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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alcohol and Storytelling “Do” Mix

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What?!?!

I mean really!

What?!?!

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

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

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

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

How do we deal this issues such as this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Besos y Abrazos para toda la vida mi gente.

Djeliba Baba the Storyteller

Unrequited (pdf.)

No Correspondido (pdf.)

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

“To the Alex Hotel!” ordered the senator.

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

“What did you think of my speech?”

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

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

“I have to take this!”

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

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

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

“First time in New York ma’am?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything’s gonna be all right! they sang

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

O little darlin…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

El Senador y su esposa esperaron dentro del hotel. El Senador se dio la mano de todos y aceptaba las felicitaciones del publico mientras su esposa estaba de pie al lado de él, sonriendo y asintiendo con la cabeza cuando alguien la mirarían. El taxi llegó y los ayudantes presentaron paraguas como si por la magia. Entonces los ayudantes acompañaron a la pareja, bajo muchas paraguas, a través de la alfombra roja del hotel, hacia el taxi. Entregaron la esposa del Senador al asiento de taxi sin una gota de lluvia molestarla. Ella entró el taxi tan seco como el tiempo pasaba en la salón de banquetes, cuando ella casi se ha quedado dormido durante el discurso de su esposo.

¡Tomamos al Hotel Alex! – ordenó el Senador.-

El taxi condujo, lentamente, de la acera y por una charca profunda de agua antes de uniendo la circulación.

-¿Qué pensaste de mi discurso?-

-Fue maravilloso querido, posiblemente lo mejor has entregado hasta hoy- respondió su esposa.

Siempre el la preguntó esta pregunta y siempre ella respondió en la misma manera, con la misma frase y con el mismo tono de voz. Su esposo no nunca hizo caso de sus palabras o pensamientos. El teléfono móvil del Senador sonó.

-¡Tengo que contestarlo!- dijo el Senador.

Todas las llamadas fueron emergencias y él no nunca las ignoró. Ella asintió con la cabeza en la manera que había practicado muchas veces antes en su vida con él y, entonces, volvió la cabeza para mirar por la ventana del taxi al oscuridad de la ciudad y la lluvia de la noche.

¡Mierda! –gritó el Senador en su móvil- ¡Digas el hijo de puta que no voy a esperar para su decisión!

La voz del Senador se fue apagando en una neblina de sonidos, parcialmente ahogado por la lluvia cayendo en el techo del taxi y la música del taxista.

¿Es este su primera vez in Nueva York señora? –preguntó el taxista.-

Ella estaba sorprendida porque el taxista le hablaba. Nadie nunca le hablaba.  Recuperó su compostura que había perdido mirando fijamente por la ventana. El taxista tuvo un acento duro de Camerún que se recordó de sus años como un estudiante en la universidad cuando ella conoció mucha gente muy interesante, de hecho más interesante que la gente que estaba conociendo como una esposa de un Senador. Ella le contestó mientras mantuvo los ojos hacia la noche.

-No nací aquí. Esta ciudad fue mi hogar cuando era una niña.-

-Pues mi papá me decía que siempre el hogar estará donde su corazón encuentra el amor.- respondió el taxista.

De repente, una mezclada de anticipación intensa y esperanza llenado de alegría se baño todo el cuerpo. Había algo familiar en la voz del taxista. Rápidamente ella volvió los ojos hacia el taxista y lo miró en el retrovisor. Instintivamente, sin pensar, ella puso una mano al pecho como su corazón empezó un pulso frenético. Su respiración se hizo un poco profundas al reconocer el par de ojos oscuro mirando hacia atrás en el retrovisor. El Senador siguió con su conversación por su móvil.

-¡Llame el miembro de congreso Señor Bradley y le digas que esta oferta tiene una vida muy corta!-

Ella había perdido la capacidad a hablar y estaba luchando para recobra el aliento.

¿Cree que señora? –preguntó el taxista.-

Una bruma de confusión estaba girando alrededor de su cabeza y, por eso, no pudo hablar ni encontrar su voz.

¿Qué? –ella murmuró pero, todavía, el taxista la oyó.

