One morning as I was leaving my room to go downstairs I noticed Anna sitting in the window of her bedroom staring out into space. About 20 minutes later I returned up the steps to do some reading in my room. Anna was still sitting in the same spot staring out of the window.

I thought it my duty to break the desperate monotony of her unfortunate circumstance; after all, I’ve reared three children and I’ve seen this situation before. I called out to her, “are you bored Anna?”

She left the seating of her window and came to greet me in the hallway. Her English is limited so she speaks with a slight Polish accent. She asked, “what is this bored you say, please explain to me?”

I began my explanation by telling her that, in America, children are often heard to say the words, “I’m bored,” and that boredom is when you don’t have anything to do.

I watched as her head tilted sideways with a curious peering in her eyes; she spoke, “but there is “always” something to do.”

I could see that she was not grasping the concept of boredom so I attempted to rephrase my explanation in a way that I thought would be more accessible to her young, impressionable, mind.

“You see,” I said, “being bored is when there may be things to do but they are not interesting to you.”

I watched the grooves of her forehead grow deeper as she inquired, “but then you find a thing interesting for you… do you not?”

“Yes you are right,” I chimed in, “you could, but maybe you don’t know something interesting at that moment.”

“If I do not know interesting I ask my father and he find me a thing interesting to do,” she responded.

“Yes that could be an option but…”

“I don’t think I understand this word… bored,” she interrupted, rather flustered.

Finding myself floundering in my attempts to explain the theory of boredom, I simply gave up and admitted that I really didn’t understand it either. I asked Anna if I could join her in her window to see what she saw. Being the gracious host that she is, Anna was more than pleased to share her window. The view was serene, stunningly scenic. We both simply drifted away from ever having had the the confusing conversation about “being bored.”

A ridiculous concept when you think about, isn’t it?

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

Excuse the generalizations if you are one of those people who never do that, or find it abhorrent. I generalize and do it as often as possible. My mind isn’t structured not to do it.

I was not ready for Poland and I can wholeheartedly admit it. My experience with my music and storytelling has been similar to the itinerate bard of ages past who plied his trade under, often, questionable conditions in less than reputable venues. But, as my grandmother always said, “bills must be paid.”

The thing that I wasn’t prepared for was the level of popularity that the Craft of Storytelling enjoyed in Poland. My host explained that storytelling had not taken hold in the culture like he would desire it to, but everywhere I turned I experienced people who were passionate listeners. At every show we did, the audiences offered faces of intense interest and desire to gain something from the experience. We even had people follow us back home to engage in all night sessions of continued tale telling.

I, personally, seemed to be most popular with women, 70 to 85 or so. I kept having these very intimate conversations and getting approached back stage by elderly women with bright youthful eyes and tons of questions. As always, the children were reliable participants in the storytelling experiences, but I have to say that I found the adoration of the elderly something I could really get used to.
I had so many opportunities to listen to tellers, professional and non professional, that I often lost track of where I was or where we were going. I was listening or telling tales so often that, at one point, I even went out to perform with my clothing on “inside-out” and one sock on. I had been engaged in a conversation with an elderly man about the Warsaw Ghetto. This was prior to my time to go out on stage and I forgot to get dressed. His story was so intense that I felt ashamed at having to leave and go perform. It was fortunate for me that the old man waited. I spent quite a bit of time listening to his story.

I knew that diversity was not Poland’s strong suite but I didn’t know that meant .001% of other ethnicities lived there. I was told that there were lots and lots of people of color in Poland. I was told this often but either my eyes were deceiving me or I went a week without encountering another person of color. Why do I mention this you might ask? Well, I found myself reflecting on James Baldwin’s words and experience when he visited Switzerland and finished that seminal piece “Go Tell It on the Mountain.” Baldwin found himself the “only” person of color in a tiny Swiss Village. So many of his words were resonating deep within me now that I felt as though I had completely fathomed his words so many years ago. For those who want to read Baldwin’s own words, the article was titled “Stranger in the Village,” circa 1955.

The people I encountered in Poland, “all” went out of their way to make me feel comfortable. The hospitality I experienced was akin to that which I’ve experienced when visiting family “Down South.”

There were those who stopped and stared as if they had never seen a “good looking, tall-drink of water” (I’m sorry, I can’t help but joke sometimes… it’s just me), but I found those people in the minority.

The food. Oh my God! The food!

Why aren’t Polish people enormous? Potatoes, potatoes combined with breads, cheeses and pork prepared in a million different ways. And yet, I witnessed some of the most slender people on the planet walking around. Everyone was eating this type of food. I couldn’t eat this way. I would’ve come back needing 3 seats on the plane. Someone has seriously got to answer that question for me. Why aren’t Polish people fat?
All right, I’m going to close this out. My host was the Storytelling Museum, which is being built as we speak by Michal Malinowski. It is one of the most beautiful structures I have ever seen. Maybe, in my eyes, its’ beauty has to do with its’ dedication to the oral word.

I felt like I had a brother in Michal. We sometimes stayed up until the sun came out talking through the night. Our taste in literature, art, cultures of the world and music ran parallel. Although we were running from one scheduled event to another unplanned event at break neck speeds sometimes, I found the opportunity to tell tales with him to be an extremely joyful experience. There was one time he and I were relaxing in a park after a long day of about 5 or 6 performances. There was a bar nearby. Neither of us drinks alcohol but Michal suggested we go to the bar. “Why would we do that?” was my question. His response, “Maybe the people in there want to hear some stories.” You see why I said like a brother to me.

Now this will sound like some kind of opening to a joke but it is true. Two storytellers walk into a bar (Michal and I) and approach the owner to see if he wants his patrons to hear some stories. The owner was so happy to have us walk into his establishment that he turned off the radio, television and quieted everyone for our impromptu performance. It was a first for me. I can’t imagine walking into “any” bar in the U.S. and taking it over with storytelling.

Hmmmm. Maybe there’s a revolutionary idea in there somewhere.

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

Children today are drowning in the violent seas of extreme academic testing. I find no other way to say it. Extreme is the word for it when our educators are mandated to spend more time instructing towards testing objectives than teaching to the needs of the child.

I have a few teachers across California whom I call “my patrons.” Traditionally, no matter what society you examine, every bard had patrons who supported their music and storytelling activities. Without these benefactors, bards had no means to consistently ply their trade. Most of my patrons are teachers who, personally, schedule me to visit their classrooms; usually sometime during the end of mandated state and federal testing periods in their schools. I drop in to a classroom for about an hour to an hour and a half to try to bring some levity, humor, but also attempt to redirect the young minds back towards a joy of learning; which testing never did nor never will provide.

I went to visit one classroom in particular because this teacher explained to me that her students were “totally stressed out” following this testing period. Imagine that… 7, 8, and 9 year olds stressed out. Alright this is not the time or place for me to rant on the misguided, testing monstrosity that mires the minds of our children in a muddy mess of linear thought patterns and an overly aggressive need for compartmentalization that subliminally chants, “Don’t teach to think instruct for test.”

