usual, when I travel, I’ll make sure to blog each day from the conference.

I appreciate each and everyone of you who have followed me on these treks around the globe.

This was one of the most fulfilling experiences I’ve had in a while. Not only were the fathers receptive but the mothers present were as well.

Anytime I have an opportunity to gather with other men, fathers, and grandfathers… I jump at the chance. That type of work rarely pays big dividends financially but the intrinsic rewards are beyond measure.

This gathering reminded why I love my work so much.

Anyway… I was working with this group of 11 and 12 year olds and decided to share with them the story of Malala Yousafzai, the 15-year-old Pakistani child whose life was nearly taken by an assassin because of her impassioned advocacy for the education of young girls.

I was speaking to my students about being vocal, standing up for what they believe and releasing fear. I was attempting to put their lessons on public presentation in perspective. I wanted Malala’s plight to inspire them as it has me and so I spoke with conviction and passion.

After letting them know that Malala had been shot a few weeks ago, on October 9th, their eyes grew wide. I felt that I had finally gotten them to a point of immersive listening, they were with me and, I believed, we were sharing a path of compassion for Malala’s desperate plight. In no way shape, or form, was I ready for what occurred next.

Many of the children’s hands shot up in the air, anxious to ask questions. I was excited! They were finally completely engaged!

Here are samples of questions they began to blurt out in their excitement, and this is what made my heart sink as I stood before them:

“Where did they shoot her… leg, arms, head… where?”

“Did she die fast or slow?”

“Was there a lot of blood?”

“Is it on video?”

“Did they shoot her with a machine gun or pistol?”

It is typical for youth to blurt out when they get excited. I’m used to managing the classroom when this happens, but I wasn’t prepared for the macabre nature in the tone of their questioning.

I caught the eyes of one of my little boys as he asked, “Was it in her head, did they shoot her in the head?”

He was looking right at me, and the thing that knocked me off balance was that he had a wide, almost deliriously happy smile on his face. I couldn’t avert my stare away from him. I stood there for, what had to be a few minutes, staring into his face. He didn’t look away. He wanted his question answered and he had a level of excitation in his desire to know that left me feeling a sort of queasy.

I didn’t answer his question. I looked away at other students and continued the discussion but nothing felt right from that point on. There felt like, to me, a ghoulish interest in wanting to know the details of her experience. I re-directed our discussion to where I thought we should head. I realized that there were few in the class that shared my compassion for Malala’s plight, they were more interested the gory details of her attack.

Yes, I did ask questions of them. Deep, penetrating questions but these led even closer to despondency with their reactions and answers.

I tried not to let them know that I was disturbed and used the rest of my class time with them to talk about traits of character such as compassion and empathy. This wasn’t the direction that I had planned for our discussion to go, but it is where we ended up. It is what was needed in the moment and I had to be willing to adapt to meet their immediate needs.

I’ve spoken to a few others about this issue. The consensus seems to be that “our” youth have become desensitized to violence, that they have been inoculated against realizing the horror experienced by others.

Is it just me, or is there something incredibly disturbing about the reaction these children had to Malala’s pain?

Each evening I returned disappointed. The compound’s cook and her son were always there to greet me with a warm plate and equally warm smiles. I was a mess. Each evening I would complain anyone willing to listen about my hollow quest to find an elder willing to take me under his/her tutelage.

Each morning, as I was gathered my things to depart the compound; the cook’s four-year old son, was always on my heels, shadowing me. His name was Bassi Traoré and shadowing/observing me had become his favorite pastime. Each day Bassi would follow me as far as he knew his mother would tolerate. He could be found sitting outside the door of my room waiting for me to wake every morning. Bassi would even go as far as waiting for me whenever I disappeared behind the door of the latrine. No matter how hard I tried, I could not shake this determined toddler. Each day, when I had traveled to the edges of N’tomikorobougou I would send him back to the compound, sad faced and looking dejected.

One morning, young Bassi had an angry, determined look on his face when I exited me room. There he was sitting on the ground right outside of my room, arms crossed, legs folded.

“Baba,” he blurted out, “why you no ask me for story?”

This four year old was gutsy. His countenance and demeanor made me laugh a little. I had no answer for him and so I asked, “Bassi would you like to tell me a story?”

He shook his head up and down strongly and, without a moment’s hesitation launched into one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard a child sing. It was the song of a long neck bird enamored with the beauty of a young girl from a village. Bassi interspersed his song with narrative. His singing was beyond his years. It was an astounding display of showmanship and passion.

By the time he finished his tale I was convinced that there was an old soul housed in the body of this young boy.

The epiphany hit me hard. I asked Bassi if he would be my teacher and teach me stories. His smile arched the cheeks of his face hide and wide. I made arrangements with his mother and treated Bassi as I would have any elder by making sure there was some level of reciprocity in our relationship.

From that day forward, Bassi and I were inseparable. I had found my elder, my wise soul to learn from.

It can comical how often we search hither and thither for something that is, and has always been, standing right in front of us from the start.

Pundits on all sides kept chanting mantras such as, “Our children need to be back in school,” or “Where are the children supposed to go with the schools closed?”

I got the sense from most people I heard speak that there is a deep seated assumption that our schools are, basically, child care centers and teachers, simply, over paid care givers. I know that most will not admit that they think this way aloud because we like to believe ourselves enlightened. We don’t even need to debate this as an issue, all one need do is examine our policies and actions, as a society, towards our educational infrastructure.

We, as a society, promulgate a politically correct lip service towards the humane concept of “Education for All.” In our policies and actions, we are on a trajectory towards constructing a national model of education based on the warehousing of our young, not educating them.

We need to begin discussing a shift in our attitudes towards education before every school in this country becomes a place where parents simply drop off their kids while they go to work.

Or are we already there?

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.

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.

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?

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?

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 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?

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?”

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.

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.

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 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.”

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

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 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.

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 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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

The old man was being held up on his right arm by a woman equal his age. She appeared a bit stronger while he actually walked with a limp. These two had climbed the Pyramid of the Sun together without any assistance! It was both a thing of beauty and awe inspiring at the same time.

I lost track of the elderly couple while walking around the top of the pyramid. It is huge. I didn’t see them again until I began my descent down the dangerous steps. They had already begun going down before me. They were about 10 steps down below me and moving at a very slow pace. The steps are uneven and jagged in some areas and I noticed people in a rush crowding the elderly couple, almost trying to make them move faster. There wasn’t much room but some of the impatient philistines found ways to maneuver around them. I was appalled at the behavior of these people and rushed down the steep steps to position myself between the elderly couple and the remainder of the people descending the pyramid. I slowed the crowd behind me and wasn’t allowing anyone to pass. The elderly couple ahead of me were finally making their way down without interruption. I felt good about that.

As we were going down I noticed the old man’s foot slip once and it frightened me so much that I ran down and grabbed his right arm. On his left was his companion and, on his right, me. There were many steps left and the rest of the crowd seemed to get the hint and remained behind us.

It was a slow pace but we finally made it to the bottom of the pyramid. The old man and woman smiled as he said to me, “Gracias Señor.”

As I left the couple I was feeling good about my minimal role in their visit to the pyramids. I smiled to myself as I recalled the motif of tales that have spirits entering our world to interact with human beings, testing us or challenging us to be better. It occurred to me that, in those types of tales, the elderly couple I encountered would have represented a pair of spirits sent to test our humanity.

Be honest with me. Would you have passed the test?

I loved it!

I promised the girls that I would write something about them because, and this was an awakening for me, they actually read my blog! So here’s a little shout out to each of you:

Mikaela thank you so much for writing a comment to me on Facebook.

Aranza you also wrote a comment to me on Facebook and, for that, I am very grateful as well.

Ximena thank you for sharing the story I told you with your brother. I hope he liked it.

Ana you went above and beyond by getting home and telling your mom, grandma and brother the story I shared with you. Oh… and, by the way, tell your mom, the illustrator, that we need to talk :)

Elena you were another gift to me because you shared the story with your mom too. Have your mom “friend me” on Facebook, I’d love to hear her thoughts on the tale.

Claire, in the middle of all the questions and hugs the little group was throwing my way you interrupted and asked, “Would you like a cookie?” Wow! A little girl walking around the playground passing out cookies. That made me so happy.

Lucie I won’t forget you either. You were walking around handing out “toys.” That is awesome. I still have my little turtle you gave me. Thank you.

There was a list of names at the bottom of the paper and on the back who I don’t have references for so I’m justing going to say thank you to Anna, Carolina, Paula, Victoria and Zarah for putting your names on the note.

Each and everyone of you have helped to make my trip to Mexico an absolutely glorious experience.

Thank you.

I haven’t blogged in a few days. I’ve been walking the streets of the Mexico city for hours at a time when not working. Public transportation and walking are great ways to learn a city’s secrets. I have to admit though that Ive been a little anxious about getting back to my hotel to return emails, phone calls, and respond to communications on social networks. My tour manager, Alberto, has helped me to divide my days in half. One half = work and, of course, the other half = enjoyment.

I did have an incident occur a few days ago that I wanted to share with you. My tour manager and I completed work at a school early in the day and headed back to our hotel. When we arrived to the hotel I noticed, as we were exiting the cab, that neither of us had my camera bag.

Time to panic right? We searched the cab and didn’t find it. We assumed that we had left it at the school. There was nowhere else it could be. Since I had to return to the same school the following day it wasn’t an issue.  I found a silver lining for this mishap. Had I managed to bring all of the audio/video equipment back with me, I would have been trapped in my hotel room working. Since I couldn’t work without the equipment I took it as a sign that I needed to just relax. What did I do to relax you may ask? Well, of course, I walked the streets of Mexico City for a few hours.

The next morning when I arrived at the school and inquired about my cameras I discovered that they were not there. They were missing. Time to panic right? I had, literally, no idea where the cameras could be. The school’s administrator went into action searching high and low, calling in the assistance of everyone on campus. The entire school was on alert and searching for my missing cameras.

Here’s my point in writing about this. There was a time, when I was much younger, that I would’ve probably jumped to the assumption that “Someone stole my stuff!” This negative assertion would have been accompanied by a great deal of, self-inflicted, psychological and physiological stress.

The school’s administrator had made my loss a priority and was doing everything humanly possible to bring it to a positive resolution in my favor. When we had a moment to talk, I pulled her aside to speak privately. I let her know that I had no anxiety associated with my loss. There was no one to blame or at fault for whatever might have happened. I told her that if I, the owner of the missing items, was able to put them out of my mind and be at peace, then she should the same.

She wasn’t buying into my Zen theory of loss and continued on her focused mission of recovery.

I was here to share culture, music and time with the students of this campus. I was well aware that the “potential” stress aligned with my missing equipment possessed the power to derail my usual successes. I wasn’t going to allow that to happen, regardless of the circumstances. There is a line in one of my favorite films that I sometimes recall in moments like this. The movie is titled “Daughters of the Dust” and I believe it debuted in the early to mid-90’s. In the film there is a child who has yet to be born speaking in the opening. The child says, “I’m on a spiritual mission but sometimes life gets in the way.” I could be quoting that inaccurately but you get the point.

If I take a step back and examine my reactions to this situation, I have to say that I am really proud of the manner in which I was handling it. The equipment was expensive and yet, I was not feeling any of the turmoil that one typically feels when something like this happens. I chose to celebrate my calm disposition as opposed to fixating on my loss.

I thoroughly enjoyed the first session with the children and didn’t permit any thoughts of loss to disrupt my focus on them and their needs. The second session I felt even more successful and managed to have all of my learners engaged from start to finish.

The students were laughing, smiling and soaking up every word that I spoke. There was nothing else in the world but our time together and whatever we chose to fill it with (music, stories, question/answer, conversation, etc.).

At the end of the second session, while I was releasing the students back to their teachers, the administrator entered from the back of the room. Cradled in her hands was my black bag of camera equipment.

I grabbed her and hugged her with the tightest most sincerely thankful hug I could give. I asked her where she found it. Her answered embarrassed me a bit. It had been left in the cab, she explained, and the cab company brought it back. She, personally, gave them a reward of 500 pesos for returning it. The cab company didn’t want to accept it, they were returning the equipment based on their honor.

It was an ephiphanal moment for me. To leave anything in a cab, anywhere in the world, and have it returned, is nothing short of a miracle. If it had not been for this school’s administrator and staff, I know, with certainty, that I would never have seen my equipment again.

It would be self aggrandizing for me to put forth the premise that my disposition of release, and making the students a priority, helped to create the conditions which allowed for the return of my equipment. My only success is that I never permuted the negative thought of “Someone stole my stuff” to creep into my mind. The bare truth of the matter is that one little tenacious woman, assisted by the staff of the school, refused let the issue rest until they prevailed.

Thank you Frances and all of the staff at Green Gates school for your warmth, hospitality and patience.

Back to the story. Well… I’m at an airport kiosk and I place my newspaper, “La Opinion,” on the counter along with a few decadent snacks that I should not be eating. The woman behind the counter takes the paper off of the counter and tries to replace it with another paper. “You’ve made an error, this paper is in Spanish,” she says to me.

“No, I didn’t make an error, that is the paper I want,” I respond.

“You speak Spanish!” she replies in a tone of astonishment.

I’m not sure why this happens but it happens often enough for me to take notice.

The woman behind the counter began speaking to me in Spanish, and, as we conversed, she asked me where I was from. I said, “Los Angeles,” and began to explain my affinity for languages when she interrupted me. “No,” she says, “I mean where in South America.”

Here’s a synopsis of how the conversation went and this happens more often that you’d believe:

Me:  “I’m from the United States.”

Her:  “No… you’re family, where in South America is you family from?”

I take this as a compliment that a native speaker can’t detect the accent in my speaking. I thoroughly enjoy when this happens. I was finally able to explain to her that I wasn’t a native speaker. She was impressed and her enthusiasm heightened as we spoke. She was from Colombia. We started talking about my last  trip to Colombia, the food, the people, the history, etc. Our conversation went on for awhile until it was interrupted by a long line of clients waiting to make their own purchases. Initially I had been the only person standing at the kiosk. We had both become oblivious to our surroundings and were enjoying our conversation in Spanish so much that we lost track of time. Those moments when we are immersed in exchanges with other human beings, and lose ourselves, are enchanting.

I was finally permitted to purchase my “La Opinion” newspaper and continue on my way after a warm hug from her and a few more words of praise for my Spanish. This sort of exchange occurred with me regularly while I was in Colombia last year.

Whether you’ve established fluency in another language or not, people tend to open themselves up to you more when you make an attempt to engage them in their mother tongue. I can’t tell you the innumerable opportunities that have been presented to me simply because I have made an effort to comprehend, not just the languages of others, but their cultures as well.

When I got on the plane and took my seat, I opened my little bag of “decadence” and found a few extra pieces of imported dark chocolate. Had the kiosk operator put them in there by accident or, was this another, typical, Colombian gesture of kindness?

I prefer to think of it as the magic of language.

A few times I caught myself singing out loud, really loud, while the line moved at a snails pace. I wouldn’t even have noticed if it had not been for the odd looks and stares I was getting from others in line. What is up these days? People don’t sing anymore?

So I’m standing in line, moving slowly, standing some more followed by additional slow movement until, hours later I finally reached the ticket counter and put my iPod away. Hooray! Right?  Well as soon as the ticket agent eyeballed my instrument case and registered a countenance of shock I knew I was about to have trouble.

“You’re going to have to pay extra for that!” he quipped.

“Don’t you want to measure it first?” I asked.

He went on to explain that he had worked for Continental many years and didn’t have to weigh or size “that” oversized/overweight case. He knew.

All I had asked was if he was going to measure it first and that seemed to put him in a defensive posture.

Trouble was “officially” present and I was directly in his crosshairs.

“Please do not try and tell me how to do my job sir!”

I hadn’t even spoken another word and trouble had already grown another foot taller.

At this point, now I was starting to get irritated. My consciousness altering iPod with its tons of tunes was tucked safely away in my pocket and I was feeling the need to whip it out and put the earphones back where they belonged, in my ears. But even the sultry voice of Mary Wells wasn’t about to redirect the path of this, inevitable, collision of male egos.