¿Cree que el hogar estará donde su corazón encuentra el amor? –preguntó de nuevo el taxista.-

No cabía duda de que la identidad de los ojos ébano volver su mirada en el retrovisor. Su nombre era Marcel y ellos habían conocido hace muchos años cuando asistían la universidad. Durante estos años, como estudiantes, habían conocido y compartieron un amor insaciable y, luego, después de graduarse, se separaron de una manera que dejo muchas preguntas sin respuestas entre ellos.

¡No me importa si el subcomité está dando largas al asunto, necesitamos una decisión para la semana próxima!

Como Marcel navegó su taxi por la lluvia torrencial y la oscuridad, sus ojos volvió con fidelidad a intervalos impredecibles al retrovisor.

-Lo siento, no oí su respuesta señora- le dijo.

-Si- susurró ella casi incoherente.

Ella luchó por algo inteligente o interesante a decir pero nada vendría para ayudar aliviar la tensión del momento. Ella urgentemente quería a decir algo pero ningún palabra vendría de la boca. Se perdió en una confusión que fue tan agradable como lo era incómodo.

-He oído que mucha gente se dice que hay más significados en silencio que en millones de palabras se hablaron en voz alta. ¿Qué crees tu? – le preguntó Marcel.

-¡Si!- Ella respondió rápidamente y en una voz alta lleno de un entusiasmo que capturó la atención de su marido.

¿Estás bien cariño mío? – El Senador le preguntó, poniendo un mano sobre el receptor de su móvil.-

-Sí, estoy bien.- le contestó.

El senador ya había regresado a su llamada antes de que ella pudiera completar su respuesta.

Ella pudo ver que Marcel sonreía tan grande en el retrovisor. Ella recordó que el siempre sonreía. Su sonrisa y ojos fueron las cosas que se habían enamorado a él en la universidad. Marcel levantó un casete antiguo entre el pulgar y el índice para mostrárselo en secreto. Entonces él puso el casete un la pletina de su taxi y subió el volumen.

¡Todavía él esta utilizando casetes! –ella pensó a su mismo.-

Con esta pensamiento ella sonrió de algún lugar profundo dentro de su alma. Desde la primera vez ella lo conoció a Marcel, él había sido una manera distinta de todas las demás. En la universidad tocaba 8-pistas mientras todos los demás tocaban casetes y, ahora, en esta era digital, el tocaba casetes mientras todos tienen iPods. Marcel comenzó a cantar la canción de la casete. Fue una canción de Bob Marley llamado No, mujer, no llores.

¡Por favor! –gritó el Senador- ¡Estoy intentando de hablar de negocios aquí!

Marcel lo ignoró y continuó su serenata secreto.

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

Ella no podía controlar la sonrisa se eleva desde dentro de ella. Mientras ella escuchaba Marcel cantando, la profunda resonancia de su voz la tocó. Mientras él cantó, ella empecía a sentir algo en el corazón que pensó que había perdido hace muchos años con su juventud. Ella exhaló un poco como su cuerpo comenzó a recordar la pasión de sus momentos compartidos.

Marcel cantó con más fuerte –Little darlin don’t shed no tear.-

El corazón saltó con cada palabra Marcel cantó. Las palpitaciones de su corazón era desigual ahora. Ella esperó cada segundo para la vuelva de sus ojos en el retrovisor desde la carretera. Parecía casi como si una eternidad de tiempo transcurrido durante los momentos que Marcel obligó a mirar el camino antes de volver, finalmente, su mirada en el retrovisor.

Inconscientemente, ella comenzó a cantar la canción con él, pero en una voz baja, casi inaudible. Marcel sonrió como pudo ver brevemente los labios moviendo en sincronía con la suya en el retrovisor.

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

El Senador se irritó por la impertinencia del taxista y interrumpió el coro una vez más con avisos pero nadie lo escuchó. Los ojos de su esposa estuvieron traspasados en el retrovisor, esperando para la vuelva de la mirada de Marcel. El Senador estaba totalmente ajena a lo que lo rodeaba y volvió a su móvil.

-Sólo otra noche loca en Nueva York Stan, le diga a Joshua a volver las llamadas esta noche, no espere hasta mañana.-

El dúo se hizo más fuerte cuando se acercaron el Hotel Alex.