Oops… I apologize. I guess that was a bit of a rant, wasn’t it?

Anyway, back on track… this particular teacher made an urgent plea for me to come to her class and share music and storytelling. She, in her own words, was in desperate need of her children to decompress and unravel from the anxiety associated with their recent testing. She was also desperate for her room to regain the feeling of warmth that it had prior to being transformed into its’ current pressure cooker like condition.

When I arrived to the classroom, it was a sad, indescribable heart pain to see these gaunt visages on faces so young. As resilient as children can be, it didn’t take long before many of the expressions broke into bright, cheerful smiles. What was the reason for the smiles you might ask? Well, today was, definitely, not going to be a routine day. Often teachers and I will work in consort and not tell the children that their storyteller is coming. The benefit this has in breaking from routine is obvious.

I didn’t waste any time at all. I gathered the children around the storytelling area and plopped myself on the floor with them at their eye level. My benevolent benefactor positioned herself just to the rear of the children, smiling as much, if not more, vigorously than her learners at the heightened anticipation of our start.

I started with gentle harp playing and low-tone singing before transitioning into a fable about appreciation. These children had learned some of my songs on previous visits so they were primed to jump in and help out with the singing. I made sure to continue playing in a relaxed manner, somewhat larghetto, nothing allegro or prestissimo. I transitioned from one song to the next embedding tales within the music and proverbs within the stories. A well placed joke here or there to lighten the mood and continuous, soothing harp strings. It wasn’t long before I witnessed the dark eyes of all of the children brighten from dark mood I had initially encountered when first entering the room. I could sense the children relaxing and that affirmed my presence for me.

Sometime during the first 15, maybe 20 minutes, into our session, our little concert was interrupted by very soft, but audible, sounds of someone snoring. Seated in a small chair, to the rear of the children; there she was, my sweet supporter, the children’s teacher, passed out sleep and adorned with the calmest countenance I had ever seen on her. She was snoring a very peaceful, blissful snore. The children all turned to see where the snoring was coming from and immediately began giggling. I placed an index finger to my pressed lips and did a very quiet shush. I went back to playing my harp, just as softly as before and continued talking in relaxed, low tones launching into, yet, another tale. The children soon were immersed in the details of the tales, offering character suggestions, setting descriptions and their own ideas on advancing the plot.

I continued playing my harp for another 30 minutes or so. I wanted her to enjoy this rare, quiet, stolen moment in time. She had earned it.
After I finished, as if by magic similar to that possessed in the kiss from the handsome prince, our sleeping beauty awoke as the final note of the song faded into silence. Needless to say, she was embarrassed beyond belief and oh so apologetic. I tried to assure here that she had given me the greatest compliment a storyteller could ever receive.

Whenever I think of this particular session, I always break into a wide, spontaneous smile. These spontaneous smiles happen with me a lot and I have a fear that one day someone will choose to have me committed for them.

Here we had a teacher who was so concerned about the stress and anxiety that testing had wrought on her children that she never stopped to consider the ill effects this same situation was having on her.

There is a proverb that I love which sums up this incident better than any other words I might try to offer and it simply says, “When a mother is hungry she will ask… have the children eaten?”

Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da

Baba the Storyteller

http://www.babathestoryteller.com

The reality of my situation set in during my introduction and briefing with the director of the detention center, which went something like this:

Director: “Here’s the layout of your visit, the first group you will be performing for are our high risk, mentally unstable serving 25 years to life The second group you’ll be performing for are housed in a segregated dorm, they are our population of sexual offenders, which is a much larger group than your first…”

I have to admit that my mind had not progressed beyond hearing the words 25 years to life and contemplating what crime these youth had committed to be sentenced to 25 years to life and what, exactly, qualified as “mentally unstable” or “high risk.” The director was amazingly warm, welcoming, and had a disarming charm about him; the kind of person you could imagine as a loyal, trusted friend. He continued running down the list of six different dorms that I would visit this day, each housing youth of specific category of criminal offense.

When he finished briefing me, he cheerfully looked me in the eyes and asked, “Is all of this alright with you Baba?”

My response, an uncompromising, enthusiastic… “yes, of course!”
There were hundreds of stories running through my head waiting to be chosen, along with ideas of movement, engagement and music. I had to wait until I was in the presence of each group to actually determine the pieces of the repertoire that would be most effective. The only concrete decision I had arrived at prior to seeing my audience were the themes; I definitely was going to offer them tales and music centered on fear as an illusion of reality and self-awareness and self-knowledge as keys to any type of positive growth.

I had already been told that my first group, those youth serving 25 years to life, were rarely permitted outside of their cells and had never received the type of programming that I had been brought in to deliver. I was the first, the grand experiment if you will.
Pressure?

For any thinking person… yes, but remember I’m the guy who chose the unconventional, possibly nonsensical, career path of as a storyteller so my cognitive capabilities are, quite often, called in to question. Nope! No pressure here.

The dorm was dark, subdued lighting with large cinder block walls painted in varying shades of grey. The brightness of the room came in the form of the artwork that the youth had been able to dress their dorm with. Their themes were acknowledging other cultures and they had chosen to put drawings of leopards, lakes and landscapes on a small, designated wall of their dormitory.

Upon entering the common area they are all required to walk with their hands behind their backs. Movement was strictly coordinated. They were not allowed to stand, walk or turn around without the consent of one of the councilors. Watching them enter and witnessing the visible signs of depression on many of their faces was heart wrenching. The vacant stares off into space and flat affect hinted to me that there was some degree of medicating although I had no other evidence of this.

This is going to sound a little cheesy in the way I describe it but, at the moment, I can’t think of any other way to describe it. You Vegas gamblers will appreciate the metaphor. While watching the inmates enter and listening to the sounds of their dorm, taking in the scents and the environment; it is as if a slot machine in my head is spinning different windows of stories to use, music to play and ideas towards facilitating conversation. Just before I am told that my audience is ready is the moment that the spinning abruptly halts and that jackpot that gamblers crave so desperately, hundreds of coins free falling; for me this moment is the epiphany revealing the right tale to tell, the music and words that will illicit engagement from my listeners.

I could see the trepidation in the eyes of a few of the councilors in allowing me to take over. After all, this was different, experimental… something that had not been tried before. I respected their apprehensions but also remembered that I came to do a job and my life is inextricably tied to my work. I took the reigns of control without hesitation and began presentation by playing my harp in a soothing manner, moving throughout the rows of small desk-chairs that the inmates were seated in, singing using very soft tones and alternating between the song and narrative. I opened this way because I thought it exhibited a level of vulnerability that might break the ice of unfamiliarity. While singing and playing I sought the eyes of the youth, surveying to see which of them were comfortable or uncomfortable with that level of intimacy. It is not surprising that most were not comfortable, only a few seemed to desire that level of engagement in the beginning.