He sent one of his assistants to measure and weigh my case. The assistant came back with a measurement and, for the first time, I saw a smile grace his face. Immediately I felt the virtual vinyl LP drop onto the turntable of my mind and play an old Temptation’s track “Smiling Faces.” The lyrics danced around in my head, “smiling faces show no traces of the evil that lurks within…”

“Can you dig it?”

Believe it or not I was managing to remain pretty calm. My irritation was subsiding during his soliloquy of rules and regulations, which I was not hearing because, by this time in my head Stevie Wonder was belting out his song entitled “Uptight.”

“Baby everything is alright, uptight, way out’a sight…”

I smiled during his tirade and it must have caught him off guard because his entire disposition changed like maybe he thought he was dealing with a madman or something.

“Do you understand why you must pay?” he asked.

I hadn’t heard a single word he had said. I knew he was functionally fixated on his position. I reminded myself of the old adage, “All the proof in the world will not change the mind of a cynic.”

I gave it the old college try anyway and spoke, “Before leaving Los Angeles I had taken my case to the airport and had it weighed and measured by Continental. I have copies of your website’s baggage policies as well as the names of the Continental agents who verified that the case does not require a fee…”

I was about to take out my copies of paperwork and the copies of Continental’s baggage policies when he interrupted me and said, “You’re taking up time of other passengers, you’re going to have to step aside!”

He was angrier.

I could see that this was going nowhere good.

I breathed in for a second, weighed my options and told him, “Go ahead and charge me what you believe I should pay.”

His head cocked to the side like that old RCA victrola dog. Ah… I had the element of surprise on my side. He was expecting a continued argument and I appeared to be acquiescing. I assure you that I was not giving in.

I, my friends, was practicing the ancient Art of War.

1st rule: Know your opponent.

2nd rule: If you can avoid it, never battle in another man’s land.

There’s more to it but you can read Sun Tzu for yourself if you want.

I smiled again and told him to go ahead and charge me.

He wasn’t speaking. He was just looking at me rather curiously.

I then said, “Excuse me, there are so many people in line behind me and I don’t want to hold them up. Could you please go ahead and process the case?”

He then asked the oddest question, “You do understand that your are going to have to pay?”

I smiled once more and said as simply as I could, “Yes.”

He processed me and I went on my merry way subconsciously humming “War” by Edwin Starr… “What is it good for… absolutely nothing, say it again…”

Here’s what I had reasoned to myself, as the agent’s earlier tirade  played as low decibel background to my thinking.

I knew the policy better than he did. I had researched and was much more informed. I also knew that any errors on his part would need to be corrected by someone of a more accommodating disposition. I, after all, am a patient man (sometimes anyway).

I walked away feeling as though I had just won a battle without fighting. Something between good karma and intuition allowed me to quickly put this incident behind me knowing I would deal with it later.

Following 15 hours of travel from Brazil to Los Angeles, I was finally back. I went and spoke with the Continental baggage claim people who, instantly, verified that I should not have been charged for my case. The agents annotated my record and assured me that the issue would be rectified.

I was so tired at this point I just nodded, said thank you and went home to sleep.

The next day, a bit more energized I headed to Los Angeles International Airport. I don’t live that far from the airport and going there is much quicker than pressing all of those buttons on the phone and getting disconnected before you even get another human being to communicate with.

I got to the airport and made it to the ticket counter in no time flat. The ticket agent advised me a refund had already been issued. Now check this out… he apologized for the other agent!

The agent then handed me a receipt and explained that the refund would be back on my card within 3 to 5 days.

I left feeling really good and, when I got to my car I realized that I had not even looked at the receipt to make sure that they had refunded me the correct amount. The payment I made in Brazil was in their currency, Reais.

I sat in my car and pulled out the receipt. My jaw dropped and my eyes opened wide. It was the amount!

A big, mischievous smile slowly spread across the expanse of my face.

“Don’t let the handshake and the smile fool ya, I’m only trying to school ya… Smilin faces, smiling faces…”

The school I just left, not more than an hour ago is called Lycée Pasteur. It is a French school based in São Paulo. “All” of the students are fluent in French. I was amazed at the level of fluency each and every child demonstrated. Our guide at the school explained that the majority of the children who attend Lycée Pasteur begin in preschool together and continue all the way through their high school graduation as one class. Impressive.

I performed for two groups of 11 and 12 year olds today. I had such an amazing time! The children were warm, inviting and so receptive.

I had a chance to not feel like a complete failure linguistically here in Brazil because I was able to communicate in French with the students.

While I was performing for the second group of children, I couldn’t help but to notice a young girl who kept mimicking my movements. I have a tendency to appear to dance when I tell stories. Ah… who am I kidding? I love animating words and emotions and it comes so naturally that I dance while telling tales, and I love it! Every small gesture and movement I made, the young girl was right there with me. She was seated all the way in the back row, but I noticed here easily. I was intrigued because she didn’t appear to be joking, she was actually enjoying my unrehearsed choreography.

When the session ended, before dismissing the children, I made a point of letting her know that I was aware of her copying “my style.” Everyone laughed. I pointed directly at here and the sea of children parted because they knew who I was talking about. I said to her in front of the entire group, “You like the way I move don’t you?”

The child nodded in affirmation and then I put out a challenge, “Come dance with me then!”

I was surprised when the little girl jumped from her seat in the back row, navigated past her peers and was standing before me in no time flat.

What was I going to do? I just knew she would refuse. Well… I am no coward so I did what any man would do.

I took her hand into mine, placed her other hand on my shoulder and instructed the audience to sing a song that I had taught them earlier.

I wish I could remember her name. This child’s courage was inspirational. Not only was she dancing with me but she was clearly able to enjoy herself in front of more than 70 or so of her peers. I love children like this, they remind me of why I do what I do.

When we ended our little ballet I made sure to end with a dip. She loved it, I loved it, the entire group loved it!

As she returned to her seat, her peers cheered and applauded her loudly.

Then I dismissed the children they came running down the lecture hall from their chairs straight at me. It was a sea of excited adolescence careening straight for me. There was hugs and hand shakes happening all over the place. I must have done my job well because there didn’t appear to be a single soul in the auditorium who wasn’t offering some gesture of appreciation.

This was a wonderful way to end my tour here in Brazil.

While cruising around Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo I noticed that much of their graffiti seemed much like the graffiti of the late 70’s and 80’s in urban areas of the United States. I’m continually noticing similarities between Brazil and the United States of 20 to 30 years ago, not just in graffiti.

Graffiti as art makes statements both social and political. I found some amazing graffiti in Rio and São Paulo. I’m thinking of putting a slideshow together of just the graffiti artwork that I’ve taken pictures of. Bogota and Cali in Colombia had some really dynamic stuff as well.

I’m often asked how I’ve learned so much, so fast about places I travel and languages. There are two methods of immersion that I use. Before traveling, I read, research, view documentaries and inundate my brain with more than is humanly possible to “outwardly” retain. Secondly, when I get to another country I “hit-the-streets.” You won’t learn anything about the people sitting in your comfortable hotel room watching television.

I wasn’t able to hit the streets in Brazil as much as I would have liked. I had schedules to maintain and performances to prepare for, but the graffiti gave me a gift of sight that I otherwise would not have received.

I can remember when graffiti artists were the scourge of big urban centers in the United States. Now, when I travel, I see whole governments and businesses setting aside funds to patronize these artists by giving them wall spaces they would have had to sneak in and paint in the dark of the night 30 years ago.

I’ve got to get ready to head to another school. Today is my final day in Brazil. I’ve got a 3 day break back in the U.S. and then I head to Mexico.

I’ll try to get back and update as soon as I can.

Early in the day, with rain falling heavily and the scent of São Paulo’s air absolutely satiating the senses, I contemplated canceling my attendance. The thought of staying in my room and relaxing or doing some reading while the rain beat against my 11th story window was very seductive.

I have a thing about commitments though. It disturbs my sensibilities when people do not keep their word and I don’t ever want to be anyone’s hypocrite. Although vacillating in my decision to attend or not, I knew that I would go regardless of how I felt. I value my word above all else.

When we arrived at Patrick and Teresa’s house it was a beautiful, meticulously landscaped, home. Teresa welcomed us and apologized for the jungle that she had created on her front terrace, but I loved it.

We entered and I met her husband Patrick, a journalist who is very gentle and accommodating. Patrick introduced me to the man I had come to meet, Geraldo Tartaruga (Tartaruga means turtle and it is a named he earned in his youth).

We all sat around a dinner table in the kitchen and talked while Teresa prepared the meal. It felt like a moment out of one of the old black and white movies, reminding me of a time when people gathered just for the sake of being together. There was no television, no radio and the conversation flowed like a steady stream.

Geraldo spun off about 7 to 10 stories in a row with ease, each as entertaining and enlightening as the last. Patrick chimed in wanting me to share and, of course, I did. I reached deep into my repertoire and offered a few tales I had learned while in Mali that I’ve never told publicly. Geraldo seemed as delighted with my tales as I was enchanted by his. He and I went back and forth a few times trading tales between conversations as topics changed. It was an extremely enriching experience.

I noticed that, while we were all enjoying our free-flowing conversation, Teresa was busy cutting, chopping and cooking in the background. I was noticing a universal theme being played out here as I watched her glide across  the floor between the sink and the oven and then the oven to the cupboards. The person who usually does all of the work, the cooking, no matter where I’ve traveled in the world, always seems to fade into the background of  whatever is going on around them. I felt the need to bring Teresa into the fold. I interrupted our conversation and asked Teresa if I could take a few pictures of her cooking and the food as it was being prepared. I’ve done this before when in Africa and Teresa was just as pleased and receptive as any of my hosts have been there. She smiled and posed near the oven as I explained to everyone that her role as preparer of our meal was an ancient sacred gesture that sometimes gets taken for granted. I didn’t want to take Teresa or her cooking for granted. There’s a proverb out of Mali that says, “the kitchen was born before the mosque.” I wanted to honor Teresa and, hopefully, I did.

Another two guests arrived as we were sitting in the kitchen talking, Henry and Kazuyo. I would find out later that Kazuyo has been teaching for over 40 years. 40 years of teaching! I was honored to be in her presence.

Teresa served the most amazing meal. The talking and storytelling continued even while we ate. We were definitely a menagerie of conversationalists.

It was getting late and my tour manager, in the most gentle tone ever, requested that I play a little Kora for everyone before we had to leave.

We all adjourned to the living room. Doesn’t that sound kind of 1940’ish, “we adjourned to the living room?” But that is exactly how it felt and what we did.

I was going to do my best to pay for Teresa’s beautifully prepared meal and her husband’s overwhelming hospitality with my music.

As it was getting late, Jana reminded me that we did not have much time before we needed to be leaving. I was able to play two songs for the group, sing a little and share a few proverbs before I resigned myself to my schedule. As I was putting the Kora away, the doorbell rang. It was Rinata, stunningly gorgeous Rinata, Henry’s girlfriend. She entered the room and gave hugs and kisses to everyone before taking a seat. I believe Jana was busy calling us a cab when I noticed Geraldo was trying to get my attention.

Patrick translated for me. Geraldo wanted one more song before I left, he was almost demanding it.

I smiled because I knew what he was doing. I couldn’t resist and told the crowd that I was going to read Geraldo’s mind and tell everyone what he was thinking. A gamble on my part? Yes, but it was fun.

I explained that Geraldo had the largest heart of anyone in the room and that he was not interested in the least in hearing another song. I exposed Geraldo for the romantic he truly was by telling everyone that he was requesting the song, not for himself, but for the beautiful Rinata.

A nice laugh and big smile burst though Geraldo’s lips as he nodded in affirmation.

I played one more song and, as I was playing, a torrent was released from the sky beating down on Teresa and Patrick’s home loudly. It was such an intimate setting. I let Rinata know that I would sing a song to her, for her, but it was a gift from Geraldo.

The room felt energetic in a way that is difficult to describe. It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t a tumultuous type of energy. It was calm and peaceful yet very powerful.

When I ended the song I could hear everyone exhaling. It was a thing of beauty to witness.

I explained to Rinata that she was now obligated to give her hero, Geraldo, a kiss on the check to thank him for thinking of her.

Jana and I were about to step out into the rain to catch a cab down the street when Kazuyo stepped in. She offered to return us to our hotel and refused to have it any other way. She wanted to be the one to take us back to our hotel.

We departed everyone with hugs and kisses. While in Kazuyo’s car she let me know, in all sincerity, that she was trying to figure out a way to compensate me for the song and music that touched her heart. She told me that driving us was a small bit of compensation for what she had received.

My heart was touched once again here in São Paulo, and, as I sit in my room preparing for tomorrow’s performances I can’t help but to feel that something magical happened to me this evening.

Permit me to set the scene for you. My tour manager, Jana, and I were heading to, what I believed to be, a Samba Dance School. I was very excited until our taxi turned down a very questionable street. You know the type of street that you might peer down into from the main boulevard but never enter? One of those streets that seems to tell its own tale of “nothing good ever happens here, go the other way.” So instead of going the other way, we turned down the street to find the “Samba School.”

I believe I lost my illusion that I was entering a school when the door man demanded to pat me down and search my belongings. Hmmm… I said to myself, this is not like any school that I’ve ever attended. It was easy to see that the disheveled building was a gathering place of some sort.

As I entered I had this really nostalgic feeling that I was entering some place familiar. I was. This place was the Brazilian equivalent of a “Juke Joint!” Alright I know I’m telling on myself, and my history, a little bit but I don’t have any other way to set the scene for you. Kind of dark, a little musty, and the smell of fried food and alcohol permeating the air. There was a solo musician on stage seated playing his guitar and singing to an almost empty house. We were early and had our pick of tables.

It seems there’s a rhythm to how these clubs function and they are as ubiquitous as churches. Most of the clubs open for lunch around noon or so. People from the community gather to eat and meet. Around 4 pm, the band takes the stage and then… Samba!

As we were ordering food and water (I don’t drink and this seems to really freak everyone out when I travel so I try not to mention it), people were coming in and claiming tables. Apparently people send others in advance as a form of reconnaissance table procuring because the clubs get really crowded. Watching the door was so entertaining that I could have come to the club just for that. I watched as a woman walked in with her infant child swaddled. A few elderly women, who must have, at least, been in their 70’s entered dressed to kill and already had their hips swaying to the playing rhythms. At one point an entire family of about 12 people walked in together. There were children, teens, elders, and everything in between. There was something familiar about the scene as I watched people who looked like my own family members take their places in different sections of the club.

Our host arrived with a friend and we ate, talked and laughed a bit. I was really enjoying the mellow mood and then the clock struck 4 pm. The band ascended the stage and, within seconds, the music was pumped up a notch in energy and volume. It was Samba time!

There was a dance floor but it seemed that people just danced everywhere, between tables, near the steps, back against the walls, everywhere. The mood was infectious.

I’ve never been one to hold up the walls so I hit the floor as soon as everybody else. Did I know how to dance Samba? Well… no, but why should that stop me. While on the floor I was being taught a few simple moves. There were arms swinging and legs flailing everywhere but no one was in danger of being hurt. There was a grace in the chaos of movement that made it safe to experiment with my new Samba moves. I don’t even know how I did, I really didn’t care. I just enjoyed the mood of the place. I kept my mouth closed and didn’t talk to too many people. It seemed, and this was told to me by a Brazilian, that I fit right into the demographic as long as I wasn’t saying anything. I was warned that, if the women knew I was a foreigner, I would be swarmed. Now that might be nice for you younger single guys but I’m chill, I like to take it slow and easy. That’s what happens you cross the mid-40 bridge.

I danced and danced some more before my legs started cursing at me, and loudly too. Samba is muscle intensive and if you are not in shape be very careful about how far you take yourself with the dance.

The place began to get hot and the smell of alcohol far outweighed the grease burning meat in the back. It was time for me to go.
I have an intuitive sense of when to make my exits (It’s a southern Juke Joint thing, some of ya’ll will understand and some won’t).

We made our way back to the hotel. I entered my room and collapsed on my bed.