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

A medida que el taxi se acercó la acera sumergidas del hotel, nuevos ayudantes con paraguas abrieron las puertas para el Senador y su esposa. Multitudes de reporteros, camarógrafos y escritores habían esperado en la lluvia por la oportunidad a grabar unas de las palabras del Senador. El Senador saltó de la cabina del taxi, alcanzando una mano atrás para ayudar su esposa pero ella no salió.

Everything’s gonna be all right! they sang

Ahora que ellos habían estacionado, Marcel no tuvo las distracciones del camino a arrastrar su atención. Ahora él y ella mantenían los ojos en el retrovisor y cantando.

O little darlin…

Una alegría que ella no había sentido en muchos años la secuestró.

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

¡Cariño, estamos aquí! -gritó el Senador.-

El Senador estaba enojado y esto la asustó a ella pero permaneció eufóricamente desafiante. La canción estaba terminando. Había algo en ella que quería a completar la canción. Ignoró a su esposo y continuó a cantar, pero ahora en una voz más alta.

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

El Senador no nunca había visto este tipo de comportamiento de su esposa. El agachó la cabeza en el taxi y la preguntó a ella a venir inmediatamente. La canción estaba terminando cuando él cogió la mando de su esposa. Ella estaba manteniendo la mirada de Marcel en el retrovisor mientras que se deslizó sobre el asiento del taxi. Antes de salir el taxi completamente, ella paró para recuperar una de las tarjetas de negocios en el separador entre el taxista y sus pasajeros. Rápidamente los ayudantes cerró la puerta del taxi y acompañaron la pareja a través de la turba de prensa. Marcel condujo el taxi de la acera un poco y se detuvo. Ella se volvió y observó. Finalmente, lentamente, Marcel se fue manejando, por el aguacero en la noche.

Fin

I could make excuses and say that I had difficulties because I was attempting to navigate another language but that would just be lame. Wouldn’t it?

I can definitely see an immense improvement in my Spanish Vocabulary. Words that I may have never come across are now a part of my linguistic lexicon, and firmly ensconced. I have even begun develop a writing style in the language (albeit someone rudimentary, but still a style).

This last assignment was almost a script writing exercise. We had to “reveal” through dialogue instead of relying on our usual modes such as descriptive paragraphs, metaphor or employing symbolism. It was  a bit of a task but I think I managed it well. I’ve never been one to take the easy road so rather than writing as a script I chose to format that would contextualize each speaker. You should be able to read the story all the way through and, not once, have to guess, “Who the heck is speaking.”

It’s a class, I can afford to experiment a little.

I think the hardest part of this Initiatory Process has been allowing others to see you or your work when it is not at its’ best. That is difficult! We always want to put our best faces forward and, frankly, many of the assignments I’ve turned in I would not have let my dog read, but I digress. Maybe I’m just fishing for compliments there, I’m not sure (wink, wink…)

Below are links to story (Yes, one in English and the other in Spanish). Let me know what you guys think. I love the feedback I get. If you find errors in either version, feel free to correct them. I’m not the temperamental artist who is going to throw a hissy fit if you alter my “masterpieces.” Well, ok… not an outright hissy fit anyway.

Breaking Curfew (pdf.)

Violación del Toque de Queda (pdf.)

“Emanuel turn the lights on please.”

“Grandma?”

“Turn on the lights Emanuel.”

“Grandma why are you sitting here in the dark?”

Draped in an overcoat, the old woman sat quietly in a long flannel nightgown and house slippers, her, somewhat emaciated, wrinkled hands gently folded over the top of her purse resting on her lap. As Emanuel turned the lights on in the living room, she began swaying back and forth in her rocking chair, putting pressure on the aged wooden floorboards which caused them to sing out in a rhythmic agony: creak, creak, creak…

“Grandma…”

“Emanuel, curfew done passed a long time ago.”

“Grandma, we need to talk about this curfew stuff!”

“Naw, naw, naw boy…  ain’t nuthin needs discussin. You s’posed to have your behind in this house and in your bed by the hour I done told you. Ain’t nuthin needs discussin other than that!”

“Grandma I’m a grown man now and “men” don’t have curfews!”