At the end of the song, they all just sat there staring. For me, it was a beautiful silence. It’s hard to describe this specific type of silence, but let me try. There are two types of silence a performer may encounter at the close presenting their art form. One type is the silence equivalent to a comic that has just bombed, a very uncomfortable, intimidating, heavy silence filled with several dimensions negativity. The second is an awestruck, mesmerized silence as if you’ve just hypnotized your entire audience and they are still absorbing what you’ve just done. I have been on the receiving end of both so my sensibilities are quite clear in this area. My youth sat transfixed offering the second form of silence. I smiled, knowing that I had transcended the artificial barriers that segregated us… me as visitor, or performer, and them as inmates.

I proceeded with speaking, telling a few jokes and engaging them with questions interwoven within the tales. If anyone had been witness to their enthusiasm by the end of the performance they would have thought a miracle of transformation had occurred, that these youth had somehow overcome serious afflictions to finally feel themselves as part of our small, albeit, temporary community sharing music and stories. I would love to take credit for imbuing them with this moment of transcendence, but I can’t. The reality is that all human beings crave being acknowledged in some way, shape or form and the chance to have another human being view you with respect is the essence of interpersonal, social interaction. I simply filled a void that needed to be filled.

The rest of my visits throughout this long day elicited similar responses, some containing more laughter than others and music and tales changing depending on the dynamics of the group seated in front of me. Each group dictated my direction.

I would love to go into more detail of how each session occurred, the stories I was able to share, the youth’s response, questions and conversations but I respect my readers time and I’ve already run over what is probably the acceptable word length as far as bloggers are concerned.

I will sum this up by saying that my experience with these incarcerated youth was one of absolute positivity. I am not ignorant of the violence or harm that these youth have perpetuated on the innocent, nor am I in a state of denial about their need to be where they are. If we, as a society, are going to include the word “rehabilitate” in our vocabulary then we will need to clearly define what we mean by that and allow it to fall from the pages of our dictionaries into our lives. There are so many avenues available to touch the soul of another human being and if storytelling, music and other arts are, not only proficient at it, but exceptional, then we need to employ them more, not less, with our youth regardless of their station in life  or socio-economic conditions.

Warmest regards from your ubiquitous bard remembering I am because we are… aluta continua.

Baba the Storyteller

Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.

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

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

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

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

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

“Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da!”

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

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

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

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

Baba the Storyteller

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dooni, dooni kononi bé nyaga da

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

Baba the Storyteller

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dooni, dooni kononi bé nyaga da.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dooni, dooni kononi bé nyaga da.

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

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

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Creo que esto es por eso yo hago esta trabaja.

Dime con quien andas y te diré quien eres.

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

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

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

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

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

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

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

I was giving workshops at an elementary school yesterday. One of those schools where they just tell me to come and do what I do for their children without the bureaucratic ends/outs I so often encounter. So the concept I chose to deal with was effective oral delivery.

I’ve been to the school before, so when I arrived I received the typical warm greetings from the front office staff and spent a few minutes conversing since I was a bit ahead of schedule. While we were talking I heard a young boy yelling my name from the principal’s office (never a good place to be for me during my youth). He ran out and gave me a big hug and he and I talked for a good 30 seconds.

Later that day, about the third workshop, that same young boy was in session with me and about 30 other children. We had a wonderful time exchanging information, learning from one another and practicing our oral delivery techniques. Things went really well. I felt like I accomplished something this day and left the school with that feeling of worth that’s a little hard to describe unless your into providing service to your community.

As I was walking out of the school, the principal and the assistant principal stopped me to talk with me. They explained that the little boy who hugged me earlier was in their office because he was being expelled from school for a period of time due to some inappropriate behavior on campus (I can attest that they are very strict when it comes to the no fighting, pushing, pulling, spitting stuff). I really couldn’t believe that the sweet little kid who had hugged me earlier was actually on the suspension chopping block at the time. The principal then informed me that they lifted his suspension from campus because, and check this out… they lifted his suspension from campus because I was there that day and they wanted him to have time with me in my workshop.

You can’t see it because your reading but there is this unusually wide grin pasted across the front of my face. Proud? Yes, of course, who wouldn’t be honored by a gesture such as this?

Anyway, the principal went on to explain how her methods were child centered and she would do whatever it took to reach each and every child on her campus to help them to become successes.

Wow!

My drive home in the LA traffic didn’t bother me at all this day. I woke up this morning feeling just as good as the day before. Maybe this is why I do what I do.

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da.

As I always include the children in the telling of the tale, through question/answer and discussion, I punctuated this moment with a question, asking if they understand what it took to get such huge muscles?

Each child had his/her own take on the issue: working out, eating vegetables, running on the treadmill, etc.

One young man, very eager to answer, stood up from his seat and shouted: “Steroids! No one gets that big unless they’re taking steroids!”

I love being a storyteller. Welcome to my world.

“Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da.”

“Youth run everywhere and, yet, see nothing. The old sit quietly in one place and see everything.”

I appreciate the respect for age, maturity, and wisdom possessed by many other cultures of the world. When I travel, I still marvel at the level of deference the youth of other parts of the world employ when engaging their elders. Our youth obessession in this country has definitely led to all types of maladjusted behaviors.

My hope for the future is that a tide will turn and we will stop obsessing over the fleeting phantom of Youth.

“dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da!”

Ok, I’m a gentle soul but I also know that this is the kind of thing that even Mother Teresa going after this person. I sat in my car, didn’t budge an inch, waiting for the person to come out of their car. As I heard their door open, I couldn’t see because there was a huge van in the stall next to them blocking my view. As I heard their door open and close I began getting out of my car. I definitely wasn’t thinking.

From around the corner, walking away from the car around the van came the sweetest looking old woman you could have ever layed your eyes on. I was stunned for a second. This woman was definitely old enough to be my grandmother. I didn’t know how to handle this. I couldn’t jump in her face and yell at her. I couldn’t collar her or berate her with endless barage of expletives. She was too old and too sweet looking for that. My rage had been disarmed by a cultural paradigm for a respect for age that had been drummed into me during my youth.

As she walked past me she simply shrugged her shoulders and gave me a rather sheepish grin.

I got back into my car. As I had decided to calm myself and just roam the lot for another spot, I noticed her bumper sticker.

It read, and I couldn’t make this stuff up, it actually read: “This vehicle is guided by Jesus.”

Can you believe it? I couldn’t! I burst out laughing just sitting there.

So, that’s who really cut me off huh?

Is anyone else’s life like this? It can’t be just my life that has these endless streams of unbelievable, yet entertaining, incidents in it.

Oh, and I forgot to tell you one more thing. My daughter just reminded me. A little later in the day I also locked my keys in the car and she had to come and open it up for me. She’s walking away laughing.

Yeah, this is my life.