If you were wondering why the blog was a little late getting out, well now you know.

Blame it on the Samba!

Clara, my contact, was asking if I’d return to meet with their 7th grade classes. The 7th graders, much like the 7th graders in California, have West Africa as part of their curriculum and, in particular, griots.

I returned to the Lorenço Castanho love fest once again and was not disappointed. The 7th graders were equally as warm and endearing as their 9th grade counterparts. I loved their questions about music’s affect on the mind and body. Who would have expected 7th graders to ask such questions? Their laughter left me feeling accomplished and their focus on my words was so affirming.

After I completed the performance I made sure to spend enough time taking pictures with the students, laughing and talking. I think I disrupted the class schedule again but no one seemed to mind. There is something really special happening in that school and the entire staff and student body seem quite aware of it. I wish it was something I could manufacture and distribute.

I had to leave the school a bit earlier than the previous day, at the conclusion of my performance, because my tour manager and one of the teachers at the school had arranged a private tour for me of the Afro-Brazilian Museum.

Yes, a private tour! Me! VIP treatment? Wow!

Once at the museum my tour manager and I were greeted by our host, Renato. This young man was an exceptional docent as he escorted us through the museum. His knowledge of history, art, and religion was impressive. He freely shared legends, tales and history related to Afro-Brazilian culture. As an added benefit my tour manager, Jana, was equally knowledgeable about the art and artifacts in the museum. I could not have dreamed of a better scenario for myself, two Brazilians in love with their history and culture focused on my learning about it. Each of them was so gentle and patient in sharing their impressions throughout the exhibit that I forgot to turn on my audio recorder. I was so immersed in the tales and history that I walked around in an anticipatory haze waiting for the next tale or tidbit of information.

As Renato was explaining a section of the exhibit to me, we were interrupted by a young teenage boy. He approached me, timidly, and said, “Excuse me sir do you mind if I ask who you are?”

I wasn’t sure what had attracted his attention. Maybe it was the two piece kaftan I was wearing or the fact that I had a private guided tour. I wasn’t sure.

The young man wanted to know who I was and where I was from. He was with a school touring the museum and, apparently, I had, somehow, attracted their attention. Before I knew it the entire group were standing around me while a few of them asked questions. It was a surreal moment, if you can imagine. I told them that I was a storyteller and musician and that I was visiting schools here in São Paulo. I sang a little for them (you know I had to right?). I spoke a little about history and culture. They were listening! They were actually listening and taking it “all” in! What an absolutely amazing feeling. I was standing before a group of about 20 to 30 teenagers who were hanging on my every word and I was loving every second of it. The best part? A beautiful young girl with the most alluring Portuguese-English accent looked me in my eyes and said, “I love you.” Out of no where she just spoke here heart. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to leave Brazil.

The group was from a school in a city outside of São Paulo called “Americana (really interesting history about this city and its settlement by confederate fleeing the end of the U.S. Civil War… look it up when you get a chance).” The students were asking me if I would please come visit their school. They wanted more stories and singing. They wanted to hear the instrument I showed them a picture of, my Kora.

I don’t think I’m doing the situation justice here, it felt like a Salvador Dali painting brought to life.

It was difficult to pull away from these teens and continue the tour. The student’s chaperones and I exchanged information. I let the two women know that I wasn’t sure if, or when, I might return to Brazil but, if I did, they would definitely be contacted about my performing at their school.

What an amazing experience! An impromptu storytelling session, a little singing, some kisses to the cheek and then possession of a memory that will last a lifetime.

Renato completed our tour of the museum by offering even more enthusiastic revelations and tales. The tour of the museum was very special for me. I’ve never had a private tour of any institution such as this before. It really made me feel appreciative of all the people who have gone out of their way for me since my arrival here in Brazil.

I had to end our time with Renato so that we could get back to the hotel to rest up a bit. Why you may ask?

Well, if you must know, I have a Samba lesson in the morning and I need to be ready. I’m not in my 20’s anymore and these old-bones don’t quite follow orders as quickly as they used to.

Come back tomorrow, maybe I’ll be able to tell you a little something about my Samba adventure (or maybe misadventure depending on if I can get my legs to obey me).

At odds are two trains of thought. On one hand I know that the average person, in any country, is much like the average person in any other country. We all dream, desire and love in similar fashion. If my travels haven’t taught me anything else, they have taught me this. Citizens of most countries are preoccupied with trying to put food not the table, create a better life for their children, and balance the various responsibilities of friends, family and community. On the other hand, there are the political realities of the world that we’re forced to digest even if we would rather not.

Recent events have motivated me to write to my readership and, hopefully, get some feedback from you.

I had made up my mind that I was going to the International Storytelling Festival in Iran next year, 2012, and then, while here in Brazil I was watching the news and heard that a terrorist plot backed by the Iranian Government had been intercepted in the U.S.

Attorney General Holder announced that authorities had foiled a plot by men linked to the Iranian government to kill the Saudi ambassador to the United States and bomb Saudi Arabia’s embassy in Washington. This announcement was followed up by a stout condemnation by Vice President Biden.

I sat in my hotel room thinking about the areas of the world that I’ve traveled. Many places I’ve been aren’t exactly tourist destinations and, part of my purpose for traveling is to offer my friends, family and community back home an alternative perspective on the world. A perspective not filtered through the lens of popular media. I had made up my mind to go to Iran next year because I know the people who’ve invited me and they are genuinely kind-hearted and gentle souls. They have hosted this festival for years now and people from all over the world have attended.

As I sat in my room staring up at the ceiling ceiling thinking about the political repercussions of my travel, the issues of instability due to recent events, the opinions of family and friends, I found myself at a cross roads, unable to gain any moment in thought.

Do you have an opinion?

Over the years, more like decades, I’ve noticed a trend towards people promulgating their personal affairs to the world (i.e. blogging, tweeting, texting, face booking, etc.). what I’m noticing is that the majority of us, without exception, tend to divulge only personal information which we’ve thoroughly screened first; you know, edited out the no-too-flattering details that make us appear less than perfect.

I seemed to have been born in the era of, “Me, me, me… look at me!”

Before you say it, I know, yes… me, a storyteller and performance artist, talking about seeking attention. How ironic right?

Let’s just ignore that little fact for the moment if you don’t mind (Big Smile).

Here’s an idea I’m tossing around in my mind. What if we “all” were to not filter any information that we choose to tell others about ourselves? What if we simply had an all or nothing policy when it came to talking about ourselves with others?

Personally I think there would be a lot less talking in the world and a whole lot more listening.

Let me throw caution to the wind and just give you an example of what I’m talking about.

A few days ago I arrived in São Paulo Brazil. It was a little late in the evening, I hadn’t eaten much, I was tired… you know the situation right?

Confession: My patience grows thin and I tend to get a bit snarky when I’m tired or hungry. I think this is a hold over from childhood that hasn’t quite released its grasp on me yet.

It is a flaw in my characters that I am aware of and working on. As I am always saying, “I am under construction.”

Well we arrived at our hotel and, because I was tired and a little hungry, I began looking around for things to complain about.

Wow, this truth telling thing isn’t easy!

Anyway, I’m searching the lobby, the staff, everything, everywhere for something to complain about. The first thing I am able to grab ahold of is that the entire staff look like teenagers. I have raised teenagers and I would choose not to be placed in their care if at all possible. I love them yes, but I’m not quite sure I want to trust them with my well-being. Finally I had something to grasp and fume about (slim but available none the less).

Weren’t there any older people still working in the hospitality industry? Had they all been laid off and replaced by low wage workers? I wasn’t liking this hotel already!

Ah a second thing to raise my level of irritation! They were all wearing yellow sweat shirts. Yellow sweat shirts! What kind of a hotel uniforms its staff in yellow sweat shirts?

Alright bear with me here, I’m not looking too good in this scenario. In fact I’m appearing downright ugly but I’m going to continue because the truth needs to be told.

I must have found, at least, 10 things to complain about before being given the key to my room.

Yes I’m flawed and I am aware of it. I am, after all, under construction.

My mind kicked into overdrive with things to bemoan or complain about. I reached an all-time low when I began to have an attitude with the elevator buttons. Stupid elevator buttons! I don’t like this hotels elevator buttons!

When I exited the elevator, turned down the hall and entered my room I discovered it to be a veritable treasure trove of issues for me to complain about. I had hit the jackpot. I was about to become the mayor of “Complaintville (a small town just south of the City of Impatience).

My mind raced with a list of inadequacies about the room. I needed something. I didn’t know quite what, but I needed something. And then it hit me. I needed an issue worth calling the front desk to complain about. I searched the room and found it. There was no remote-control for the television. Someone had stolen it obviously.

I picked up the phone, attached to the wall next to my bed. Well they had done one thing right, the phone was easily accessible. I punched in “0” to get the front desk. Nothing. No sound, no dial tone… nothing! Ah ha another thing to complain about! I was on a roll.

I kept trying to punch in other numbers, hitting other buttons to see if I could get the phone working. Someone was going to hear my complaints this night and they were going to listen and listen well.

I started to place the phone back in it’s receiver, preparing myself to just take the elevator back down to the lobby in order to register my mountain of complaints. As I was putting the phone back onto the receiver I noticed it was one of those “powered” phones, you know the old type of in-house phones that are more like walkie-talkies than actual telephones?

Incredible! I couldn’t believe it!

I pushed the power button on the phone and, you’re not going to believe this.

The television came on.

I held the phone away from my ear and examined it a little closer.

Low and behold it wasn’t a phone, it was the remote control for the television.

I had been trying to dial a remote control. This never would have happened in the rotary phone era. Back then, a phone was a phone, a huge clunky thing that could be used for smashing walnuts.

Even though I was tired, a bit hungry, my self-imposed state of irritation began to dissipate as I laughed aloud.

Sitting in my hotel room, on the bed holding the television’s remote control in my hand I couldn’t help but to laugh and smile while noticing the source of all of my angst. What was the source of all of my irritations? Me!

As I was sitting there on the bed thinking, I realized that none of the issues I had “chosen” as irritants (yellow t-shirts, age of staff, elevator buttons, inoperative telephone, etc.) possessed any real merit. There was nothing worthy of the negativity “I” had immersed myself in.

The irritation, angst, impatience and negativity were all self imposed, creations of my own thought processes that were only discomforting me physically and no one else around me. In fact, I can honestly say that no one else was even aware of my state. I hadn’t had the opportunity to infect others yet with my, potentially, nonsensical behavior. I was the designer of the scheme placing myself in dis-ease with my surroundings and those around me.

There is an old African proverb I say to myself in times like these, “An angry heart devours its owner.”

In no other instance was this more true than now.

I could have kept this little tale to myself, after all, there was no one in the room but me when I sat there fuming and looking irritatingly at the inoperable phone.

My job though, as a teller of tales, a traveler and seeker, isn’t to become the best self-promoting publicist in the industry. My job is to grow as a human being and, being as flawed as most of us are, to share invaluable lessons that help, hopefully, make each one of us better people.

I know that some of my true-to-life tales don’t cast me in the most complimentary light but who am I to hide the truth of myself from others? Maybe it will make me a better teacher, storyteller, if I can continue to learn from my own foibles. Maybe it will make me a better teacher, storyteller, if others can learn from my errors.

Don’t forget, I’m under construction.

Today I visited, here in São Paulo, Lorenço Castanho. I performed for students between 12 to 15 years of age, two assemblies.  It was fortuitous that the school’s focus was on the continent of Africa prior to my arrival. They were specifically focusing on West Africa (my specialty!).

It’s so true that the general tone of a school is set by the administration and staff, moreso the leadership of the school. Our liaison at the school was Clara. It would be insufficient to say that Clara loves, not only her work, but the children she oversees for the entire school. It was Clara who found value in my work and enthusiastically opened to doors of her school for me to perform there.

Clara set the tone for my day as well. When we entered the school and she met us, there was no hiding her joy and enthusiasm. As an artist you live for contact with these types of people. They are not only affirming, but also help you to realize that there are others in the world whose values align with yours.

Clara hugged us, introduced us to every staff member on campus, and escorted us to the performance area. Just the walk from the front entrance and through the campus to the performance area left me with the feeling that Lorenço Castanho was more than simply “a school.” There was not one person working there who did not smile at me when I met them. I’ve also become accustomed to the hug and nice little kiss to the cheek thing that women do in Brazil. I’m thinking about importing that to the U.S. Can you imagine all of the women you meet kissing you as you are introduced? There’s something magical in that.

Before performing I must have taken pictures with more than 12 people. As I was setting up, Clara continued to escort a stream of people into the room to introduce them to me. I’m smiling as I write this. People who understand that there is depth to my work and are capable of critiquing its nuances capture my loyalty and friendship instantly. I don’t talk about it often but the work I do is not easy at all. Maintaining language fluency in 4 languages and working on a 5th, keeping musicianship sharp, researching, creating… etc. Although I love what I do, I will tell you that there is nothing simple about it. I just make it look easy because I’m so darn good. (Big Smile)

A huge part of my performing is ad-libbing. Improvisation is a tool I employ in every performance. In fact, my improvising tends to give me inspiration for future performances. The students at Lorenço Castanho gave me so many opportunities to turn left instead of right. There was a young man who kept touching, rather affectionately, the young woman sitting next to him. I couldn’t resist. I am a dad after all and I would want another dad to intervene on my behalf if the same situation arose with one of my daughters. It was innocent enough, nothing over the top, but I enjoyed singling “Rafael” out. He was definitely a good sport about it and didn’t touch that young woman again during my entire performance. Thanks Rafael! The dad in me appreciates you.

There was one young girl in the second performance at the school that just captured my heart. Every time I would walk near where she was sitting she would burst into uncontrollable giggles. I loved it! During one of the stories I told her that I loved her and that I thought she was beautiful (it’s all a part of the story, you’d have to hear the entire tale to fully understand). She burst into those little, cute giggles again. I couldn’t resist it, I kept walking over to where she was sitting just to make her giggle and cover her face some more.

When the second performance finished, the teachers allowed the students to take pictures with me. We took hundreds of pictures together. It seemed like every student there had a cell phone. While we were taking pictures, we were exchanging pleasantries and they were trying to teach me some Brazilian Portuguese, the cool stuff. For some reason they kept wanting me to say, “I am cute!” I verified with the adults around me that people actually say this about themselves in Portuguese and, yes, it is true, especially the youth. I felt a little strange, being a man in the upper register of his 40’s, walking around saying, “Yes, I’m cute… Hello, I’m cute… Pleased to meet you I am cute.” I cut that part of the my language learning short.

Another very memorable moment was when one of the teen boys approached me and invited me to lunch at his home when school was over. I laughed and asked him who would be preparing the lunch, him or me? “My mother of course,” he responded. I had to laugh again and ask him if he thought that his mother would appreciate him walking through the door with a stranger and asking her to prepare us lunch? “My mother would love you, I want you to meet her, she would love you!” He assured me that he lived really close to the school and we could walk there at lunch time. I’m still smiling as I write this. Needless to say, I wasn’t about to make a surprise visit on his mom in search of a meal. I thanked him and let him know that the gesture was most appreciated.

Earlier in the day, Clara had approached me with an idea that the art teacher had. They had a wonderful, very creative idea to bring in 3 blank canvases to the room I was performing in. The students were going to community pain these canvases and the art instructor thought it would be a great idea to have me administer the very first brush strokes on each canvas. What an honor! I love painting and put my own little spin on it for the students. Before choosing the colors and brushes, I asked the students to choose one of three words that I was going to give them (Love, Honor, Friendship). The majority chose the word “Friendship.” I proceeded to choose the brushes and colors combinations and then, with a flourish, offered my own abstract canvas interpretation of the word friendship. Talk about fun!

Clara and the rest of the staff would not allow me to depart the school without lunch. They fed me too! Can you believe it? All of that love heaped on me and they fed me as well.

As I was leaving the school, there were more students stopping me to take pictures with them, staff offering final hugs and students shouting that they loved me.

It was another complete day filled with enchantment and meaning.