“Boy… 15 ain’t grown! Trust your granny, I done had my share of grown men over the years and I’m here to tell ya, 15 ain’t shit. Now go on over there and sit your “thinkin-ya-grown” ass down and listen to what I got to tell you.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Emanuel you know for far too long we ain’t had nobody but you and me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And when you was a baby shittin yourself, I was the one wiping that nasty ass, wasn’t I?”

“Uh… yes ma’am?”

“Well Emanuel, when you don’t falla the rules of this here house, you startin to shit again… but this time you shittin on me.”

“Grandma!”

“Hush now boy! Just hush and let a old woman testify.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Now you “know” I love you don’t ya?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And you “know” I’d do just about anything for you don’t ya?

“Yes ma’am.”

“And it’s because I love you that I’ma give you a choice you need to make tonight Emanuel.”

“Grandma please, I’m tired!”

“Boy I done taught you better than that! Don’t you raise your voice at me! Don’t you interrupt grown folks when they talkin!”

“Yes ma’am.”

“For the past year now you been peacocking round here talkin bout you’se a man and breakin all ma rules and so I went out and got a lil somethin for you.

The creaking of the rocking chair stops as grandma opens her purse.

“Jesus Christ grandma what are you doing with a gun?”

“Don’t you take the lord’s name in vain boy! Sit yourself back down in that chair and I’m gonn tell you what it’s for. Are you listening?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I been thinking that If you willing to walk over an old woman like me who ain’t did nuthin but love you for your whole life then lord only knows what you gonna be willin to do to folks out in the world. Emanuel I love you too much to let you make a complete mess of your life.”

“Grandma, you scaring me.”

“Oh then that’s good grandbaby, real good cuz I was startin to think you had lost the good sense that god gave ya.”

“Grandma I’m listening, please stop pointing the gun at me. If you wanted to get my attention then you got it!”

“Shut up and sit still! As long as you sit still and listen to what your granny got to say, you ain’t got nuthin to be worry’n about.”

“Grandma your hands are shakin, you’re really scaring me.”

“Them hands shaking is just old age talking to me. You got a decision to make grandbaby, and if you make the right one you gonna get a chance for old age to talk to you to.”

“Whatever you want me to say is what I’m gonna say grandma, you just tell me what it is that you want me to say but please stop pointing that gun at me!”

“Ah I guess you ain’t a man no more huh? Look at you sittin there wettin yourself like when you was a baby. Boy you better straighten your back up in that chair and listen to what your granny got to tell you!”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Emanuel, you got a choice to make and I’m just the lord’s messenger here to help you make the right one is all. You can decide to follow the rules of this here house or… you can choose to make your walk through the Pearly Gates tonight. Now, stop all that shaking and snifflin and be the man you been struttin round here talkin about. Make your damn choice boy!”

“I… I… I… I choose to follow the rules of your house grandma.”

“Lord Jesus, lord Jesus… I prayed the lord would guide you to the right choice. That was some wise decision makin Emanuel and I’m proud of you for having the courage to make the “right” choice.” I’m gonna put this thing away now.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Don’t go getting too comfortable just yet. A house ain’t a home unless its’ got rules and me and my purse gonna be here sittin, waitin on you the next time time you choose to break curfew.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I know you been out alley-cat’n and probably didn’t eat so I made you some of your favorite chilly and cornbread. It’s on the stove in the kitchen. Go ahead and have you some and then get to bed.  I’ve got to go lay these tired old bones down for what’s left of this night.  I love you grandbaby.”

“I love you too grandma.”

The end

-Manuel enciendas la luz por favor.-

-¿Abuelita?-

-Enciendas la luz Manuel.-

-¿Abuelita por que estás sentando sola en la oscuridad?-

Envuelto en un abrigo, la anciana estaba sentando tranquilamente en su mecedora. Debajo del abrigo, iba vestido en un largo camisón de franela y zapatillas. Sus manos, delgada y arrugado, cruzaron sobre un bolso en su regazo. Mientras su nieto estaba enciendo la luz, la abuela comenzó a balancearse adelante y atrás en su mecedora. El movimiento de su mecedora puso mucha presión en el piso de madera y, con cada movimiento adelante y atrás la madera del piso lloraba en rítmica: cric, cric, cric…

-Abuelita…-

-Manuel tu has violado el toque de queda de nuevo y por muchas horas esta noche.-