Since I was the closing act of the showcase, I figured I would do something a little special for the children. The announcer began introducing me and, just as I began to step from the wings of the stage, the entire section of 150 2nd graders stood up on the command of their teacher and begin exiting the auditorium.

I had 10 minutes to do my thing and this kinda threw me for a little loop. I regrouped, tried to ignore the grand exit and jumped right into my harp playing and singing. Fortunately for me, the exit was rather quick but they left a big hole in the audience.

I have had elders and mentors over the years tell me that you ignore this type of situations and keep on moving with your performance. I kept on going. As I was getting into the rhythm of my performance, a young girl of about 4 to 6 years old slowly descended from the seats in the upper area of the auditorium. She was all alone. I imagine her parents brought her. She came and sat right there at the edge of the stage as I was singing. I focused my attention on her and she was more than delighted to receive it. I went into a tale, just for her.

We had a really good time as she helped my in building the tale. When I finished my 10 minute slot I made sure to thank her for her inspiration.

I could choose to focus my thoughts and energies on the large group of children that were escorted out or I could choose to view the gift of the young girl’s presence at the edge of the stage.

Which would you choose.

Dooni, dooni kononi be nyaga da

I like to believe that those things we might consider weaknesses are actually opportunities for growth, spiritual and physical. In order to attain this growth I think we have to gain a deeper understanding of who we are as individuals.

The following proverb is a Bamana proverb that I think bears meaning outside of its’ cultural context.

“Numu tè kè Dugutigi ye (A Smith doesn’t become a Chief).”

Until our words,

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

“When the rabbit insults a hawk his companion is surely an eagle.”

I would love to get other takes on this one. I enjoy learning the different ways we approach words and their meanings.

So, until the next word: “Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

Now, I have always been the type of guy who laughed at, and poked fun at those guys who rush out to the grocery store for a hair coloring kit to make them appear younger than they actually are. I used to consider these vain, lacking in self-awareness; that is, of course, until I saw my first grey hair. Things definitely seem to change with age.

Well… my vanity overtook me and I found myself standing in front of our bathroom mirror with a set of tweezers, ready to go to work on that infamous single grey hair. I quickly plucked it, looked at myself in the mirror and smiled, “the youngster was back.”

I wish I had been warned, no one told me this but, a few weeks later, there were 10 grey strands that appeared to replace the 1 I had plucked.

I resolutely, at that moment, surrendered to the inevitable. I figured that I had earned those grey hairs and so I might as well make piece with them and let it grow where they see fit.

“Dooni, dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

Yes, the little girl actually walked up to me and said that she was proud to be African-American. I stood there for a second and for some reason sounds and images of Maya Angelou’s poem “Still I rise” raced through my mind. I felt like I needed to do something for this child or, at least, give her something. I asked her if she liked stories. She smiled up at me and said, “Yes, I love stories!” I then asked her if she would like me to play some music and share a story with her. Her eyes lit up like candles as she yelled, “Yes, Yes, Yes!” It was at this point that this excited young child turned, screaming yes and began running down the hallway of the school, away from me. I stood there a little dumbfounded but I could hear her screaming yes as she ran all the way from around the corner and down another hall. She hadn’t told me her name, I didn’t know what classroom she was in and I didn’t know if I could locate her to share the story I wanted to share with her. Anyway I went into the office, signed in and headed to share the day with my 2nd grader classes, accompanied by my friend and liaison, the wonderful and talented Amy Ruth Ellison (a gifted pianist and all around communicator).

After two visits to two separate 2nd grade classrooms I had a short break. I explained my predicament to Amy about the young girl I had met earlier, before school. Amy promised me that she would track down the child’s classroom and that I could fulfill my music and story debt if the teacher were willing to give up a little class time. It didn’t take much tracking for Amy to find the child. Her name is Noel and apparently she has somewhat of a reputation for being a bit of an extrovert. Amy and I agreed that after I finished with the second graders we would make a visit to her class.

Here’s another reason why I love what I do. During the third session of 2nd graders, Amy was with me but she wasn’t as engaged as she usually was. You see Amy is someone I can usually rely on to be as animated as the children. She the type of teacher/administrator, who sits down on the floor with you and the children, raises her hands with the children to answer questions and laughs out as loud, if not louder, than most of the children. During the third session she was seated at the teacher’s desk, head down and absorbed in writing. I didn’t question her; I just thought that today may have been a little different for her and she was doing what she needed to do.

Once I finished the third session, I started saying my goodbyes to the children when Amy stopped me. “Wait,” she said, “I have something I want to share.”

I sat down with the children and all of our eyes were on her. Amy explained to us that she had felt inspired by the music and storytelling that the class was experiencing and was motivated to write a limerick. She then asked, “May I read it to all of you?” The class, in unison gave her a resounding “Yes,” me included.

Amy stood in front of us and then said excitedly, “The title of my limerick is Asha’s Baba!”

You could have scooped my chin up off of the floor with a forklift. I smiled one of those smiles where the corners of your mouth are beating against your earlobes. You know what I’m talking about, one of those smiles that, when you try to contain it, it just gets wider and wider until the person seated next to you has to move.

The children and I sat quietly waiting the few seconds for her to read the limerick. Here is what Amy wrote:

“Asha’s Baba”

The African harp he will play,
Children will ask him to stay,
Words have great power,
Thoughts bloom like flowers,
Imaginations soar each day.

When Amy finished we all clapped, especially me, really loud. I loved it! I don’t know if or when I have ever inspired someone to write poetry but it felt better than good. Man! I mean really really good! I gave Amy a hug and told her that that was the most wonderful gift. I asked her if I could share it with some of my friends on the web. She consented and so here it remains for all to read.

Amy and I finished with the 2nd graders and made our way to the one 5th grade class that I wasn’t supposed to be visiting today. You know, contractually you’re scheduled to do something and do only that thing and once you’ve completed the contract you’re supposed to be done. Right? Well not if you are a storyteller who loves his work. I promised the young girl a story with music and by darn a story with music is what I was going to give her.

Her teacher consented to the interruption of her very busy schedule, for which I was especially grateful. When we entered the class I caught Noel’s eyes and she was absolutely beaming; that made me feel good. Due to the fact that my visit was an interruption to the schedule I tried to limit the amount of time I took up of the class. Before I got started Amy read the limerick to the class and told them that I had inspired it. When she finished, I did some interactive storytelling fused with music and song. When I completed the session and was about to leave the classroom, the children began clapping and wanting to ask questions. I didn’t want to take anymore of the teacher’s instructional time away so I handed the class over to Amy. Amy stood before the class, smiling a very wide mischievous smile and said, “Asha’s Baba inspired me to write another limerick; can I read this one to you also?” The group of eager 5th graders gleefully answered in unison with, “Yes!”

There I was again, grinning like “Mr. Ed.”

Amy began to read her limerick:

“The Kora”

Mandinka is a language he shares
For the African Harp Kora, he cares
Bahteeoh, Bahtee
All listen and see
Mankind he inspires and for life prepares.