I can typically work in one or two school/community center visits during my month long tours but even that is difficult to schedule. The needs of the host schools usually extend beyond the typical school day, as we view it here in the United States. I would not trade my dinners in the evening with staff and teachers who plan such things nor would I alter the impromptu gatherings I’m invited to be a part of in people’s homes.

One of my biggest regrets while I was in Colombia was not making it to the coastal area of Choco. In Bogota and Cali I was able to spend time with families from the region but there is nothing like traveling to an historical area and encountering, 1st hand, things that you’ve only read about (the earth, air, architectural structures, music, food, etc.). Choco has its historical roots as a coastal city built up from the slave trade. People often forget that, during slavery, families where separated on many levels. A persons mother could be sent to North America, a father to Central America and the children might end up in South America. This is not an exaggeration. Slavery was not the neat, clean peculiar institution that many would make it out to be. For me, knowing that there is a chance that, by blood, many I could be connected to another without our knowing it is profound.

In the upcoming trip to Brazil I’ve been seriously thinking about whether or not I’ll be able to visit a few of the contemporary community quilombos and Casas de Candomblé. Having spent many years in the center of rodas, playing birimbau, dancing Candomblé rituals, and studying maroon societies such as Palmares, I am overly excited about placing my feet in a land that celebrates so many of its African roots.

Brasilians have adopted a Portuguese word, favelas, to designate slums. I’m always hesitant to use words like slum or ghetto because that may not be what they represent to those who live there. I hope that I am able to take some of my own time, free time as they call it, and visit some of the schools and community centers located in, at or near the some of the favelas. I know most of these schools would never be able to afford to fly me in and host me but maybe a small donation of my time would go a long way in showing that, across the world, there are others who care about what is happening to the less fortunate in societies.

I’m working on it and I’ll update you with how things are going. Two weeks and we’ll board the plane to Brazil. Are you as excited as I am?

Now on to my adventure of how I ended up standing in a line for 3 ½ hours. Blame it on the iPad 2 or, as Flip Wilson used to say, “The Devil made me do it.”
You see, here is what actually happened…

Last Friday, March 11th, 2011 the much anticipated Apple iPad 2 went on sale in Apple stores at 5 pm. Yes 5 in the afternoon. I knew that I wanted to purchase one for my business, but spending hours upon hours in a line on a Friday afternoon? Get real! I figured that I would wait for all the hype to die down and just mosey into a store, pick up the one I wanted and get on with my life.

I was following the news and saw more than 300 + people lined up outside of our local Apple store at the Cerritos Mall.

I furrowed my brow in astonishment, asking myself why people would do this. Why would people subject themselves to this sort of torture?

(Ok, I never said that I was the smartest person in the world so before you start judging me, just read the rest of the tale.)

I figured I would do it an easier way. I figured that I would go the to mall the next morning and swoop up my 64 gig iPad 2 and be out of the door in a matter of minutes. I know, I know… you are thinking that I may not be grounded in reality. I have to admit that sometimes I have occasion to question my own intelligence.

Continuing on. I woke up the next morning and remembered that the store at Cerritos mall opened at 9 am or so. I think. I wasn’t sure but it didn’t matter because I had chosen to take my day slowly and enjoy a pace in opposition of the weekly hustle and bustle.

I headed out the door about 8:15 or 8:30 am and stopped at my local Starbucks to get a muffin and some apple juice. Yes I said apple juice. I don’t drink coffee. I just don’t.
So I arrived at the mall in Cerritos and when I walked in there was a line of people standing outside of the Apple store. There were about 60 people standing in line! There was a line there! A line! You know how much I hate lines!

So what did I do? I went and got in line behind the last person. Why? Because I wanted an iPad 2, of course.

Are you laughing at me yet? Wait, allow me to finish.

I started talking with the guy in front of me who told me that the store didn’t open until 10:00 am.

In an age of an overabundance of information and technology I had failed to simply “Google” the store to find out what time they actually opened. Once again, I didn’t say that I was the brightest bulb in the bunch.

I decided that waiting for about another 40 minutes or so for the store to open wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all, I had my muffins and apple juice and no where to really be and I had already decided to make this one of my slow-motion days. Yes, I actually have a name for days that I consciously choose to move slower than every one else. I call them my “slow-motion” days and I love them.

So, while I was standing in line, there were people starting to arrive behind me. The closer we got to 10 am, the longer the line grew. By the time the representative from the store came out to make an announcement there were about 100 people behind me. Incredible!

The Apple store rep came out and announced that they were out of iPads and didn’t know when, or if, they would be getting any more ….but that possibly, or maybe, there was a chance that they might have a shipment coming into the store sometime during the day. She then advised us that if we chose to wait in line it was our choice, but to not expect anything.

Nobody moved. I was processing the confusing jumble of information that I had just received when the people in front of me helped give me clarity. “There is a delivery of iPads coming in sometime today.” That is what she said, “a delivery coming today.” No one moved. Why? Because there was a delivery coming sometime today.
It is amazing how the human mind begins to rationalize. I told myself, just like everyone else there that day, “Hey there is a shipment of iPads coming in sometime today.”
Have you been in a spot like that? Have you turned your desire for something into a series of rationalizations? I was quickly falling into that space. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.

Within minutes, our little line turned into a small village of sorts. People began communicating and others went on reconnaissance missions for provisions (food, water, cupcakes). It was awesome. I forgot I was standing in a line and simply began enjoying the moment. It was odd. I, the man who had waged war on lines all of his life was standing in one and enjoying himself.”

Our villages joy-buzz was displaced by the buzz-killing Apple manager who came out of the store and informed us that they had no information and knew nothing. She also said that, “if” a shipment did come in there definitely would not be enough for all of the people in line.
She looked right at me and said, “I would just go home if I were you.”

Her words didn’t seem to penetrate my “I want an iPad 2” filter. I had clearly heard, like everyone else, “A shipment of iPad 2’s will be in “sometime” today.”
Many people started exiting the line, abandoning our little village. It was actually sort of sad. We had built up a camaraderie in our tiny “line village” and we were slowly losing citizens to hopelessness.

I have been accused of many things in my life, but I have never been accused of being hopeless. I watched people settle back into their spots, and once the Apple interloper had receded back into the confines of the store our joy slowly returned.

Approximately half an hour later, our conversations and laughs were interrupted by a sudden cheer erupting from the front of the line.
A Fedex delivery truck had just entered through the front door of the Apple Store! People were jumping and clapping. I got swept up in the mob mentality and felt a strong desire to do my own little happy dance.

The Apple Authoritarian came out and issued her proclamation that she would be opening the delivery boxes soon and that she would come out and ration tickets to the limited number of souls that would receive an iPad 2, according to their place in line. Once again, she looked down the line in my direction and shook her head in a disapproving manner. Again she stated, “I really would not wait around if I were you guys. There are not that many in the shipment.”

All I heard was, “The iPad 2’s just arrived”.

A little while later, applause erupted again as a platoon of 5 to 7 Apple store soldiers headed toward the line led by their brave buzz-killing leader.

Gripped tightly in her left hand, she had those highly sought after little white tickets! She began distributing them to each person in line from the front and heading back. “Each person may purchase 2 iPads!” She announced as she looked my way. There was that look again! That disapproving, “You’re wasting your time here because I don’t have that many tickets look.”

I stood my ground. 3 ½ hours and counting.

I heard some people down the line grumbling as they left. They were way ahead of me. What had happened? Everyone near me wanted to know. Were all of the tickets handed out already?

The guys leaving explained that there were no more A.T. & T. iPads, only Verizon. More deflated souls departed the line ahead of me. Why didn’t I leave? I’m not sure because I had wanted to purchase the 64 gig, A.T. & T. model. I wanted it because of its SIM card capabilities. I probably should have left but something told me to just hang out, after all it was a slow-motion day and this was getting interesting.

The Apple commandant slowly made her way down the line as she announced, “There are only the 32 gig Verizon models left.”

She was about 5 people down from me and I couldn’t tell how many tickets she had left, but I knew she had some so I stood my ground. She was 4 people away and then 2.
She had 2 tickets left and there were 2 people in front of me. I don’t know why but this made me smile inside, it was a bit humorous. She had 2 tickets left and there were only 2 people in front of me, a guy and his girlfriend. It turned out that she didn’t want an iPad and so there was one ticket left.

Who got it? Me.

I felt like I had just won some grand prize, the lottery or something. There was a huge communal grumble from the line behind me. People were pointing at me saying, “He’s the last one.” I had earned a title in our little dissipating village. I was “The One.” The “Last One” to be more precise and I wore my honorific title with a sense of pride.

As I stood there with the Verizon 32 gig ticket in my hand which would allow me to purchase an iPad 2, reality began to set in. I hadn’t wanted a 32 gig Verizon iPad, I had wanted a 64 gig A. T. & T.

I didn’t feel sad about it though, I simply rationalized my acceptance and felt the joy of being “The One.”

The guy in front of me gave his condolences that I didn’t get the 64 gig. I told him that things usually work out so well for me that I had no room to complain in life.
The employees started coming out getting us one-by-one to bring us into the store to purchase our iPads.

We stood in line being brought in one-by-one for about another 40 minutes when a guy about 4 people in front of me started shaking his head in disappointment. There may have only been about 15 or so of us still left in the village, but we were still capable of demonstrating concern for one another. I leaned in close to him and asked what was wrong. Here is what he said, no joke, “I took 2 tickets but I don’t really want to purchase 2 iPads. I only want the Verizon one.”

The second ticket in his hand was for an A. T. & T. 64 gig. He turned to me and said, “Hey didn’t you want a 64 gig A. T. & T?” He then just handed me the ticket. Wow!
So I’m standing there now with 2 tickets. A number of people gave me cheers and bright smiles. The guy directly in front of me said, “You got exactly what you wanted. I see what you mean about things working out for you.”

I turned to a guy that had appeared behind me who should have gone home but didn’t. I asked him if he wanted my 32 gig Verizon ticket. His face lit up. He had chosen to just stay in line when all others had given up hope. He was rewarded by my giving him that “last ticket.” It was a bit sad to pass on my honorific title of being “The One” but all good things must come to an end. Everyone in line was happy, especially me.

There is another bit of reality that struck me. I, along with many others, had stood in line for hours to give our money over to a retail establishment for an item that has a shelf life of approximately a year before a newer, shinier version will come out and make it look antiquated. If this is a bad economy then the parking lot at the mall doesn’t know it.

I went into the store and purchased my 64 gig A.T. & T. iPad 2.

What will I do next? Buy more stock in Apple of course.

I am jotting down these few words as I get ready for my final performances here in Colombia at a school this morning. This won’t be a long blog as many others because I feel like I’ve said most of what I’ve wanted to say.

Last night a group of teens took me out to dinner and made some very convincing arguments as to why I should return to Colombia, and often. Who knew teens could be so savvy? I could not help but to listen with  the deepest, most intense level of humility. I don’t ever recall teenagers sitting me down and delivering cogent arguments as to my responsibility to them and their younger peers. My heart was touched in a way that is difficult to detail to you. I listened to these young men speak of the depth of my craft and the need for more profound exchanges between myself and other Colombians. Teens? Yes, teens.

I sat at a table dining with them feeling as though I were breaking bread with my peers. That is such an odd thing for a man who has children much older then them and is, in fact, a grandfather.

When we parted ways last night I was left with so many things to contemplate. I guess those young men still have me thinking into the next day as I write these few words.

I’ve got to get to this school and not be late so I’m going to end here. My words written in previous Bogota Blogs, I think, will suffice to let anyone know how I’ve felt about this trip.

I’m going to miss you Colombia.

Chau…

We scheduled time to meet between check-out and the time we would take the taxi to the airport. Claudia met Pablo and I in the lobby of our hotel and she was as radiant as ever. Do you know people who, with ease and grace, simply exude inner beauty? She is one of those people.

After hugs all around the three of us sat down and Claudia pulled a strange looking fruit from her bag. She called it a “Zapote.” Claudia has been, somewhat, Colombia’s ambassador of goodwill and fruit tasting for Pablo and I while we were in Cali. I have to tell you all something. I have traveled to the far ends of this earth and Colombia has got to have more fruit than any other place on the planet. Every time I turn around I am trying a different fruit. With motherly patience, she taught me how to peel the fruit and pull its meat apart from the core to eat.

I wish I could describe all the different tastes of all of the different fruits but I can’t. I have to honestly say that the blends, scents and textures of many of the fruits defy explanation. The beauty in this tasting was that this woman went out of her way to come to us and share something culturally that she felt we needed. How often does that happen? Experiences such as these, and they have been too numerous to chronicle each and every one, but experiences such as these have made this a cultural adventure.

The Zapote was extremely messy and colored my fingers a bright orange at the tips but I didn’t care. The child in me inadvertently took over as I found myself licking the remaining juices from my fingers. The adult in me caught myself doing but said, “Who cares! Enjoy!” Luckily I didn’t go as far as kicking my shoes off (another habit I acquired as a child when eating something really good). Oh! It is sort of funny because when I was at Jefferson Claudia gave Pablo and I an assortment of things to try one day and what did I do? Kicked my shoes off! I didn’t even realize it. I apologized and she let me know that, and this was so beautiful the way she put it, she said, “that puts you in closer contact with the earth.” Life can be poetry at times can’t it?

In recalling this moment earlier I just felt the need to share it with you.

I have always said that we living, breathing storytellers have an advantage over popular media in that we touch, see, embrace and hear our audiences. In all of the years I have been storytelling and playing my music professionally, I have gained friends (true friends) all over the world. I am in constant contact with people who I met more than 15, even 20 years ago.

The experience of sharing that single piece of exotic fruit was poetry physically manifested and an example of what relationships may be if we invest ourselves in them.

I took more pictures with students at Britanico than any other school I have visited here in Colombia. To add to the euphoria of appreciation that they blanketed me with, I also had a chance to dance with one of the students on stage, in front of the entire school. The young woman showed no fear and neither did I. It was beautiful!

My most memorable experience thus far has been meeting two young men at Britanico who cornered me during my meal and said they wanted to know everything! They wanted to know how I controlled the audience, where did I learn to tell stories like that, who taught me to play the instrument, where did I learn all of the stage techniques, etc.

My conversation with the two young men was inspirational for me because they were looking beyond the entertainment value of what they had just experienced. These two young men actually saw the depth and profundity of the craft and desired to know me. I love when this happens because it does not happen often enough. I spent my entire meal conversing with these two young men and only ended the conversation because I had to leave for the airport. I will definitely remember these two young men.

I´ve got to get to the airport there is a cab waiting outside my hotel at the moment, waiting me to type these last few words (quickly).

Chau!

Oops, one last thing! I would be remiss if I did not mention the following. I must must must must with all my heart and in deep sincerity thank the English Department at Colegio Britanico and their fearless leader, Tom, for an amazing dinner last night. Tom you and your staff definitely went above and way beyond the call of duty to make me feel welcomed here in Cali. I am more than appreciative of your hospitality, the wonderful conversations, encountering quick Irish wit, being seated next to the beautiful Linda and engaging others on a very intimate, spiritual and deeper level of understanding.

Ok, just thought I would throw that in. Taxi is still waiting! Chau!

No… really! Chau!

Today was a day of excess and indulging. I arrived really early at this morning’s school and was greeted by food and a drink called “Avena” (Oatmeal milk drink). The drink is quite refreshing but difficult to explain the taste and texture. Had I realized what an adventure down “Food Avenue” it was going to be I might have not eaten so much so early in the morning.

My first performance caused a bit of a scandal in the school as I asked one of the teachers, Marta, to marry me (in the context of the story of course). The scandal began when Marta returned to her classroom and her students began asking her if she were really going to marry me. I love how she handled it! She let the children know that today was going to be her last day and that she and I would be leaving for Africa immediately after school.

All day long children were running up to me begging me not to take their teacher. I had one little girl of about 8 years old who refused to believe in our little exercise in enchantment. The little girl, and this was so cute, the little girl came to me and challenged me to kiss her teacher, Marta on the lips in front of the whole school it our marriage was real.