-¡Si, si, si Abuelita… pero tenemos que hablar de sus reglas y este toque de queda!-

-¡No, no, no mi nieto… no ha de charlar de nada. Tu tienes un toque de queda y lo has violado. ¡Eso es todo!-

-¡Abuelita, tienes que escucharme, soy un hombre y los hombres no tienen toques de queda y eso es todo¡-

-Nieto, soy una abuela pero también una mujer. He tenido muchos hombres en mi vida y puedo decirte, por seguro, que todavía tu no eres un hombre. Solamente tienes 15 años. Ahora siéntate y me escuchas a lo que tengo que decirte.-

-Si Abuelita.-

-A lo largo de nuestras vidas Manuel, solamente hemos tenido uno al otro. ¿Verdad?-

-Si Abuelita.-

- Y cuando tu era un bebe yo limpiaba la mierda de tu culo. ¿Verdad?-

-Ah… si Abuelita.-

-Ahora Manuel tu no eres un bebe pero siento como tu estás cargándote a tu mismo de nuevo por no seguir las reglas de mi casa.-

-¡Abuelita!-

-¡Cállate niño! Mantengas el silencio y me permitas a hablar sin interrumpirme.-

-Si Abuelita.-

-¿Mi nieto tu conoces que te quiero mucho si?

-Si Abuelita.-

-Y por eso voy a darte la oportunidad a tomar una decisión esta noche.-

-¡Abuelita estoy cansado! ¿Podemos charlar más tarde?-

-¡No… tu vas a hablar conmigo con respeto y no levantes la voz en mi presencia!-

-Si Abuelita.-

-¡Desde el año pasado tu caminaba a través de mis casa como un pavo real y estoy cansado… estoy tan cansado! Piensas que tu eres un hombre y, por eso, sientes como tu puedas violar todas de las reglas de mi casa.-

El ruido de la mecedora termina y la abuelita abre su bolso.

-¡Jesús, María y José… Abuelita porque tienes una pistola!-

-¡Siéntate niño… siéntate y voy a decirte porque tengo esta pistola! ¿Estás escuchándome ahora?

-¡Si, por supuesto Abuelita, estoy escuchando!-

-Yo pensaba en algo muy importante Manuel. Si tu molestaras y no dará el respeto a una anciana como yo, una mujer que te quiero mucho, entonces molestaras y no dará respeto a alguien en este mundo.-

-Abuelita tengo miedo. Tu me pegas un susto de muerte a mi.-

-Bien, muy bien porque comenzaba a pensar que tu había perdido la capacidad a entrar en razón.-

-¡Abuelita, estoy escuchando… por favor no me apuntas con la pistola!-

-¡Cállate y siéntate! Si tu quedas en la silla y no muevas no tendremos ningún problema.-

-¡Pero Abuelita tus manos están temblando! ¡Me asustas Abuelita!-

-Son manos de una anciana y ellos siempre tiemblan. Tu tienes que elegir entre dos cosas y si tu eliges correcto entonces vivirá a ser un anciano.-

-Dime lo que quieres que yo digo Abuelita. Diré cualquier cosa que tu me digas pero por favor no me apuntas con la pistola.-

-¿Qué paso Manuel… nada mas tu eres un hombre? ¿Me escuchas ahora si?

-Si, si, si… Abuelita.-

-Manuel tengo dos preguntas para ti. Puedes contestar afirmativo un o al otra. Si tu elijes incorrecto, entonces tu vas a recibir un abraso de nuestro salvador Jesús Cristo esta noche. Su tu elijes correcto, entonces puedes vivir. ¿Me entiendes niño?

-Si Abuelita.-

-Bueno Manuel. Aquí están mis dos preguntas: ¿Prefieres quedar con el aire en su cuerpo por seguir las reglas de mi casa o prefieres a morir esta noche?