The words “Bahteeoh, Bahtee” are actually words that I use which come from the Kru Language but I wasn’t about to stress it. I was riding high. I was feeling good. I don’t know if there is anything that could have brought me down after this visit. Amy and I left the classroom, she escorted me to my car and we parted with a really good hug.

Man do I love my work! I can’t imagine doing anything else.

Now, this is why I do what I do.

“Dooni, dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

After the performance we gathered together off to the side to converse. I could not have framed them more poetically had I purposely positioned them myself; the mother, Ianthè, was standing in the center with a child on each side of her, daughter Dahlia, about 4, and son Asher, I think 7 or 8 years old. To her right was her husband, David and directly behind them were their elders (grandparents) Joel and Antonia. It was a beautiful image.

They were all picturesque souls, but my focus was on the soft-spoken, bright-eyed matriarch standing to the rear of everyone. I was attempting to convey a Bamana (West African Culture) concept, some might say metaphysical concept, when the soft-spoken woman completed my phrase. I looked up at her, and immediately, we shared a knowing smile. From that point forward she had taken possession of my heart.

When we finished our conversation, we all hugged, exchanged pleasant words and went our separate ways. Ianthè, before leaving, told me that she wanted me to come to her children’s school. I thanked her for the invitation and told her to just give me a call.

Within the week there was an email in my “inbox” from Ianthè. True to her word she was attempting to schedule me to visit her children’s school. There was one stipulation I placed on my coming to her children’s school: Her mother, Antonia, would have to be present. Ianthè consented, did all of the necessary legwork and put together a date and time for me to perform at her children’s school.

On the appointed day, March 1, 2007, I made my way to Pacific Palisades. I hadn’t been out in that area in quite some time and I was really pleased to be close to an area where you can smell the ocean air. The 10 free way, or Santa Monica Freeway, was, literally, a parking lot. Traffic has a way of agitating even the most calm among us and I’m not different. I’m a real stickler for time. I think it is one of the ways we can show respect for one another, by respecting each other’s time. I didn’t want to be late, but I didn’t want to arrive frazzled either, so I turned my music up, sang along and cruised at 10 mph up the 10 Freeway. As I relaxed a little I approached the Arlington off ramp, about 15 miles from my destination. Near the Arlington off ramp is a sign for the dedication of this section of the freeway (the section of the freeway between the 110 and the 405). I always slow down a little when I get to this section of the freeway. It just feels really good to pass by and read the name of this portion of the freeway aloud, “The Rosa Parks Freeway.” Doesn’t that just sound like sweet music to the ears.

I reconciled the time within myself and simply looked forward to seeing the family once again. My children are all adults and so I love to be around families with young children.

I pulled up in front of the school and who should be standing outside waiting on me but none other than the beautiful Antonia.

I got out of the car and we embraced. Any stress concerning time had long evaporated. We greeted, hugged, greeted again, hugged again, spoke, hugged again, gave blessings, and, yes you got it, hugged again. Only seconds after releasing our embrace, Antonia presented me with a gift of her people, The Cherokee. It was medicine pouch! A white elk skin medicine pouch with the symbol of a turtle sewn on its’ flap. My smile pushed my ears to the back of my head.

Antonia explained that, among the Cherokee, the turtle is considered a symbol of wisdom and that she felt it was something I should have. I let her know that among many cultures in Africa the turtle is also considered a symbol of wisdom, teaching, time and many other things. I told her about the Ghanaian Adinkra symbol of the turtle. I talked about the Yoruba trickster character of “Ijapa” the turtle and his exploits. I bent at the waist so that she could place the stoned/beaded necklace around my neck. I was caught in the moment, wanting it to last.

As an aside, it is truly incredible how things work out. Some years ago I was given a sacred item from the Dagara of Burkino Faso. I have kept this item tucked away in a very safe place. As fate would have it, this piece I was given fits perfectly in the Cherokee Medicine Pouch I received from my Antonio.

Our short communion was so wonderful that I almost forgot that I was scheduled to perform in the school we were standing across the street from. Antonia and I hurried across the street and, running out of the school, arms open wide open for a hug came little Dahlia. She ran straight at me, full speed. I bent down to greet her and we exchange hugs. I have only seen this child once, at the Getty Museum, but her greeting reminded me of days gone by when my sons and daughters were this age (Oh how I really miss those days.) Aren’t children truly a blessing?

We made our way to the auditorium where Ianthè was already introducing me (the consummate professional). The performance went absolutely great! I enjoyed the kids, they enjoyed me and we exchanged laughs and ideas through the music and stories. I had a ball!

There was something extraordinary that occurred after the performance. Well, it was extraordinary for me anyway. After the performance, Asher, David and Ianthè’s son, approached me. He had a wide smile on his face. He looked me in the eyes and said plainly, “I got something for you.” He then presented me with the most beautiful little red book. It was a sort of red velvet, beaded edge book, about 4″ x 4″. It had four rows of 6 tiny diamond shaped cut mirrors alternating with three rows of tiny flowers with white pearl petals and various ruby colored stone centers. Inside of the book here is what he wrote for me:

“The stories all have a meaning. They all have good characters. Every story is great.”

This was truly turning into one of those days; one of those days when I’m reminded of what a blessing to be able to do the work I do.

I gave him the hardest hug I could muster without hurting him and told him how grateful and humbled I was by his majestic gesture of giving.

Many people in North America aren’t aware of it but it is a great tradition among the Mande people that griots, traditional bards, are presented with gifts, sometimes simple (i.e. chickens, money, clothing, etc.) and sometimes elaborate (homes, cars and I know of one woman who received an airplane). The gifts given to the griots are not so much gifts as they are symbols of recognition of community and cultural continuity. Gifts are usually given to griots by members of designated noble families and represent respect for the griot as an embodiment of the memory of his/her people. There’s so much more to this but I see I am digressing so let me get back.

I tried to accept this young man’s gift with as much humility and graciousness as I could call upon. I also tried to get him to understand that what he had done had really touched me deeply. David and Ianthè must know that they are doing a wonderful job in nurturing this young soul’s mind and spirit. I would be proud of this young man if he were my son.

I later found out, from Ianthè, that Asher had used his own chore money to purchase my gift. It had all been his idea and he had set about executing it without any assistance from anyone. I need to remember this sort of thing when my faith in our youth is feeling challenged. Thank you Asher, thank you so much! I cannot say it enough, thank you.

After the performance, the family treated me to a lunch. We had time to share, talk, laugh and compare notes on parenting. It was great! I had another performance to get to but we took pictures and walked. Antonia, Ianthè and Dahlia escorted me back to my car. Before leaving my Antonia, we embraced one last time. It was the long embrace of two dear friends departing to travel their separate ways, not knowing when the reunion will happen.

I got into my car to head to the next performance (an hour and a half away with traffic) but I didn’t care. I had experienced the kind of day that I live for. Meeting new friends, sharing meals, exchanging ideas and feeling a part of something wonderful.