How does one escape such a predicament? I explained to the young girl that I had too much respect for Marta to be kissing on her in front of the whole school. I further explained that it would be “highly” inappropriate. I was trying to plant some seeds and food for thought for when she hits the teen years.

Later, with the older children (16-18 years) I was approached by a young woman who demanded to know why I had learned Spanish. Her question seemed to be more of a statement as to “why anyone who didn’t have to learn to speak Spanish would learn.”

I let her know that North America borders a Spanish Speaking country and that below that country are millions upon millions of people who speak the Spanish language and that it only made since to me that learning the language would be beneficial to me. She responded with, “I Love your answer!”

After my first performance, there was food bought in for me. After my third performance, it was lunch time. When I completed the day one of the teachers took me to a local eatery to try a few small traditional dishes. Once we finished there we went to a grocery store where I ate one of the most decadent  mixtures ever concocted. It was called a “Salpicon” and it was a mixture of several fruits and ice at the bottom that caught the juices of the fruits. Each level of this drink/dish/slushy offered a new experience.

We made a list of all the things we ate today just to see what it would look like. Here’s the list: Avena, Chontaduro , Cholado, Champus, Aborrajado, Banuelo, Marranitas , Lulada, Pandebono…

The list is not complete because I was too ashamed to say what I ate during lunch. It was experimental. Let’s just say I won’t be eating it again.

The children and young adults of the school were so receptive and engaging that I almost forgot I was at a school. There is a farm on the campus! Yes a farm!

Ok, I know I’m rambling but I want to get some of this stuff out. Blogs don’t have to be perfect right?

Oh! Something I did not want to forget. This is an interesting side note about many schools here in Colombia. Many of the classrooms in the school only have 3 walls. Where there would be a fourth wall is open to nature. Imagine that! Year round your classroom is open to nature. I’ve asked before and I continue to get the same answer, which is, “It does not get cold here.” I was at one school when it began to rain. It was such a beautiful sight standing in 2^nd grade classroom while it was raining and the children were just busy doing their work. It was just another typical day for them, rain pouring only a few feet away from their desks.

Oh! There was one incident during one of my performances, it was actually after, where I challenged a young woman (about 16 or 17) to Salsa with me. She did not hesitate! She got out of here chair from the audience, walked up to me and began following my lead. It was awesome!!!!!

I have found that most women here are willing to dance at the drop of a hat, literally. I’m sure there are some who will not but I have not crossed paths with them.

Well I should be giving more details about the performances and the food but I’m tired. I’m going to bed. I’ll let you all know how the weekend goes here in the beautiful, tropical Cali Colombia.

Yesterday I visited a school here in Santiago de Cali that is about 50 years old. My first session was with 16 and 17 year olds. Mornings are usually a rough start for performers at most schools and I’m no exception. The first group, early in the morning is often still feeling the effects of “sleepy-head.”  The juniors and seniors were great. They bought in early and stayed with me throughout the entire session. I’ve chosen to go a different route than I had planned initially when thinking of visiting Colombia.

Initially I had planned on simply entertaining with stories, a little music and giving students here in Colombia an overview of what I do. After encountering the first few upper grade classes a few weeks ago, I decided to alter my approach. I found the youth, not only engaging, but extremely perceptive as well. I chose to blend an informative presentation about the depth of storytelling with a few interactive, entertaining tales.

I know when my audience is grasping the meaning of what I am attempting to convey. It is one of the underused principles of antiphony (call/response). Artists typically use antiphony as a tool for engaging. That is only one level of the it, another involves measuring the responses of your listeners. There are a ton of measurement tools I employ when performing but I think I’m digressing into workshop mode here. I apologize.

Anyway, I was able to delve into some very abstract concepts such as subliminal influence and targeted marketing. The response of the teens has been overwhelming. Not only are they able to assimilate the information, but they are contributing to the conversation as well. I am actually having meaningful dialogue with teens (something a number of highly-influential academics had deemed impossible). I love doing the impossible.

Oh, an aside…. Do you know that every school I have visited has its meals prepared onsite? The cooks are actually cooking. I know this might sound trivial to most of you but if you’ve visited many schools in the U.S. then you know why I’m bringing this issue up.  I don’t want anyone to think that we don’t have schools in the U.S. that prepare wonderful meals, that is not what I’m saying. Let me give you an example. I sat down at a table of the one of the schools and the headmaster’s wife came over and asked me if I was enjoying the food. It turned out that she and the children of the school maintain an actually garden on the campus. This is where the vegetables on my plate came from. She was proud to tell me that “no” pesticides were used. I found out that this practice is common in a number of schools here in Colombia.

Can you imagine if our children had to maintain gardens on their campuses? Wow! Just a thought but what educational value could digging one’s hands into the soil, measuring sun/water consumption, etc.? Hmmmm… just a thought.

I know I’m all over the place here but I thought I should write something. I didn’t want to get anymore emails asking, “Hey what’s going on, why haven’t you written anything in 2 days?”

Well, I’ve got a school to get to in about an hour. Our host has invited us to dinner this evening and I am really looking forward to it.

Oh! One more thing! I just remembered something. I keep having these amazing conversations with educators here. I should be blogging more about those interactions but there is so much going on that there are obviously going to be things I miss. Here’s an example: A week ago I met a colleague of Howard Gardner’s who sat in on my session with a group of teens and critiqued my presentation. It was awesome. Yesterday I conversed extensively with a teacher who has interests in Rudolph Steiner’s theories on education. Who knew? I come to Colombia and am inundated to wonderful, meaningful exchanges that feed me on so many levels.

I know, I know… all over the map I am but this is a blog not a dissertation. Right?

I had to get this written down though. My tour manager Pablo and I arrived last night in Cali and went straight to our hotel. Pablo is so cool he asked if I were hungry or needed anything before we got settled. I had a ton of preparation to do before my performance the next morning so he got the front desk to order “delivered meals” for us. I wanted to keep it simple so soup and maybe some juice would work fine.

Pablo juggled phone calls, paper work, food ordering and doing all he could to make me feel comfortable. I respect and appreciate people who go above and beyond the call of duty and so I try not to add to their stress by making unnecessary demands on their time.

So… our food arrives via delivery to the room of our hotel. We sit down to share our first meal together and I open my container of soup. “Ahhhhh,” I think to myself as I swirl my spoon around in the piping hot, tasting-smelling broth, “there are dumplings in this soup. What a pleasant surprise.”

Upon further inspection, actually trying to get one of them onto small spoon, I discover that what I thought were dumplings were actually little feet.

FEET! FEET? Yes, FEET!

There were two feet in my soup. Now I’ve heard of discovering foreign objects in soup, you know, flys, creepy crawlers, kitchen utensils, etc.

But FEET!

Pablo’s soup did not contain any feet. Why did mine? Well… apparently, and I’m still exploring the culture here, but apparently I was the “Lucky” one. “Chicken Feet” in soup is considered a delicacy for some people here in Colombia. Not “all” Colombians… some. I’ve had several of my new  found friends here in Colombia already write me and let me know that they, in no uncertain terms, “DO NOT EAT FEET.”

Well my adventures in Cali have started off on the right foot (I know… horrible but I couldn’t resist).

I’m off this morning to another school. I’ll keep updating this blog because there are so many interesting things happening that it would be a shame not to.

I’ve been in Colombia for a little over two weeks now and my love for the land is continuing to grow exponentially. I don’t want anyone to think that I lack a grasp on reality or that I’m unable to discern the social/political issues that plague “all” societies. I am more than capable but, you see, I spend the majority of my time with the average man and woman, not politicians or captains of industry. I think the perceptions you gain from visiting other lands has a lot to do with what you bring with you, your mindset.

There is a story I love to tell that involves two men traveling towards each other’s respective locations of origin. The two men never meet but, somewhere in an oasis in the desert each encounters a wise old man whom they question as to the type of people they will encounter in the land that they are traveling to. One travel is bitter and filled with angst and says that the people he left behind were ignorant, liars and thieves of the worst kind. The other traveler’s disposition is much brighter and he is believes the people he left behind were the kindest, gentlest souls. The old man tells them, individually as they encounter him at separate times, that they will discover the same type of personalities in the land that they are traveling to. A bystander happened to overhear each of the conversations of the old man and the travelers and inquires why he would dispense such contradictory advice. The old man explains that every man encounters, no matter where he travels, the substance of his own heart.

I would like to think that my encounters with the people of Colombia that I’ve met have something to do with my respect and appreciation for the cultures of others. I would like to think that.

One of the huge contrasts that I can draw between my work here in Colombia and my work back in the U.S. is that; when I complete a performance or workshop in the U.S., that is it, it is ended. The participants usually have their own lives to return to and their own busyness that keeps them occupied. Here in Bogota, when I finish at a school or workshop, the participants desire to extend the relationship to one of greater depth. I am getting invitations to dinner from children’s parents, offers to hang out, as well as offers to be driven around Bogota and the outlying areas so that I may see more of the land and people. People offering to cook traditional meals and cab drivers buying me lunch have been a few encounters that I will not soon forget. Can you imagine a New York cabbie offering to buy you lunch in welcoming you to New York?

Let me get back to the issue of reality and perception. Have I encountered idiots? Yes! They are ubiquitous in this world and no one society or culture has cornered the market on having them. Let me ask you a question. If I cross the paths of two idiots out of one hundred people then why would I spend time writing to you all about the idiots?

I’m finishing up a wonderful piece of fruit called a “Granadilla” as I type this. Just the vast array of fruits alone was worth the trip. Colombia should be famous for it’s’ fruit more than anything else. Although I am missing being back home, I am savoring every second of this experience. I know that I will miss the people who’ve embraced me with open hearts and open minds.

Well, let me get to my flight. I appreciate the messages and feedback that I’m getting from some of you. It helps me feel still connected to home.

Adios mis amigos!

I heard cheers and yells of, “Es Baba, Baba esta aqui, Mire…es Baba! (It’s Baba, Baba is here, Look its Baba!) from all over the campus. It was unsettling at first because I couldn’t believe they were yelling for me. The children followed me to the office in Pied-Piper fashion and filled the small space to its capacity. There were children filling the office, standing outside of the doorway, in the windows pressing their faces against the glass. It was surreal. My mind was having issues trying to wrap itself around a clear understanding of what was going on.

My contact, a woman named Roxanna, entered the office not too long after me with the brightest most cheerful smile a person could possess. She grabbed me and hugged me like we were friends who had been separated by distance and time. I literally melted under the adoration, praise and affection of my surroundings, and… I HADN’T EVEN PERFORMED YET!

The children formed themselves in to a line from the office to outside of the office doors and down a long hallway in order to get autographs from me. I’m definitely not in Kansas, I’m in Colombia! I signed autographs, answered questions, shook hands and hugged, at least, 30 to 40 people before the bell rang and the children had to go to class.  The children had to be forced to go to class. It was jaw dropping to watch.

I hadn’t even performed yet!

I wasn’t prepared for what would happen when Roxanna escorted me to the auditorium. The entire auditorium was decorated with images of me, greetings and signs from children, posters with quotes from some of my writings and stories. I stood in the aisle of the auditorium and just shook my head. I, a storyteller, was at a loss for words.

I asked Roxanna how all of this came about and she explained how the staff, teachers and students had all visited my website, watched my videos on YouTube and did as much research on me as they could. Roxanna explained that the excitement was because of me and my music and stories (my head still unable to fathom the depth of what was happening to me).

I savored every second of the warmth this school was giving me. They made me want to give them the best I had to offer, and I sincerely hope they felt that I did.

I had four performances during the day. The first performance was for children ages 6, 7 and 8. That performance went really well as I attempted to navigate their language and apprehension skills with methods gained from working with “Dual-Immersion” schools in Southern California. The second session was with students who were 9, 10 and 11 years old.

Prior to the second session I was approached by two kindergarten teachers who explained that their children had not been made a part of the schedule due to funding.

Ya’ll know me right?

Well, I had a break at 11:30 am for about half an hour between sessions. I told the kindergarten teachers to return at 11:30 and bring their children and I would do something special for them.

Hey, it’s my break and I can do what I want with it! Right?

Anyway, the kindergarten teachers return with about 40 to 50 students (none of them spoke any English). I had them sit around me in a semi-circle where I could make eye contact with each and every one of them. I sat on the floor with them at their eye level and began talking to them “rhythmically” in Spanish. I taught the 4 and 5 year olds a song and played my Kora while we sang together. They were an eager and extremely attentive group of 4 and 5 year olds. I mixed a simple tale into the middle of our singing, chanting and call/response. I allowed one of them to close the tale out with his suggestion of its ending. It was a great success! Those children were hugging and thanking me as they exited the auditorium. That was such a magical moment for me that words will never do it justice. To look into the eyes of 40 to 50 kindergarteners and not feel a second of inattentiveness is miraculous.

Since it was an all boy’s school, I shared stories of development, decision making and manhood. With the older group I even delved into the use of storytelling by popular media to affect their choices (or what they had believed to be their choices before I finished with them).

At every corner I turned at San Tarsicio I was greeted with smiles and open arms. By the end of the day I felt energized, not tired from presenting. The staff and students at San Tarsicio definitely gave me more than I could possibly ever return to them.  One of the students even created a video to commemorate my trip to Colombia and their school.

If I am to truly show my gratitude and appreciation for the level of hospitality that they demonstrated then I will need to continue writing for the next couple of days non-stop. I hope that I’ve conveyed my appreciation effectively because these are children that I never wish to disappoint.

Thank you staff and students of San Tarsicio you are an absolutely amazing group of people!

Here is a link to the video the school prepared for my visit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOeCtMcDjxk

I was having so much fun that I forgot I was the one performing. I don’t know if I’ve ever been in the presence of such well-mannered, warm-hearted teens. I think I’ve been hugged more today than I have been my entire life. Although it wasn’t a part of the performance, at one point, a young girl named Tatiana got up and Salsa’d with me in front of the entire student body. It was awesome!

There was another young woman name Valentina who asked me, following the show, if I had ever eaten an “Empanada?” I might be spelling it wrong but hey. When I told her that I hadn’t, she raced out of the room with a friend of hers. 10 minutes later she came sprinting back into the room holding an “Empanada” high in the air and yelling, “Baba I have an empanada for you!” The poor child was out of breath and seemed near the point of collapsing. I sat her down in a seat next to me and she handed me the Empanada. “Please eat this, it is soooo good, you will love it!” she said to me.

There were a crowd of girls gathered around us, about 25-30. Flashes on cameras and camera phones went off as I tasted my very first Empanada. Valentina began explaining to me how food is such an integral part of Colombian culture and that she felt it her duty to have me taste the delicacy that is an Empanada.

I have to say it was delicious! I enjoyed every last bite of it but, my only regret, are the images of me gorging myself on it that are sure to resurface somewhere (maybe facebook).

I am thoroughly enjoying this experience and learning so much. I am finding it very easy to blend in with many of the cultural norms of Colombia.

As I am writing this there is loud thunder and rain pouring down violently. I love it! I really am loving this!

Which would you choose?

Well I feel like I owe it to those of you who’ve supported me over the years to remain committed to the blog, but I know you’ll forgive me if I happen to get caught up in enjoying the distraction that is Colombian Culture.

I completed my first week of touring schools last week. I’m doing four shows a day, five days a week. It is amazing how receptive the students are and how gentle their demeanors tend to be. At one school earlier in the week the young girls surrounded my taxi and tried to stop me from leaving. I’ve been offered food, drink and small gifts if I would just stay a while longer at some of the schools. Actions like these by children and adults who are genuinely engaged are an affirmation beyond measure.

I went to another school the following day and the young men and women exhibited a level of maturity and understanding that seemed much older than their years. The coordinator of activities at the school stopped me following my performance to have a talk and wanted a promise that I would return to their school next year. She had witnessed both my performance with the young children (K-4) and then my session with the young adults (10^th – 12^th grade).  She provided me with extremely positive feedback regarding my ability to fluidly move between such divergent developmental levels.

Storytelling sessions with older, young adults (i.e. 16, 17 and 18 years of age) are not anything like what I do for the younger children. For the young adults the sessions are more like conversations where I drop in a small anecdote (story), parable or proverb here and there. There is a flow and rhythm to these conversations that I love.  I treat the students as adults, as equals. I let them know that I have as much to learn from them as they might think they can learn from me.