-Entiendo Abuelita, entiendo bien y elijo a seguir las reglas de tu casa.-

-¡Ah Dios mío… he rezado por muchas horas que tu elegirías correcto! En ese momento tengo mucho orgullo en ti y ahora voy a poner esta pistola en el bolso.-

-Gracias Abuelita, muchas gracias.-

-Todavía tu no descanses niño porque siempre mantendré mi bolso cerca. ¿Me entiendes?-

-Si Abuelita.-

-Bueno. Yo sé que tu tengas hambre así que cociné algo para ti. Esta en la cocina en la estufa. Comas tu y entonces te acuestes. Yo tengo que acostarme ahora. Estoy agotado. Te quiero mucho Manuel.-

-También te quiero mucho Abuelita.-

Fin

I’m not complaining… no not me. I mean I love the results but must I suffer over every word, syllable and contextual meaning. I know what you’re saying. You’re saying, “but Baba that is your choice!”

Notice the “exclamation point?” I put that there because I can hear most of you screaming.

Ok, at first glance it may appear that I’ve got complete control over this creative process, but I have found that not to be quite true. Being woken up at 3 or 4 am by epiphanies or awesome revelations about your characters is not really my idea of “living la vida loca.” I mean, maybe it is for some people but I would prefer to be one of those cool dudes like Cyrano for whom words have no mystery. But, alas, I’m me.

Anyway, I know you’re probably saying, “then why the hell do you do it?”

Allow me to share a little secret with you that many writers refuse to let the public know. I will probably have my “Stratford-on-Avon” card pulled for sharing this with you guys but you must know the filthy, nasty, dirty truth about writers and writing. Here it is:

Writing is a drug and “all” writers are junkies.

There… I said it and I ain’t ashamed! I even used to the word “ain’t” to upset my 9th grade language arts teacher so you know I’m serious.

Yes, writing is definitely a drug and if you approach any writer and ask them they will all have to tell you the truth. Poll any/all writers and you will see that 100% of them will not deny the addictive nature of writing.

Ooops… I’m ranting.

About the assignment. The assignment due tomorrow (Madrid time) was equally as challenging as the previous ones. Since I always “nutshell” it for you, it won’t be any different now. In this assignment we had to create a scene that needed to be played out in real time. That means we had to provide the scene, introduce characters, reach our conflict and close with a resolution in “real time.” Think “sit-com” with substance for you television junkies out there.

I chose to pay homage to a piece I read when I was really really young. I was actually to young to be reading this book but that made it even more of a treat. The author I payed homage to in my short story is Claude Brown and his book Manchild in the Promised Land. It was easy giving my piece a title in English, I call it Manchild in the Land of Promise. The problem arises when you try to translate concepts such as a “manchild” into other languages. I think I suffered more trying to figure out how to convey the idea in Spanish than I did actually writing the piece.

Enough of this, alright already! Here you go. Below are two links if you’d like to download the stories and read them at your leisure. For those of you who would prefer to just read them online, you’ll find the full text of each version below in preceding blogs (yes one in Spanish and one in English).

As always, write me and let me know what you think. Whether in Spanish or English feel free to make corrections. I’m here to crow, not be coddled (well… ok, coddling is good sometimes.)

Hasta luego mi familia de lectores y escritores,

Manchild in the Land of Promise (pdf.)

Hombrecito en la Tierra de las Promesas (pdf.)

Aldeo sat pensively across the tiny kitchen table, trying to identify the unfamiliar anxious smile deforming his mother’s lips. For much of his childhood Aldeo had served as a surrogate adult ear for her in between parades of transitory relationships. The kitchen table was their ritual meeting place, where years of talk over milk, coffee, and tea had left a collage of stains on the laminate surface, each its’ own signature of a past discussion.

As had become her custom before such discussions, Truda prepared the teapot; but this time her hands trembled as she tried to set it down on the stove’s fire, creating a grating, rustling sound as the two metal surfaces met.

“Mama you have to tell me what is troubling you!” Aldeo demanded.

He had become accustomed to taking control of their conversations when the need arose. Truda had become dependent on her son’s advanced maturity through the years. At 7 years of age Aldeo had learned to steal bread so they could eat; at 12 he was forcing men, whose sexual advances she had decided to decline, from their home late at night with an aluminum baseball bat and at 17 he was comfortably ensconced in his own concept of manhood.

Truda sat at the table and began fumbling with an old worn-out shoebox in front of her.

“What I have to say to you is not easy Aldeo.”

As she spoke, in her nervousness, she nearly tore an edge off of the top of the tattered box.