This is why I do what I do.

“Dooni, dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

The greatest blessing during that time was hearing some of the children using these words amongst themselves. I can’t place it for sure but I think I might have absorbed these words during my “Kwame Nkrumah” period. I have different phases and crossroads which mark changes in my life for me and I usually label them. This one feels like something Nkrumah used to say. Don’t quote me on this, I’m just thinking aloud.

“To not know is not a bad thing. To not want to know is a very bad thing.”

Once I turned around and made it to the school everything went fine. Don’t worry, I wasn’t late. I always allot more time than is actually needed to get where I need to go. I don’t like rushing. I’m probably one of the slow drivers that irritate the heck out of people. Well, I was able to unload all my gear near the performance area. From the moment of my arrival I was greeted with warm smiles and pleasant “Good Mornings.” Everyone was extremely helpful.

The performances went great. The first group was 4^th and 5^th graders. I like this age group because you can toy with metaphors and the nuances of the tale. The second group was k-3^rd and they were equally as fun as the first group. At the end of the K-3^rd performance, while the students were filing out, I noticed three young men waiting patiently to my right as I spoke with some of the 2^nd and 3^rd graders. These guys were a little bigger and obviously in the 4^th or 5^th grade. Once the younger children had exited, these three young men stepped in front of me and handed me an envelope followed by a proclamation: “We wrote this for you!”

I recognized one of the young men. I had employed him in the telling of the one of the stories to the 4^th and 5^th grade classes. He was funny. I opened the envelope and read the contents of the letter they had written me.

Apparently, after leaving the 4^th and 5^th grade assemblies, these three young men went straight to their computers and created the letter I was holding in my hands. As I read the letter I was touched.

Below is a copy of their letter. I think their words say it best. I’ve blacked out the school name and children’s last name for safety reasons. Interesting world we live in today isn’t it?

This is why I do what I do.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

She did this in 1904! A black woman establishing an institution of higher learning in 1904! If you don’t fathom the immense historical relevance of this then there is probably little I can do to convey my excitement at being able to perform at a school named in her honor.

While my anxiety might seem somewhat silly to some, there are those out there who empathize completely.

I felt that, if I am going to a school named in her honor I must do something to represent the integrity, fortitude and intelligence of such a great woman. I did not think in terms of staff, students or teachers. I thought in terms of this woman’s legacy and the opportunities that I have had because of her. If you do not think that you have been affected by this woman’s legacy then you are seriously uninformed. You really must do a little research.

The evening before going to the middle school for the performances I contemplated the music I would play, the stories I would tell and the robes I would wear. I decided that, in the spirit of Mary McLeod Bethune, I should not compromise on any of the aspects of the quality of the performance. I took out my most expensive, colorful robes; I chose music and stories of an historical significance, and than I made sure to go to bed a little earlier than usual so that I could be fully rested. I felt that, on my part, this was but a small, simple gesture in trying to do something to honor this great woman’s memory.

The next day when I arrived at the school I was greeted by my liaison, a beautiful sister named Shauna Harris. She and I actually go back a number of years and this isn’t the first time she’s brought me to a school. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries and she escorted me to the library. It had been a few years since I had seen her but that smile of hers is an unforgettable thing.

When I walked into the library I was floored. It wasn’t a state of the art, high tech, multimedia center but it had a feeling of warmth and caring as if someone had put their personal touch on it. It is very difficult to describe. It is just a feeling that you have when you walk into a place. I found the source of this warmth. Her name is Mrs. Jenkins. She is the school’s librarian; a truly fascinating woman who actually cares about each and every child who walks through the door of her library. I immediately fell in love with her. She had a gentle nature but no-nonsense spirit. She let me know that she was from Atlanta, Georgia and I could feel the southern hospitality radiating from her. She made me feel at home and offered me free reign in her library.

Mrs. Jenkins was having a Persian Proverb placed on one of the walls of her library. It read:

“He who knows not and knows not that he knows not is a fool. He who knows not and knows not is a child, teach him. He who knows and knows not that he knows is asleep, wake him. He who knows and knows that he knows is wise, follow him.”

You may have to read it a couple of times but I’m sure you’ll get it.

Mrs. Jenkins was having this placed on the wall over the entrance of her library in large letters. It struck me that her passion and desire to instill greatness in our youth were the same traits which inspired Mary McLeod Bethune to build her first school. I was standing in the presence of the spirit of Mary McLeod Bethune and I was well aware of it.

The performances went very, very well. I connected with the students of Mary McLeod Bethune Middle School in a way that left me feeling really good about my work; in a way that left me with a really good impression of them.

After the performance I got a chance to spend a little time talking with Shauna and one of the school’s social workers. Two beautiful sisters spending time talking and laughing with me; I love my work.

As I was leaving the school, I stopped to look back at the brick buildings, playgrounds, parking area. I thought to myself: “I bet you Mary McLeod Bethune would be really proud to see what has been done to honor her.”

Although I didn’t get to meet any administrators, principals or other staff members, I got the impression that the structure, discipline and care for the children of this school flows from the top down. I really got the sense during my few hours on campus that all of the adults really cared about their work and weren’t simply collecting paychecks. There was a really strong sense of community in and around this school.

I think Mary McLeod Bethune stated it best when she said, “Invest in the human soul. Who knows, it might be a diamond in the rough.”

This is why I do what I do.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

Each of those years is indelibly imprinted in my memory.

On the day I was scheduled to appear at the high school it felt like a homecoming. The only difference was that many of these students I had never encountered before. The students whom I had worked with during the previous years have all graduated.

When I got to the school I was greeted with the same warm affectionate smiles and hugs that I remembered from previous years by my liaison, Lynn. This woman is one of those silent beautiful people in our community whose quiet, unassuming work has transformed the lives of so many of our youth.

Lynn had a small cadre of young women working around her, helping to set up the auditorium for my performance. I later found out that these young women were the governing body of their campus’ “Organization of African American Unity.” You know that put a big grin on my face that expands every time I think about it.

These young women were articulate, diligent and well organized. I was pleasantly surprised. You know sometimes what we tend to expect of our youth. I apologize, I often fall victim to making some of the same misguided generalizations about our teen population.

Anyway, the performance went well. The most active participants and people seated in the front rows were the young women of the school. There was one front row that went entirely empty and yes, I made sure to speak on this as symbolic of a journey backwards.

I felt like we opened up a dialogue which I hope that they continue among themselves. I was very happy when Lynn informed me that they were using aspects of the performance for other activities that they had planned for Black History Month.

After the performance I had the opportunity to gather with the young women, take pictures and converse for a few minutes. They are my daughter’s age and I felt a special place in my heart for them. They expressed how they had been conversing among themselves about the lack of an organization to represent their culture on campus. Since there was none, these four young women decided to create something.

Can you see me jumping up and down right about now? Well I am!