During one conversation a young woman of about 17 years of age expressed her disappointment on a recent vacation that she and her family had taken to the United States. Her English fluency was phenomenal and much better than the rest of her family so she ended up acting as the interpreter for everyone. As she spoke of the negative stereotypes she and her family suffered because they were from Colombia, her face saddened.  Her countenance was altered from that of a wide-eyed, smiling teen, enjoying my anecdotes and jokes to a more mature, despondent look. I listened to her story of harassment, discrimination and prejudice and felt my heart sicken.

A spontaneous, “I am so sorry for what you and your family suffered,” came from my mouth.

The young girl hugged me and said a thank you that I felt deep inside of myself.

I can’t help but to reflect on the ability of the loud voices of ignorance to drown out reason and compassion sometimes. I knew of the stereotypes associated with Colombia prior to coming here; in fact I had been warned by several friends and family members not to venture here. If I allowed ignorance to rule my decision-making I would not be where I am today; a success as I define it, not as others choose to define it for me.

That young woman and her friends may very well be the future leaders of nations such as Colombia some day.  How will United States citizens be perceived by future generations beyond our borders due to an export of ignorance and irrational fears?

I didn’t mean to inject politics into the wonderful experience that I am having but I guess there are many dimensions to storytelling. Aren’t there?

Later in the day I passed an elderly woman playing soccer with, what could have been, either her grand children or great grand children. She sprinted up and down a street with a steeper slope than any I’ve seen in San Francisco and gave the boys a run for their money while laughing at them.

I’m going to start drinking Colombia’s water today!

I just wanted to take a second and share an experience I had in a restaurant in the barrio of Candalaria. The restaurant is called “Pimienta y Cafe” (Pepper and Coffee). The owners name is Myriam and she is one of the sweetest women. We spent time talking after the most amazing meal of traditional Colombian dishes. There was one dish of mushrooms sauteed in white wine, garlic, a hint of pepper and some kind of sweet, creamy cheese that I’ve never heard of before. It was delicioso!

While we were talking her grandson, Juan Felipe, entered the room and grabbed his grandmother around the waste as though he were returning from an extended journey. After I pulled it together realizing that this woman was a grandmother (she looks like she could be in her mid to late 30′s), I conversed with Juan Felipe. He was so much fun. Myriam disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a slice of cheese cake prepared by her husband. I began to see that this trip was going to be one long violation of my gastro-intestinal fortitude.

Myriam doted on her husband, Francisco. He is a merchant marine who is constantly traveling the world. While traveling in Europe he took cooking courses and learned the art of French Pastry. It was his cheese cake that I was voraciously devouring. No cake is supposed to be that good! I don’t even eat cheese cake. Well, I guess I do now.

She brought her husband in to meet me and before I knew it, I had a new best friend. Francisco invited me onto the roof of the restaurant, which doubles as their home. From their rooftop is an breath taking view of the entire city of  Bogota. Francisco and I talked for quite some time and he even had his grandson Juan Felipe play piano for me.

I live such an enchanted existence and I never want to take it for granted. This is only my second day in Bogota and the magic seems incessant.

I was in a restaurant leaving the salad bar and returning to my table. I ended up behind a few other people who were walking up a narrow aisle towards some stairs so I had to patiently wait my chance behind them.

While waiting, patiently I might add, I was standing next to a family seated at a table dining. There were two women, a mother and grandmother if I had to guess and I would never attempt to discern who was which aloud. With maturity comes wisdom. Seated with the two women was a young boy about 5 or 6 years of age.

Anyway… I’m standing next to their table waiting my turn to ascend the steps when the elder of the two women points at me and says aloud to the little boy, “Look at that big muscular guy, he’s eating salad!”

Ladies you want to make a man blush, that’s how ya do it.

I looked over at the child and he had one of those “in-deep-reflective-thought” expressions on his face, as he curiously examined me from head to toe.

He quickly turned to the elder woman and said, “Ok I’ll try some!”

To say that CHOC is an incredible institution would be a massive understatement. This hospital far surpasses its stated mission to nurture, advance and protect the health and well being of children.

When people ask what it is that I do, I like telling them, “Words are my work, communication my craft and being of service, my life.” Visiting with the children of CHOC challenged me to live the spirit of my words.

I spent two hours at the hospital. During the first hour I was situated in a playroom. Whenever I enter a room my first thoughts are always to change it to fit my needs. Besides altering the ambiance of a given setting with music and tales, I also believe that artists should transform the appearance of their environment as much as possible. With the permission of the staff I began moving tables out of the way as they would have been barriers between the children and I.  I started placing chairs closer to where I would be sitting. One of the assistants was even so kind as to entertain my request for mats and blankets to put on the floor. I loved lying on the floor as a child and reading or listening to stories. Alright… truth be told, I still love doing this but don’t tell anybody ok?

Something beautiful that warmed my heart immediately were the outward, unabashed expressions of affection shared between the patients and their visiting brothers and sisters. This filled the playroom with an inspirational and emotional energy that fed my desire to give the best of myself.

I started out by explaining the importance of my being able to look into their eyes and their looking back into mine. I do this with children and adults everywhere when I go to tell tales. The intensity of emotion and maturity in the eyes of these children was so much more profound than I typically experience in my visits with children in classrooms and schools. There was a depth of experience in the eyes of these children that went beyond the years of their physical appearances.

One of the lessons that I’ve carried with me over these years as a wandering tale telling man has been that people desire to be seen for who they and not judged on appearances. It took a tremendous amount of focus to displace my innate parental desires to hug and hold each of these children and try to become their storyteller, but I managed.

I taught them to sing in the West African language of Bambara. I shared with them fantastic tales of courage and ingenuity. We laughed together and even shared our thoughts.

One child in a wheel chair was saddened and very apologetic when the machines attached to his portable i.v. Stand started beeping during the storytelling. I let him know that the beeping was nothing compared to the loud mooing of cows and bleating goats that sing out in Africa when I’m telling stories. I watched his discomfort dissipate as a huge smile grew across his face.

I spent an hour with the children in the playroom and then went to go visit the rooms of those who were unable to leave their beds. From one room to the next I encountered children of different ages. I was in the room of a very playful 7-year-old one-minute sharing stories of a cowardly lion and then in the room of a teenage girl 15 minutes later telling her tales of comedic love with a backdrop of Justin Beiber posters behind me.

My most memorable session was with a boy about 11 years old who was lying on his side in his bed looking at me through the railings. I went and got a chair and sat myself at his eye level only a few feet away and began playing my harp and sharing a very funny story with him. I know what 11-year-old boys like; I used to be one. He compensated me continually throughout the story with bright smiles that would appear and then disappear back into a face of sadness.  The reward came in the form of muffled, but unrestrained laughter that he couldn’t hold in at the stories conclusion.

At each bedside I promised the children that I would return the next day. Well today has arrived and I am preparing to leave for Children’s Hospital once again. My only hope is that I can give as much to the children today as they gave me yesterday.

This was one of those pivotal moments in life where you can mark a change in yourself as a human being.

My overly competitive nature spilled over from my athletic training and into all other aspects of my life. When it came time to deliver oratory, debate or engage in persuasive speaking I was always attempting to out shine my classmates. I didn’t say my attitude at the time was healthy but, then again, healthy attitudes weren’t what kept you off of your back on the football field.

In 1979 the Equal Rights Amendment was a very hot button issue. Our speech class teacher let us know that we would be debating the ERA the following week and that we needed to come prepared. I was excited because it would be another opportunity for me to “wipe-the-proverbial-floor” with whomever I would be debating against. Once again, I was young, competitive and, yes, very arrogant.

Having been reared by a single mother I was very familiar with the issues the ERA was seeking to address and, because of my mother, I was also exceedingly passionate about this historic amendment. I labored over my preparations for this debate more than I had any other. I had witnessed my mother suffer, first hand, not only the disparity in rights and compensation but innumerable indignities as well attempting to make a life for us in male dominated work environments.

I showed up to class armed with a battalion of information and a passion unequaled by any of my classmates.

Our teacher sat us down and gave us the usual instructions. She then pointed at me and said, “You will be arguing “against” the ERA.”

“What!” I screamed and I must have yelled pretty loud because the room got deathly silent.

Up to that point she had always permitted us to choose the stance we would argue from and I had always chosen to argue from the point of view that I agreed with. This wasn’t fair! I wasn’t going to argue against the ERA, it wasn’t in my makeup to argue against it. My sincere pleas not to have to argue a side of an argument, that I was morally against, held no weight with her. She repeated her instructions and divided the class into teams. Of course she had me lead the “against the ERA” team.

She gave us time to formulate our arguments and assemble our facts. I have to say that this was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. Words and ideas that countered my own philosophy literally choked in my throat and made my heart ache. There were a few times when my team was discussing our possible counter points that I felt angry and wanted to storm out of the room. Athletics had taught me something about being a team player and I had to set my own issues aside because, after all, I was the captain of this team.

When it came time to debate I made sincere attempts at rising to the occasion but fell short. Our opponents were “wiping-the-floor” with us and, as team leader, I had to accept responsibility for our poor showing. I was at an age where losing hurt and hurt badly.
It was painful to listen to the opposing team articulate sentiments and facts that resonated so deeply with me and then have to counter with dissonant ideations that damn near brought me to tears.

That day I left the classroom feeling like an absolute failure. I left feeling like I had betrayed myself morally. I was young, very young and these feelings were new and discomforting.

Over the next few weeks our teacher led us down a path of self-discovery that I will never forget. The importance of being the type of human being that is capable of viewing an issue from multiple angles is a key to developing a healthy worldview. If I had not been forced to experience the pain of that debate I know that many of the opportunities that I have received in this life would have passed me up. Being forced to view life through the eyes of another was not easy for me in my youth and I now see it is almost impossible for many adults today.

When I reflect on this teacher, I think about how she helped to alter the way I see and think about the world we live in. What she gave me was not part of any “core curricula” or “standard” at the time. I know that this woman saw us more as developing human beings than as mere students.

I see the level of intolerance today as symptomatic of narrow-mindedness and childish arrogance possessed by those whose social and intellectual development remains stagnate. I’m not sure what type of an adult I would have been had I not had this woman in my life to challenge my assumptions but I know that I am better for having known her.

I shutter to think how many brilliant people like this are being threatened with pink slips and lay off notices today as we devalue the role of teachers and education. What type of adults will our children be tomorrow if they are not touched by adults like this today?

As if the tale of his miraculous survival wasn’t enough, I witnessed, first hand, his struggle to achieve a healthy equilibrium between mind and body in one of the most unhealthy places I’ve ever experienced. The hospital.

I was called and immediately knew that I had to go and see him. I wasn’t reared to believe that there is actually a choice in matters such as these. I packed my Kora and a few essentials and headed out for the hour and a half drive from Los Angeles up to Ventura.

Once I arrived to the hospital I gathered my things and tried to head straight to his room. There was a problem. Of course there was a problem. What would life be if we didn’t complicate the simple? For some reason, and I don’t know if this happens to any of you out there or not, but… for some reason whenever I enter an institution such as a hospital I end up with an armed security guard escort. This day was no different. It could be the bright, colorful African attire that attracts attention or possibly my Kora (ancient 21-string African gourd harp), I’m not sure, but 99.9% of the time I usually end up with an armed security escort after being required to answer a few questions.

When I finally made it to his room, our eyes immediately locked and we both smiled. I noticed his smile extended from both corners of his mouth. I had been told that the entire right side of his body had been paralyzed. His sisters were sitting around his bed and he introduced me to them. I took out my Kora, strapped it on and began playing and singing. I alternated my playing and singing with a little conversation. We reminisced on some of the drum lessons he had given me more than 12 years ago. We talked about others who were no longer with us and we laughed about shared experiences during our times performing together.

I noticed he was moving his right leg quite a bit and even wiggling his fingers. I grew up watching my grandmother care for the elderly. I struggled to recall having ever seen someone, who had suffered a stroke, do what he was doing with the side of his body that was supposedly paralyzed.
While I played my harp and sang, I felt compelled to ask him about the stroke. He vehemently denied having had one and let me know that they were trying to convince him otherwise. He was adamant that he knew the state and condition of his own body.

I am not one to denigrate the medical profession, I know how valuable nurses and doctors can be but when a man is raising his right leg up in the air and stretching his hands and fingers might there be some validity to his claims?

I played for a few hours and conversed. As I was about to leave he motioned for me to move closer to his bed and he whispered in my ear, “I need you to come back tonight and play your Kora so that I can sleep.”

The requests of our elders are not to be denied. I assured him that I would remain in the city and return early that evening to play for him.

This is a man who “never” asks anyone for anything so for him to request that I return was tantamount to the mountain coming to Mohammed.

After getting a little something to eat, I returned to the hospital. When I entered his room, we picked up where we had left off. I played, sang and told a few tales between our conversations. I knew that eventually I would need to get to a point where we were focusing on lulling him into sleep but that was hours away.

One of the issues I noticed that was going to be difficult to deal with was the rhythm of the hospital. Actually, I should say its lack of rhythm. There were people screaming in agony from distant rooms, loud, boisterous conversations in the halls, machines whirling and intercoms constantly going off with shrill voices making demands across the entire hospital. To add to the chaos, my elder was in a shared room with a man who seemed possessed by some sort of extreme discontent. The man was dropping and throwing things around in his room, knocking over water pitchers set out for him and constantly pushing beeping buttons and calling for nurses.

I have to admit that each of the nurses that responded to this man’s agitation did so in a calm, tranquil manner.

The disturbed man kept up his antics, even amplifying them, as the evening progressed. I adjusted my playing to more serene, gentle rhythms and increased the repetition as a means of soothing my listeners. The power of resonance to relieve the body of its stresses is well documented. In many other cultures throughout the world the bones of the body are not viewed simply as aspects of biology but as natural resonators of frequency. I chose a portion of the song that had humming in it and solicited my elder to join me in the wordless chant. As I played my harp we hummed in rhythm together.
As it got later and later the external disturbances increased. We continued our murmured chants as I played my Kora. The distractions seemed to get to him. It felt odd reminding him of lessons he had taught me so many years ago about tuning out noise and centering the mind. He smiled at my hesitation in trying to navigate returning lessons he had given me back to him.

The noisy neighbor, hallway chaos and loud disturbances continued past visiting hours at 9 pm. I was supposed to have left by then but since no one on the staff was bothering me I continued playing and humming beside him. It seemed each time we achieved a state of total relaxation, some disturbance would disrupt his peace. How unhealthy can a hospital get?

We talked about many of the lessons I had received from him on focusing and pushing away extraneous noise from the mind. He let me know that sometimes students bring lessons back home to their teacher. Teachers must be reminded as well.

Each time he was awakened, we would converse a bit. I never stopped playing my harp while we talked. Once we had conversed for a few minutes we returned to our humming together.

I watched him settle into a very peaceful place within himself as the chaos continued. It felt good to reach a point where he seemed totally unaffected by the things occurring around him. He laid there in silence and I played for him as his humming trailed off. I lowered the tones of my Kora and humming incrementally over the period of an hour or so until they were barely audible. The noise around us was filled with insanity, and this was late into the evening but he remained unaffected. I thought he was in a deep state of meditation until I heard the unmistakable sounds of sleep. He was asleep and sleeping deeply. I felt good as I brought the barely audible humming and harp playing to a close.

It wasn’t until I stopped that my hands cramped up but I didn’t care. To hear him sleeping was a gift unlike any other.

Alcohol and Storytelling “Do” Mix

I had an interesting storytelling gig last night, one that I will not soon forget. I was called to tell tales at a late-night, old school back yard party. Well…old school for some anyway. The music alternated between the gentle crooning of Frankie Beverly and Maze to the hard thumping beats of DMX with the Rough Riders.