“Mamma,” he said in a childlike singsong pattern betraying his maturity, “you never have to be afraid when talking with me.”

He reached for his mother’s hand across the table and she offered it, resting palm down on the table as he tried to comfort her with his touch.

He sat up straight and tall encouraging her, “tell me what it is that you are afraid of mamma, I will protect you.”

There was an unmistakable pain in her eyes as she began to speak, an unrecognizable torment planted itself somewhere deep within her.

“What I have to tell you is about your father.”

Aldeo winced uncontrollably, suddenly experiencing disquieting tremors as his body involuntarily contracted within itself. This was the one topic that pushed a dark anger in Aldeo to the surface. His father had abandoned he and his mother when Aldeo was only six years old. The ghost of his father’s image driving away still seared emotionally just as it did when he watched it happening as a child. That was the last time he saw or heard from his father. By invoking his father’s name, Truda knew that she was cutting deeply into tender lesions that had never completely healed for her son.

“Don’t you dare talk to me about that BASTARD!” he roared at his mother pounding his fist on the table.

Aldeo experienced an immediate, deep sense of regret at his words and actions as his mother withdrew in fear.

It was only during discussions about his estranged father that his mother allowed him to curse in her presence. Truda had exercised great tolerance, over the years, for the unrestrained volatility exhibited by her son at the mere mention of his father’s name.

“Aldeo,” she pleaded, “you must listen; you have to hear what I have to say!”

As she continued to speak she began nervously pulling at the decaying edges of the old shoebox once again.

Aldeo sensed the anxiety in his mothers fumbling with the box and lowered his tone to a more respectful level.

“I’m sorry mamma,” he murmured in deference in that childish, singsong timbre that he knew brought his mother comfort, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Tears began to form in Truda’s eyes as she continued speaking.

“Aldeo,” she paused to sniffle and rub her nose, “people must be forgiven sometimes for what they do, for the choices they make in life. Your father…”

Aldeo cut his mother’s voice off midsentence, “but mama he chose to leave us, I will never forgive him for that! We have lived in the streets, gone without food because of him…”

Truda listened to her son but more anxiously and nervously then ever she tugged and picked at the frayed, worn box in front of her.

“You cannot ask me to forgive him. In my eyes he is not a man.”

Truda slowly slid the exceedingly creased cardboard shoebox across the table towards her son. In her dread filled state of anxiety, she had torn off an edge of the lid.

“This is yours,” she mumbled as she stroked her son’s hand reaching for the box.

Truda’s eyes began to swell and then a flood of tears let loose as she desperately choked back the gripping temptation to cry out loud.

The shoebox was old, battered and extremely creased after having suffered under the hands of many previous inspections over the years. Aldeo had never seen it before.

The whistling of the teapot interrupted the thick tension in the air as Truda leaped from her chair and ran over to take if off of its’ burner. She quickly returned. There would be no tea prepared today.

Aldeo took the cover off of the shoebox. Inside was an old polaroid picture on top of a menagerie of unrelated objects: yellowing folded pieces of paper, a pair of glasses, unused shoulder patches of military insignia and an old, beaten-up, dog-eared paperback book whose pages were turning brown at the edges.

Aldeo looked up from the box at this mother, “I don’t understand mamma, this is not my stuff. Why are you giving me someone else’s junk?”

Truda could barely speak through the torrent of tears streaming down her cheeks but in a barely audible, broken voice but she managed. She mustered up the courage to tell Aldeo that the picture in the box was a picture of his “real” father.

The words “real father” sucked the air from Aldeo’s body, forcing him into an unfamiliar dark place in his head where he suffered a reverberating, painful silence.

He slowly lifted the picture out of the box. The man in the picture was in a military uniform and wearing the very same glasses buried in the bottom of the box. Aldeo stared long, silently and without a single thought in his head as his mother began talking in a shaky, cracked voice, “That is your “real” father…”

As Truda continued speaking, her voice became muffled sounds Aldeo could only perceive, as if his head were submerged beneath the waters of a deep lake. Abruptly and, without warning, the quiet, unfamiliar, dark place in Aldeo’s head was invaded violently by a rapid, spastic and sporadic succession of images, words and moments simultaneously rewinding and fast-forwarding through the last 17 years of his life.