These four young women didn’t sit around bemoaning the fact that something didn’t exist, they purposefully and consciously went about making something happen.

They had such humility in telling their story of creating a cultural organization on their campus that it reminded me of being in the presence of some of the great women of our struggle. I tried to express this to them but I’m not sure I was able. I tried to let them know that they are, by doing what they are doing, they are living the legacy of previous generations. I was so excited I think I mixed and jumble my words into incoherent passages. But Lynn knew what I was talking about. She gave me an affirming smile and spoke about how much pride she had in these young women.

When I travel to schools I am always looking for inspiration. These four young women inspired me and I will be talking about them for a long time to come. They officially made Gahr High School my favorite high school once again. I can’t help it; I am and will always be proud when our children live the legacy of our forbearers.

They are why I do what I do

I am forever indebted to the griots with whom I’ve studied for helping me to break away from this clinical structure of oral delivery. When I have given workshops and seminars on this topic you can feel the slight tension in the air as if I’m slaughtering the golden calf. The apprehensions generally encompass the notion that professionalism is in painstakingly preparing and effectively delivering that which you have prepared to deliver. This level of performance or production I liken to the journeyman’s level of the apprenticeship process. At this level the artesian has learned to efficiently manipulate the tools of her trade and utilize her skills to the contented benefit of the client.

There is another level beyond this rote repetition of proficiency. The level beyond this is the mastery of one’s craft. It is not enough to simply become proficient at what you do; you must push beyond the boundaries of experience. This is not done for selfish reasons or to self aggrandize; it is done to more effectively deliver your message to the six senses of each of your listeners and observers.

For the griot, digressing from the performance everyone expects to experience is not a lapse in performance organization or judgment. It is rather a tool applied systematically for a desired effect. A spontaneous or what may appear to be spontaneous; digression from the narrative is really not. The digression is often meant to season the imaginative spirit of your listener, enhance their aural experience and prepare them for something further down the road in your oration.

A master teller can employ these digressions spontaneously, at will and when inspired by occurrences during the assemblage. This improvisation may appear to be spontaneous but it is usually a practice developed over years and years of study and performance in front of countless numbers of people.

Let me give you an example of a simple digression and how it may be used. Let’s say you are telling a story of historical significance and the characters are all very lively. A short digression from this tale might be to interrupt the flow of the story with a smile or chuckle and then share with the audience the thought that just crept into your head. You may artfully digress by drawing comparison and contrast between the period and characters you are telling about with specific contemporary events and equally colorful modern-day personalities. The purpose of such a digression might be to ingrain in the minds of your listeners the parallels between antiquity and contemporary society in such a way that it becomes memorable to them. Fusing the digression with a bit emotional delivery (humor, sadness, anger, etc.) may elicit a subtle visceral response from your listener which can help to mark the experience for them.

The rule is simple: “Definitely Do Digress.”

If you comprehend the method then the madness will be all the more enjoyable to you. I have been in the company of griots who have employed this method to an extreme where the digressions were actually the main content of what they wanted their audience to receive and the core narrative was simply the vehicle for its’ expression.

Word of caution! Anything can be overdone. Be very cautious in your implementation of various aspects of the craft. “This year’s folly can become next year’s foolishness.”

The trick to learning to employ digression is to overcome whatever preconceived notions you may have about what a story is supposed to be. Stories may grow wings they may swim. They are bound only by the limits of your imagination. Employing digressions means that you are telling with a purpose, not simply entertaining for entertainments sake.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

I asked her why and she said, “well when you walked in I asked myself, who is this kid they’ve sent us to do storytelling.”

I smiled.

She went on to explain how storytelling usually requires someone with a little age and years behind them.

I asked her how old she thought I was. This veteran of education peered over her bifocals, looked me up and down intensely and said, “somewhere in your mid to late 20’s.”

I couldn’t help myself, I grabbed her spontaneously, hugged her and planted a little kiss on her cheek.

I said, “Thank you, I really needed that.”

She asked me how old I was.

It turned out that she and I are about the same age.

I love being a storyteller.

One of the questions that I always ask when I am going to perform at a school whose students are majority “Special Needs,” is what is it that they mean by special needs. I have walked into classrooms of special needs children where, out of 25 students, 20 of them were young African-American males diagnosed ADD or ADHD. I have walked into a classroom of special needs children to discover some were autistic, some dealing with cerebral palsy and many others suffering from different types of birth defects. For this reason, I always ask.

This morning I was being preped by the principal to expecct a crowd who might not be very attentive. I simply smiled. There are keys to working with special needs children; one of which is to forget about the term “Special Needs” and all of the baggage it carries with it.

I assured the principal that everything was going to be alright. She seemed to cautiously accept my optimistic demeanor and consoling words.

I chose to make an entrance as opposed to be sitting in the room as they were ushered in. I also consciously chose to lower the volume of the microphones and amplifiers, putting them down low, very low. For the robes, I wore a bright, inviting, earth tone color (green). The song I chose to serenade them with was a traditional song called “Kaira.” Kaira means peace in Maninka and Bamanakan; it is a very soothing song, played slowly it is reminiscent of a baby’s lullaby. My intention was to use this song to book end the program.

I won’t go into detail about the performance but I have to say that it was the staff that aided in its’ success. The staff totally bought into the event and aided in call/response chants that I taught them. With the staff modeling the behavior that I needed it was smooth sailing to elicit smiles and moans from many of the nonverbal children. Eye contact was at a premium which was an added benefit. I fused the story with the song and music, not stopping the performance.

I eliminated the stage and chose a close proximity performance. I spent all of my time in the audience, among the children. I allowed their eye contact, or avoidance, to dictate my movements. Some of their eyes were calling for me to visit their area, others were directing me not to. In the end both camps seemed pleased as was evidenced by the number that approached me following the show.

I have to say that this experience was truly magical for me. It is a wonderful feeling to exercise one’s craft and receive as much as you give. These children were very affirming.

I left this performance feeling better than I’ve felt in a long time. I felt like we had truly communicated and the children had affirmed my purpose for being a storyteller.

I entered this performance with an idea that was confirmed. For me, it is the idea that the soul does not know age, physical disability or socio/economic status.

I love my work and wake up every morning kissing the air I breath with a gentle thank you. A reminder that I have awakened one more time and have the potential to do so again. What I do with the time between each of these mornings is a key to living a fulfilling life. These children helped me to remember this.

This is why I do what I do.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

African Heritage Month has got the be the busiest time of the year for me ever. I feel thoroughly exhausted and it’s only the 8th but I have to say there is an unexplainable feeling of contentment which I wish I could articulate more effectively.

If free time is your primary motivation for owning your own business then you should definitely rethink and redefine your concepts of owning your own business. Not only will you have to wear many hats (manager, editor, cook, janitor, etc.) you will also have to learn how to make the hats, design them and fit them to the sizes of heads of unimaginable size (clients and customers).