“stop, drop, shut’em down open up shop…”

Sorry I got a little distracted. The Hennessey and Sutter Home (those are alcoholic beverages for you non-drinkers out there) was flowing as freely as was the conversation and food. It was a very relaxed, you-are-family-when-you-walk-in-the-door type setting. My host reserved one of the rooms in his home for me to gather myself and prepare for the performance. Venues usually set aside a spot for me so this wasn’t unusual. The difference here was that I kept getting a little side tracked in my preparations because the DJ started playing some Parliament Funkadelic. I don’t know about ya’ll but there is something about Parliament Funkadelic that just won’t allow me to stay in my seat. It didn’t help my situation any that the DJ had blended several Parliament hits all together into one long, very long, track. I forced myself to escape the Knee Deep Aqua Boogie Motor Booty Affair and refocus. It was difficult but I am a professional so I managed to pull it together. How else can you capture a boogie?

If I’ve lost my Justin Beiber or Engelbert Humperdinck demographic, please be patient and bare with me, I will establish a higher level of universal coherency in a second.

Although I was a stranger to everyone there, they made me feel at home. With the amount of food I was offered, had I accepted, I wouldn’t have had to grocery shop for a week. In the room set-aside for “me,” people were coming and going freely, making conversation and doing their parts to make me feel welcomed. My host, a man named Tony went above and beyond to make sure I was comfortable. I was “the entertainment.”

By the time I went out to take my backyard stage, it was almost 10:00 pm. The audience was all adults with maybe a few teens mixed in. The scent of alcohol and cigarettes was everywhere and the crowd was hyped before I even sang a single note. There were extraneous conversations and laughter being shared all over during my opening set but I didn’t mind. I’ve got a zone, a place in my head that I go when I begin performing. It is difficult to describe but somehow, almost magically everyone present is focused within a few seconds and exactly where I need them to be.

Last night was no different. The side conversations and laughter abated within a minute or so of my beginning to play my harp and sing one of my opening songs.

I fused narrative with the sounds of my Kora and singing as well. When I have an audience focused like this, I like to take an opportunity to make as much eye contact as possible. This always serves me well later in the performance.

I was able to teach a simple call and response song in the Bambara language to the crowd and, surprisingly, the most inebriated ended up being the most gifted singers. Their enthusiasm and love of song possessed no barriers. I was loving every second of it! At some points during the performance, “I” felt like “I” was the one being entertained. There was a fulfilling level of reciprocity that existed between us.

Our call and response had the added benefit of bringing everyone back together when a few, inevitably, wandered off the beaten path of my storytelling. If I had shut my eyes, minus the content and setting of my performance of course, my imagination could have transported me back to my younger years in the choir at Marlboro Heights Missionary Baptist Church.

By the time I ended and closed with the final song, I received an ovation that had me grinning ear-to-ear. I couldn’t help wipe the huge, embarrassing grin from my face. I had come to nourish but was leaving a well-nourished soul myself.

My work never lends itself to monotony. I love what I do and I love those for whom I do it. I wouldn’t change a thing about the magical life I live. Yes, my friends, I can indeed dance in the water and not get wet. Storytelling goes with “everything!”

The End

In 2010, I was invited to a festival in the Country of Poland to perform as an artist, professional storyteller and musician. While my experiences in Poland were analogous to Baldwin’s extreme isolation in Switzerland, they ended up being much less discordant. Many of my encounters in Poland awoke dormant memories of words from his essay that I had not reflected on, nor read, in more than 20 years.

My invitation to attend the Festiwal Dzialan Kreatywnych came in the form of emails and a few phone calls from its organizer. He and I had worked together on a festival the previous year in the Warsaw suburb of Konstancin-Jeziorna. For the most part our discussions centered on the typical logistics, itinerary, and performance schedules. Unlike Baldwin’s early warnings from his host that he would be a “sight” for the village, not once did our discussions ever lead us in the direction of race or racism in Poland or what I might expect to encounter while there.

The festival for 2010 was held in the small fishing port and vacation town of Leba. It is a quiet, unassuming town bordering the shores of the Baltic Sea and has a modest population of approximately 4,000. Many of the locals refer to Leba as a village, and that, in many ways is the atmosphere it offers visitors. The streets are narrow and combine residential and commercial in an almost haphazard way. Walking is the preferred mode of transportation throughout the town and almost everything is accessible within a few minutes. It is definitely a Polish vacation spot with all of the trappings offered by any tourist destination in the world: rows and rows of small souvenir shops, fast food eateries around every corner and local artisans selling their wares on the stone-paved sidewalks and in the parks of the town.

Having lived in both New York and Los Angeles, I am always intoxicated by the feel, scent and taste of unpolluted air in other, less congested, areas of the world. The small town of Leba gifted me with an opportunity to inhale and exhale in a powerfully deep manner that I’ve learned never to take for granted.

The festival’s base of operation was the town’s local library, which had as quaint and modest a setting as the town it was surrounded by. There were only 5 computers with Internet access available for public use in the town, four in the library and one in the local bank. Although Leba had the appearance of an isolated village such as described by Baldwin in his essay, the intrusion of technology and mass media, although minimal, led me toward the illusion that my present-day experiences would be much more cosmopolitan than his.

During my stay in Leba I encountered three types of personalities: Those who engaged me socially and intellectually on equal footing; those who seemed to struggle with some form of angst in attempting to engage me and, finally, those whom it appeared had never encountered a Black man before seeing me.

The latter was more amusing than frustrating when considering the impositions of isolation I was experiencing. I hadn’t been in the town but a few hours when I was walking down one of the slender, stone paved sidewalks searching for a store from which to purchase water when I spotted a young boy attempting to walk and stare at me simultaneously. He had to have been about 9 years of age. He was walking hand in hand with a woman, possibly his mother, on the opposing side of the street, which is not saying much since four of his steps across the road could have put us on the same sidewalk. The child could not avert his stare from me and I read the disproportionate curiosity in his eyes to be that he was encountering something extraordinary to his reality. I felt sorry for the child as his fixation on me made him bump head first into an awaiting light pole which, of course, brought on a flood of tears and pain-laden wailing. The counter balance to this child’s intense fascination with me was that I had, only moments before, made eye contact with the woman holding his hand. She had been as congenial in her nod and smile towards me as she might have been with any neighbor she met passing on the street.

Throughout my stay I was in a constant state of reflection. The people, the town, the language and culture were all intriguing. It wasn’t long before I began noticing patterns in behavior of many of the people I encountered. It was interesting to note that those who seemed most unbalanced by my appearance in Leba were either the elderly or very young. The social filters of those two generations seemed to have not been learned or dissipated with age, if they ever existed.

There were times when my experiences can only be described as surreal. It wasn’t as if I were intentionally searching out these incidents in order to verify some sort of hypothesis. I was having ‘stranger in the village’ type encounters continuously simply by engaging in my daily activities.

Early in the festival I was sitting next to an eleven year old child and enjoying a short conversation in broken English, trying with all sincerity, but little success, to answer her questions about American Pop Culture and Justin Beiber when she spontaneously began rubbing my arm.

“Baba,” she asked in a tone reminiscent of my own daughters, “which one of your parents is white…your mom or your dad?”

I wanted to know what would prompt such a question and asked her what made her think that either of my parents was white. In a voice filled with childish innocence, she stated that I did not look like “a black”. This young girl had not experienced the abundance of hues coloring the Continent of Africa. Her reasoning for my lighter complexion was that I had to be of mixed parentage. For me, these types of encounters are “teaching moments,” opportunities to enlighten or be illuminated by another. I explained the diversity of populations in Africa. She was as enthusiastic a learner as I was a teacher. Awareness of my isolation in Leba was, momentarily, replaced by a feeling of contentedness, a sense that I was serving, even if on a minuscule level, part of my purpose as an artist for being there.

These gentle moments of respite were sometimes disrupted by other experiences not as tender but equally important. Although most people I met in Leba were exceedingly pleasant, there were, as could be expected, hiccups in decorum that drew me back into Baldwin’s tiny Swiss village and the feeling of being a stranger. During a very friendly conversation with an exceptionally amiable man of about 35 years of age or so, he, in as innocent a fashion as anyone could possibly imagine dropped the distinct two syllable utterance “Nigger” in the middle of a phrase as he was speaking to me. His facial expression, one of both joy and adoration, was totally in opposition to the horrendous word that fell from his lips. He continued speaking and smiling at me with an irrepressible glow in his eyes; delighted to be sharing space and time and, to a greater degree, holding himself in deference for what he continually reminded me was the wealth of wisdom he thought I possessed.

My initial response, the response that burned at the core of who I am, was to react violently and charge him with an unacceptable level of ignorance at having used such a reprehensible word in my presence. Once again, I recalled Baldwin’s essay and the internal war he waged with himself when faced with similar situations. I remained calm knowing that this man was absolutely oblivious of the history, meaning or negative energy that this word carried with it in the United States.

Accepting the reality of my situation permitted my heart rate to lower and my mind to gather itself more clearly. As I would a child, I walked him through the error of his choice of words. To say he was shocked would be a tremendous understatement. Although I felt at ease in the moment, I don’t think I was capable of hiding the disappointment that registered on my face. He was riddled with shame and near tears by the time we ended our conversation. He was apologizing incessantly and would not stop no matter how much I pleaded with him. He let me know that he had heard the word used many times on television and thought it to be a word used when two men were bonding or accepting of one another. His pleading that I not see him in such a light, or as the type of human being who would ever seek to offend me did not fall on deaf ears.

A while later, after we had parted, I sat in a small corner cafe with a cup of tea, reflecting on what had just occurred. I couldn’t help but to recall my stay in Mali, West Africa when I encountered a young man who spoke limited English. This young man had chased after me down the street, proud to demonstrate his proficiency in English by yelling at me, “Baba what’s up my Nigger?” I was as much a stranger in Leba dealing with the offensive misstep of this Polish man as I was in the town of N’tomikorobougou, taken aback by the young Bambara man’s provocative choice of words. Both men responded in a similar manner and both were despondent when I explained, in depth, the meaning, history and substance of the word. The young Bambara man had learned his American style colloquialism through exported rap music videos, which so many of the youth in Africa love and mimic without question.

While in Leba I was continuously attempting to balance the stress of my isolation with a mindfulness of why I had come. I had arrived in Leba to share my narrative, stories, music and ideas. For the preservation of my sanity, I needed to keep my work at the forefront of my mind. Fortunately, the evenings, alone in my room, offered me opportunities to reflect and relax. Odd as it may seem, I found that level of solitude, alone in my room, to be invigorating. The night brought with it a calm that helped me deal with with some of the issues of isolation.

The mornings offered as much serenity as did the evenings. Each day in Leba at around 7 am, a local church bell chimed the hour and continued throughout the day until 9 at night. It was as pleasant for me to wake to these sounds, as it was to wake to the morning calls to prayer of muezzins from mosques in West Africa. One Sunday morning I woke to the booming voice of a woman tenor singing ‘Ave Maria,’ during an outdoor church service being held only yards away from my hotel window. I couldn’t help to recall the amazing voice of a Murid visiting our compound in The Gambia and singing, beautifully, the praises of Chiek Amadou Bamba.

At times, although the sights and sounds of Leba were inviting, there was always an uneasy, somewhat unpleasant level of consciousness of history that invaded my thoughts. The role of religion in the subjugation of my ancestors continually abducted my attempts to savor the picturesque Christian art and architecture of the small town, much as it did Baldwin in the village he visited. While walking past an amazing stone structure I recalled Baldwin’s essay. I realized, just as he had, that I was unable to completely savor the aesthetics of what was being offered to me as much as my European hosts. Baldwin elaborated on this dynamic when he mentioned, in his essay, that the beautiful architecture of the Cathedral at Chartres spoke something to the people of the village that it could not say to him.

I know that many readers will view these impromptu, involuntary reflections on past atrocities as dissonant invasions of my peace of mind. I prefer to place them in another context. This stream of consciousness is an ever-present reminder of those whose legacy I have inherited. It is the memory of men, women and children who survived the 3-month journey crossing the Atlantic in the filthy bowel of slave ships. My involuntary reflections assure that I never forget the more than 250 years of inhumane bondage deeply woven into the fabric of American history.

As a means of escaping the constant reminders of my isolation, one evening, in my hotel room, I decided to watch television. I had been in Leba for almost an entire week and had yet to turn it on. There was the usual programming: news, international sports, etc. While changing channels I was unexpectedly accosted by disturbing and destructive imagery on the screen. With the remote in my hand I found myself immobilized, unable to turn away from what I was witnessing. I was watching, on Polish television, a white man in black face rising from his bed in the morning. A white man in black face! Images of Al Jolson and the sounds of Jump Jim Crow fused with rapid running reels from Birth of a Nation flooded my mind. I could not pull myself away from watching. I was obligated to watch. Even though I did not understand a single word of Polish that was being spoken, I was the proverbial moth to a flame. It appeared the protagonist in this sitcom had awakened as a black man after having gone to bed white. Everyone else in the show seemed to think they were originally black except him and he was languishing in the throes of a deep depression. It was shades of Van Peebles ‘Watermelon Man’ but with an enormous playing up of stereotypical movements, gestures, eye bugging and drawls in the language, which were so easy to discern.

I wondered how many people in the small town of Leba were watching this obvious display of bigoted “entertainment”. How many people were watching and enjoying this production that I would eventually trade hellos with on the street or perform for during my stay? 2010 and Europeans were watching a television show of a man sporting Black Face. This should not have come as any shock to me as I’ve been subjected to these same sorts of racial parodies in the United States since birth. The affront has come in the form of antiquated stereotypical characterizations in Hollywood films and, most recently, through perversions and distortions of cultural identity in many music videos.

To jump towards the word racism would be an over simplification and misuse of the term. I did not know the intent of the artists, producers or even the public watching the production. What I do know is that the sort of portrayal that I was witnessing on the screen perpetuates, and sustain, by-products of racism such as ignorance, denial and disingenuity. I have been accused of being “overly” sensitive when it comes to issues that deal with the faux science of race. I have sat side by side with friends and family and watched them shed tears in fits of laughter at such stereotypical distortions as I was subjecting myself to at that moment in my hotel room in Leba. There is an incongruity that has plagued me most of my adult life. Many in the United States label their ability to laugh at stereotypical distortions as “healthy senses of humor.” Few of these same people have ever balanced their “healthy senses of humor” with an equal weight of emotion given to the sadness or grief of this nation’s horrifying historical narrative. This imbalance in emotional equilibrium in family and friends is something that has always disturbed me.

Watching that television in my hotel room in Leba ignited a flame within me that Baldwin described in his essay as “the rage of the disesteemed.” This reactionary anger has been a constant and unwelcome guest intruding throughout my life. It is an anger that doesn’t permit its victim to ask how or why cultural ignorance and bigotry avoid extinction because he already knows. It is anger passed down through generations having witnessed the constant cosmetic altering of the top layers of racist social, political and economic structures. It is an anger at appearing but remaining as unseen today as Ellison’s “Invisible Man” of the past. It is anger at knowing you are a stranger in a land soaked with the blood of your ancestors as much as you are in a small village in Poland.

There is a proverb born out of Africa that I love which says, “An angry heart devours its owner.” I could allow the perverted parody on the television to distract me from my purpose for being in Leba, or I could choose to ascend its ignorance and reclaim my purpose. I had crossed continents to share my narrative, my music, my stories and commune in an exchange with others of like mind. To permit ignorance and racist puppetry to deter me would be akin to being defeated before ever setting a single foot on the battlefield.

I turned the television off, not as a form of avoidance behavior but as a means of re-channeling my psyche to serve my purpose. I had an audience waiting for me. There were people waiting to hear what I had to say.

There are those who might infer that the popularity of my storytelling performances in Leba had a lot to do with the fact that I was somewhat of an anomaly. After all, here I was in a culturally homogeneous town. Some might also say that people came out to see the “Black Man” talk and sing. I would not argue at all with these assumptions. There are precedents for these observations and, on their surface; they house a modicum of truth. It is a known fact that human beings tire quickly of novelty. If I had been simply a novelty, as a performer, to many of the townspeople, then my exchanges with them would have lacked any depth whatsoever. The loyal following of listeners who came every morning and returned at night erased any notion of novelty from my mind. My audiences engaged in discussions, asked questions and searched for profundity of meaning in the proverbs, stories and anecdotes I shared. We communed, not as a Black Entertainer with an all white Polish Audience but more so as thinking individuals who shared a common appreciation for the power of words, music and intellectual stimulation.

During my time in Leba there were those individuals, as well as families, that came to every single show and stayed long afterward. These people opened discussions and dialogued with me during and after every performance. Some of them even offered me tales of wisdom that they hoped I would take and share with other audiences during my travels. If I had continued to allow the sadism of the blackface sitcom to abduct my thoughts during my stay then my perception of those who frequented my performances would have been altered. I would have only been able to see relatives of the blackface actors sitting before me. I would have questioned their motives for being in my presence. In many ways I was being reminded of racism’s vicious proclivity to damage the psyches of both victim and assailant simultaneously.

Racism as a tool and extension of the pathological, perverted thought processes of so many Americans is a ravaging parasite that feeds on its host for self-preservation regardless of cultural identity or historical legacy. Noted historian Carter G. Woodson once reminded us “When you control a man’s thinking you do not have to worry about his actions.” Although the aberration existed in Baldwin’s era, I think there exists a seed of racism much more pronounced today. Grotesque ideations born of racism are espoused by many whose ancestors survived subjugation. As a disease of the mind, racism knows not color or ethnicity. Scaling the wall of denial and living in ignorance of the legacy of my ancestors is not, nor has it ever been, an option for me.

I found myself contrasting and comparing my experiences in Poland to those in the United States. While wearing African attire in Leba I was never approached, as I have been in the United States, by feeble-minded individuals who make such inane statements as, “My ancestors owned your ancestors at one time and we could have the same name.” While I encountered the blank stares and heightened curiosities of children in Leba, not once did I suffer the shrieking fear of a child frightened by my presence or the clutching of handbags as I am often subjected to at “home.”

We live in an age where people seek therapy and question almost every facet of their interpersonal relationships. People engage in group discussions on co-dependence, dysfunctional family dynamics and are even willing to explore the emotional well-being of their pets. The one issue that has the ability to paralyze intellect and give rise to insurmountable levels of denial is the pathology of racism. Getting people to explore their intrapersonal/interpersonal connections to the disease of racism has been an impediment to this nation’s growth since its inception. It was W. E. B. Du Bois who posited in the early 1920’s “… the problem of the 20th Century is the problem of the color line.” I would question if we’ve come much farther in the opening of the 21st Century. There is a discontent at having witnessed the surface of things altered over the centuries while knowing that what is beneath the surface remains the same.

While walking the streets of Leba with another professional storyteller whom I respect and admire, a Frenchman well versed in the literary history of African Americans, I mentioned my reflections on Baldwin’s essay, “Stranger in the Village.” He immediately asked, “You don’t feel like that do you?”

While there were many differences in Baldwin’s experiences in the remote Swiss village of Leukerbad and my isolation in the coastal Polish village of Leba, there were also many parallels too strong for me to ignore. It was the similarities that forced my recollection of Baldwin’s essay, an article that I had not reflected on, nor read, in decades.

My fellow storyteller was quick to remind me that, even to this day, there are small Swiss villages in the mountainous regions that have changed very little since Baldwin’s visit. He recounted a time when, as a stranger, he was looked upon with suspicion and mistrust. What my friend was describing to me as his experiences in a remote Swiss village were more xenophobic than racist in nature. The continuous rebuttals, by even the most well intentioned of people, are constant reminders of racism’s need to negate and, even trivialize, the uniqueness of my narrative.

While the physical subjugation may have ended a little more than a century ago, the pervasive and aggressive assault on the mind continues. The sad fact of the matter is that there are large numbers of people who are not even aware that a war is being waged. The issue that plagued Harriet Tubman in her era still haunts the hearts of the conscious today. She put it quite simply when she said, “I could have saved so many more if I could have convinced them they was slaves.”

I don’t view my recollections of Baldwin’s essay during my stay in Leba as mere happenstances of thought. There is a legacy that I, and many others, deem of vital importance. There is a memory that must be maintained if social, political and economic progress is to be attained by a greater number of the disenfranchised. Baldwin is often quoted as having stated, “Color is not a personal or human reality, it is a political reality.” I would add to Baldwin’s progressive insight that it is a social and economic reality as well; one that has the potential to be as destructive a force in the 21st Century as it has already shown itself to be in the past.

My approach is more interpersonal than academic and I’ve yet to have an entire class that didn’t accomplish my exercises, except until recently. So, I’m in this 6th grade class and I’ve got the energy right where I need it to be to accomplish 100% participation when I get to a young man who has his head down. He is refusing to make eye contact with me. Eye contact is an important part of my workshop and, without it, I’m partially powerless to communicate effectively. This is something that I also let the children know. Before you ask I will tell you; no the boy isn’t on the spectrum and not part of a culture that views eye contact from someone younger as disrespectful. That out of the way, now let me explain what happened.

I don’t like to single anyone out in front of the other students and so I took his desire not to make eye contact with me as a sort of plea to be left alone. When his turn came to go up in front of the class, he looked up and said rather abruptly, “I don’t want to do it!”

This was a first for me. I’ve been doing this workshop for about 3 years and I’ve “always” managed to get 100% participation. I asked him if he’d like me to move on past him, allow someone else to go and then return to him. He said no. I released my “100% participation driven ego” and let him know that it was alright, that I wouldn’t force him to do anything that he felt uncomfortable doing. It was definitely a blow to my sense of accomplishment but there was something about this kid that I didn’t want to disturb. It was in his eyes when he did finally manage to look up. I actually felt a sadness for him.

As I start to move on to the next student, the teacher, who has been sitting quietly at the back of the class, jumps out of her chair and starts shouting. I was actually shocked at what came out of her mouth.

She began yelling at the young man and said, “I you aren’t too afraid to sell drugs to other kids on this campus then you shouldn’t be afraid to get up in front of this class for the few seconds that Baba is asking you to do it!”

After berating him for only a few seconds longer (which really felt like hours) she turned to me and said, “Ok Baba, sorry to interrupt, you can have the class back now.”

What?!?!

I mean really!

What?!?!

I stood there dumbfounded! How do you segue from that back into the tone and rhythm of normalcy that was our initial pacing? I hate to admit it but I stood there thinking, “Kids in elementary school have money to buy drugs?” Yeah, that was my first thought. You know how you can’t help but draw a reference to your own experience? When I was in elementary school, if we had any money at all, it went straight into keeping the dental profession employed though purchasing and eating as much candy as we could stuff into our mouths. Drugs?

I know I looked like some sort of mannequin standing at the front of that class. I can’t even tell you how I pulled it together. Actually I’m not sure I did. I left that class and went to my car. I sat in my car for a long while. A really long while. Have you ever been struck by a reality that you, intellectually, think you know? I mean I’m not naive or anything but there was something about this moment that tore at me.

Drugs and children selling drugs in elementary school and we are arguing over budgetary issues and firing teachers. If this is where we are today, where will we be tomorrow after we’ve debated and destroyed the one place our nation’s children should feel safe if not at home?

I know I’m ranting a bit here, but this incident hit me hard and I might as well still be sitting in my car in that schools parking lot deep in thought.

How do we deal this issues such as this?

We started this journey in March to see if I could make it through an online creative writing course based in Madrid. Rather than me give you a play by play on what it was like, I’m hoping a few of my classmates who speak/read English will chime in at some time to give you their impression of the frightened kid at the back of the class trying not to be noticed.

Before I started this exercise, I loved writing! Now? Well, I love it even more. One of the benefits of writing in a secondary or tertiary language is how much easier it feels to return to your primary language and write. I sat down the other day and finished the 1st draft of an entire chapter in one day. Do you know what a miracle that is for me? I actually have gained the confidence that I could complete a chapter a day if I just sit down and do it. Oh, realize this… when I say I’ve completed an entire chapter that is not actually a completed chapter. It’s a rough, really rough, draft. I usually go through 8 to 12 drafts before I feel comfortable presenting my work. The exception to this rule has been this class with it’s deadlines and parameters.

What am I going to do now that the class is over? Well, I’m not going to Disneyland but a nap sure sounds nice. Ooh, a nice long, quiet, uninterrupted nap sounds sooo nice.

Thank each and everyone of you who decided to stick this journey out with me and read every single thing I threw at you. You are all officially saints who have earned an extra pair of wings to do with what you will.

Below you’ll find links to the last story if you’d like to download and read it. One in English and one in Spanish.

Quiero dar las gracias a todos, ojala que cruzaremos caminos el el futuro.

Besos y Abrazos para toda la vida mi gente.

Djeliba Baba the Storyteller

Unrequited (pdf.)

No Correspondido (pdf.)

They waited inside, the senator shaking hands and accepting congratulations while his wife stood passively by, smiling and nodding in an agreeable, affirming manner whenever someone happened to look her way. A cab arrived and the aids made umbrellas magically appear out of nowhere as they escorted the couple across the hotel entrance’s red carpet and swiftly into the cab. She had been spared the insult of being harassed by the falling drops of water thanks to the extreme diligence of the senator’s aids. She entered the cab first, as dry as she had been when nearly falling asleep in the banquet room during her husband’s rousing speech.

“To the Alex Hotel!” ordered the senator.

The cab slowly pulled away from the curb, rolling through a deep pool of water that threatened to enter the car as it carefully merged into traffic.

“What did you think of my speech?”

“It was wonderful dear, possibly your best to date,” she responded.

She always answered that question with the exact same phrase and in the exact same tone whenever he asked. He never noticed. The senator’s cell phone began ringing.

“I have to take this!”

Every call was an urgent one that needed to be answered. She nodded her well-rehearsed affirming nod, and turn to stare out of the window of the cab into the city’s darkness.

“Tell that asshole if he doesn’t vote for the appropriations like he said he would I’ll make sure he regrets it!”

The senator’s voice faded into a mist of sounds partially drowned out by the rain pelting the roof of the car and partially by the music playing on the cab driver was playing.

“First time in New York ma’am?”

The cab driver was speaking to her. No one ever spoke to her. She regained the fraction of composure she had lost staring out into the night and answered him. He had a thick Cameroonian accent. She loved foreign accents, they reminded her of her years in college when she met much more interesting people than she was meeting as a senator’s wife.

“No, I grew up here. This used to be my home,” she answered, still thoughtlessly staring out of the window into a rapidly passing obscurity.

“Well my father used to always tell me that home is anywhere your heart is,” spoke the driver.

A sudden, intense blend of heightened anticipation and hopeful exhilaration wash over her entire body. There was something familiar about the cab driver’s voice. She quickly turned away from the window and looked into the cabs rearview mirror. Instinctively she drew her hand to her chest as her heart began an unmeasured, frenetic pulsing. Her breathing became very shallow as she recognized the pair of dark eyes looking back at her in the rearview mirror. The senator continued with his phone conversation.

“Call Congressman Bradley and tell him that this offer has a short shelf life.”

She was gripped by an inability to speak. She struggled to catch her breath.

“Do you believe that ma’am?” asked the cab driver.

In the haze of confusion whirling around in her head, she could barely manage to say a single word.

“What?” was her barely audible murmur, but the cab driver heard her.

“Do you believe that home is wherever the heart finds itself?”

There was no mistaking the identity of the pair of beautiful ebony hued eyes returning her gaze in the rearview mirror. His name was Marcel. They had met in college, shared a love of insatiable desire and then, later, after graduating, they parted ways in a manner that left many questions unanswered between them.

“I don’t care if the subcommittee is dragging its’ heals on this, we need a decision by next week!”

As Marcel attempted to navigate the tumult of the stormy night, turning corners, slowing and stopping at barely visible lights, his eyes faithfully returned to her at unpredictable intervals in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your answer ma’am,” he said.

“Yes,” she whispered, almost to herself, somewhat incoherently.

She struggled for something smart to say, something to alleviate the awkward stress of the moment. She desperately wanted to speak but no words would come from her mouth. She was lost in a confusion that was as surprisingly pleasant as it was discomforting.

“Some say that there is more said in silence than with words spoken aloud,” said the Marcel. “Do you think this is true?”

“Yes!” she quickly answered, loudly and without hesitation, brimming with an enthusiasm that startled her husband.

“Are you alright dear?” asked the senator as he cupped his hand over the receiver of his cell phone.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

The senator had already returned to his call before she could complete her answer.

She could see that Marcel was smiling a wide smile. He always smiled. This was what had made her fall in love with him in college, his smile, his eyes. He held up an old cassette between his thumb and forefinger, showing it to her as he continued looking ahead, driving. Marcel put a cassette in the cassette deck of his cab and turned up the volume. He still used cassettes! She smiled from somewhere deep within. He had always been quirky that way. In college he still had an 8-track while everyone else had moved on to cassettes and now, here in the digital age here was playing a cassette while everyone else had moved on to iPods. Marcel began singing the song from the cassette he had chosen, an old Bob Marley standard, “No, woman, no cry.”

“Please!” shouted the senator, “I’m trying to conduct business back here!”

Marcel continued secret serenade, boldly ignoring the senator’s plea for quiet.

Good friends we have, oh, good friends we have lost along the way, yeah!

She couldn’t control the involuntary smile rising up from within her. The deep resonance of Marcel’s voice made her body shudder in a very pleasant way she thought lost with age. She exhaled slightly as her body began to recall the passion of their shared moments.

Marcel sang out even louder, “Little darlin don’t shed no tear.”

Her heart pushed back at his singing in inebriated, uneven palpitations. She waited each second for him to return his eyes to her from the road in front of him. It was almost as if an eternity of time elapsed each time the road forced him to look away before he would eventually return her gaze in the rearview mirror.

Subconsciously, she began singing the song with him, but in a very low inaudible, respectful voice. Marcel grinned, as he was able to catch glimpses of her lips moving in sync with his in mirror.

No, woman, no cry;
No, woman, no cry. Eh, yeah!
A little darlin’, don’t shed no tears:
No, woman, no cry. Eh!

Irritated by the driver’s display of impertinence, the senator forcefully interrupted the chorus once again but no one heard him. His wife’s eyes were transfixed on the rearview mirror awaiting Marcel’s gaze to return from the road. Lost in his own world, the senator was unable to see what was happening in his presence. He returned to his call.

“Just another crazy New York night Stan, tell Joshua to return that call tonight, don’t wait until tomorrow!”

The duo’s singing got louder as they approached the Alex hotel.

Everything’s gonna be all right-a!
Everything’s gonna be all right!
Everything’s gonna be all right, yeah!
Everything’s gonna be all right!

As the cab pulled over to the submerged curb, other aids dashed from the hotel with umbrellas and opened the doors. Throngs of reporters, cameramen and writers were standing in the pouring rain outside of the hotel, waiting to elicit just a few words from the senator. The senator jumped out of the cab and stood up fully erect, reaching one of his hands back into the cab to help his wife exit. She didn’t emerge.

Everything’s gonna be all right! they sang

Now Marcel’s gaze wasn’t distracted any longer by his having to drive. She possessed his full attention. While Marcel sang, he made sure to punctuate each word that held special meaning with heavy annunciating.

O little darlin…

A joy she had not felt in years was filling her to the brim as she began singing louder.

No, woman – no, woman – no, woman, no cry;

“Honey, we’re here!” shouted the senator.

His voice was angry, which startled her but she remained euphorically defiant. The song was finished. There was something in her that wanted, no needed, to finish singing this song. She ignored her husband and continued singing, loudly.

No, woman, no cry;
No, woman, no cry. Eh, yeah!
A little darlin’, don’t shed no tears:
No, woman, no cry. Eh!

He had never encountered this sort of behavior from his wife. The senator ducked his head down into the cab just as the song was finishing, grabbing his wife’s hand. She scooted across the seat from her side maintaining eye contact. Just as she was about to exit the car she reached back inside to retrieve one of the business cards stuck in the divider separating the driver from his passengers.

The senator’s aids slammed the cab door closed and escorted the couple through the mob of press. The cab slowly pulled away from the curb and then stopped. She turned and watched. The cab then finally pulled away, driving off into the evening’s downpour.

The End