Well, this is just quick personal rant that I needed to get off of my chest, having risen from sleep at 4:00 this morning to start work. Got to get back to work now! See you later!

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

“When you agree to walk with a child, you agree to walk slowly.”

It didn’t have anything to do with the article that I was writing but it popped into my head anyway. This is another one of those occasions where I don’t know where or when I heard or read the proverb, but here it is, making itself known to me like an old friend returning for a visit.

I like to think that this proverb has more to do with being at ease with the decisions we make. Its’ literal translation sounds nice but the truth lies somewhere deeper. For example, how often have we, consciously, involved ourselves in a project, relationship or venture while knowing full well that others involved are not fully prepared or equipped to match our level of commitment? It’s the old story of the cat that volunteered his time to teach rabbits to hunt mice and was upset when they showed no interest.

We know things in advance but still venture down the path of the inevitable anyway. We have agreed to walk with children but get frustrated when they don’t perform to our adult standards. I’m obviously speaking euphemistically here but I’m sure you all get me.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

February the 1^st of 2007 I was visiting a classroom of elementary school children in the city of Long Beach, California. I spend a lot of my time going from venue to venue, concert halls and stages performing but there is something very special about visiting children in their classrooms. I always try to avoid the age-old rational/didactic paradigm of instruction. They get enough of that on a daily basis. I usually opt for, what I call, “surreptitious teaching.” This type of instruction is where I fuse music, singing, proverbs and dialogue to try and affect the positive results I am hoping for.

This group of children happened to be a class of 3^rd graders. I had visited their room on two previous occasions and we had built an understanding of one another. I had promised them that if they committed to memory the things we had talked about previously then I would simply bring them more music and newer stories to enjoy. Needless to say there was a 100% retention rate of the information disseminated during the previous visits. It is amazing what incentives can do isn’t it?

I apologize in advance, but I have to take a little side track here. I think we too often expect immediate results from our children. Our obsessive testing culture has bullied most of us into thinking that we must produce immediate, confirmable, statistic oriented data in order to properly assess our successes with our children. Unfortunately for the testing jihadists, human beings are not programmable bits and bites. Fortunate for me and many others who share my passions, we already are aware of this fact. I prefer to think in terms of seeds being planted and one day, for some children maybe it will be tomorrow and others maybe weeks, months or even years, but one day these seeds will grow and bear fruit. Many of the children I come into contact with will utilize the information I give them but only when they are ready.

I know I’m venturing further off of that road we were traveling, but bear with me. I once gave a young man a book; it was a rather thick book. He smiled at me kind of impishly and simply said, “Thanks Baba.” I knew by the look in his eyes that he wasn’t very pleased. I explained that I knew he was not going to read the book anytime soon, but it wasn’t meant for him to read today. He laughed that type of laugh when the truth about you has been exposed. Most adults know what I’m talking about. I told him that there would come a day when this book would have meaning for him and that maybe I would not be around share that day with him. For this reason I gave him the book today. This is the type of philosophy that I strive to live by.

Anyway… back to the classroom visit. Yes, I tend to veer a little off of the beaten path but I will always get us back. I was in this classroom planting seeds as I love to call what I do. We were singing, learning together and aiding each other in the telling of the tale. When we finished I had something to say before I departed the room.

I have statements that I like to make before I depart a classroom. I have been doing this for a number of years and it has become an automated response to closing out a session. As I was closing I was explaining that I love my work as a storyteller and I would not trade it for the world. I went on to say that we may enjoy ourselves immensely during these sessions and that is a good thing, but everyone must understand that these are aspects of my cultural heritage, a legacy bestowed upon me from my ancestors that I am sharing with them. I have an immense pride in who I am and what I do. I am very proud to be an African-American Man.

This day, when I closed with this, there was a young brother seated at the back of the room. He had been an exemplary student on each of my visits and I thoroughly enjoyed the energy he brought to the table. At my close, when I spoke of my intense pride in being an African-American Man, he sat straight up in his desk and loudly proclaimed, “I AM TOO!”

I don’t know what more a person can ask for as far as job satisfaction. That young man affirmed me and my work in that split second of his heightened excitement. I should say we affirmed one another. His teacher later told me that he had been a problem student in class prior to my visits. I didn’t see it. I could only see myself in him.

This is why I do what I do.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

I guess I’m so preoccupied with other things going on in the world that it simply slipped my mind (if it was ever in there). My wife and one of my students were laughing at me this morning when they discovered this. I’m not totally devoid of an appreciation for sports, I used to participate in many when I was a youth. I guess the years have redirected my focus away from the things I enjoyed as a boy.

Am I the only guy in North America who didn’t know that the Superbowl was being played today?

“Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da.”

I returned her call this morning and let her know that it would be alright for her to come back by and I would tune the Kora for her.

When she arrived, she was very apologetic. Although I tried to reassure her that it was absolutely fine, she still remained somewhat apologetic.

We talked while I tuned the Kora. After I finished, she seemed pleased and headed off to work.

After she left, I reflected on my feeling of contentment. I realize that what I was feeling was the joy of having been needed for something. The joy of being able to provide a service to another person. Another aspect, I believe, has to do with being a parent. I don’t think that once you’ve taken to nurturing others that that aspect of your soul just disappears once your children are grown. I think there is a part of most of us that desire “to be needed.”

For me, the tuning of her Kora having gone out of whack was a small but fulfilling blessing.

Just more thoughts, rants and ravings from your friendly neighborhood storyteller.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

My only regret is that, over the years, I didn’t document all of those words of wisdom I heard or read. They seem to just make visits now when the occasion calls for them to. Maybe I should be happy that they have integrated themselves into my life. That would be a more positive way of looking at it.

Anyway, here is the proverb:

“It is a fool whose own tomatoes are sold back to him.”

Just as I’ve said previously, proverbs are multidimensional. These works exist on many levels of understanding. I, personally, enjoy the understanding that each of us possess unique gifts and qualities and that, when you seek others to tell you, or give you what you already possess, you are, in essence having your own tomatoes sold back to you.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”

My perspective now, and I’m not that old, is to internalize the wisdom of proverbs and resist the temptation to toss them out as one would a grenade.

One of the proverbs I have internalized has to do with recognizing my own limitations. I often tell children when I make classroom visits that “wisdom is in knowing that you do not know.” Adults tend to look at me quixotically but children seem to really get it. This proverb goes like this:

“By the time the fool has learned the game, all of the players have dispersed.”

Self explanatory right? Well, on the surface, it might be, but beneath its simplicity there lay dimensions upon dimensions of understanding (as is with any other proverb).

The dimensions I consciously choose to acknowledge this proverb are on a more personal level. I see myself as the fool who knows not. This isn’t self-denigrating. It is a reality. At some level we are all foolish when it comes to something. The key is in knowing that you do not know. For me, these are the rules of the game; knowing that you do not know.

“Dooni dooni kononi bè nyaga da.”