Somewhere between the unrestricted reeling of images and words running through his mind, there surfaced a thought. He realized that he had been possessed by a seething hatred over all of these years for a man who was not his “real” father. The phantom that had driven away from him 11 years ago had been an illusion, a mirage. This thought and many others like shook the earth beneath Aldeo’s feet.

Truda was now crying uncontrollably, repeating incessantly, “Forgive me Aldeo; please forgive me…”

In his mind, thoughts competed with sounds, each alternating forcefully back and forth between one another. Beneath the glasses was a large, folded piece of fragile paper discolored by age. Aldeo unfolded the piece of paper carefully. He now realized that everything in the box had something to do with some aspect of his life. He unfolded the paper and saw that it was a birth certificate containing his first name and his mother’s maiden name. Truda’s name was on the line that read “mother.” The line that read, “father” was blank. The word bastard joined the barrage of unruly thoughts unsettling his mind, having a new context, taking on new meaning.

“Forgive me Aldeo, I love you son, please forgive me…”

His mother’s voice rose and then faded off into the distance as a never-before experienced fiery pain lodged deep in the pit of his stomach, refusing to surface; it churned a stew of hate, hurt and anger that refused to settle but could not rise. His equilibrium was lost, the room and table shifted in opposite directions as he sat across from his mother’s tear-filled, downcast eyes pleading for forgiveness. He could see her lips moving but he could not hear any sounds.

Aldeo’s hands began to tremble as he jerked away from his mother’s outreaching embrace. He breathed in and out an acidic combination of disdain, disgust and disappointment for his mother as warm tears began to form in the burning corners of his eyes.

Truda continued the mantra silent to his ears, “Forgive me Aldeo, I love you my son, please…”

The end

Aldeo sentó pensativamente al lado opuesto de su madre en la mesa de la pequeña cocina. Trataba de identificar la sonrisa ansioso deformando los labios de su madre. Desde su juventud Aldeo la había servido a su madre como un adulto sustituto con consejos sabio entre sus relaciones con un desfile de hombres diferente. En la mesa de la cocina la madre y su hijo hablaba sobre cosas importantes. Ellos charlaban mientras que bebían leche, café o té. Las manchas de leche, café y té en la superficie de la mesa eran signos de charlas del pasado.

Truda encantaba preparar el té antes de cada charla, un costumbre para ella, pero este día las manos temblaba mientras intentaba poner la tetera en la estufa, creando un sonido disonante cuando los superficies tocaron cada uno.

-¡Mamá ten que decirme lo que te preocupa!-

A lo largo de los años Aldeo había aprendido a tomar el control de sus conversaciones cuando apareció la necesidad y, también, Truda se había acostumbrado a relacionarse a su hijo como un adulto. Cuando Aldeo tuvo 7 años, robaba pan para proporcionar comida a casa; a 12 años de edad luchaba con hombres cuyos avances sexuales su madre había rechazado y ahora tuvo 17 años sentía muy cómodo a llamarse a su mismo un hombre verdadero.

Truda sentó y empezó a tocar, nerviosamente, con una vieja caja para zapatos delante de ella encima de la mesa.

-Lo que tengo que decirte no es fácil mi hijo.-

Mientras hablaba ansiosamente, casi rompió afuera un parte de la caja hecha jirones.

-Mamá- dijo Aldeo con una voz infantil-.  -nunca tengas que tener miedo al hablar conmigo.-

Cogió al otra lado de la mesa y le ofreció a su madre una mano. Cuando ella la recibió, él trataba de consolarla con su toque. Aldeo se puso derecho en la silla para parecer mas alta y empezó hablar a su madre.

-Dime por que tienes carita de pena mamá, dime y te protegeré… te prometo.-

En los ojos de su madre Aldeo veía, por la primera vez, un terror irreconocible cuando comenzó a hablar.

-Lo que tengo que decirte es sobre tu papa.-

Aldeo se estremeció incontrolable por un segundo. De repente sentía temblores por todo el cuerpo. La tema de su padre fue la sola tema que se enojó. Su papa los había abandonado a el y su madre cuando Aldeo tenía 6 años. El fantasma de su papa saliendo la casa por la ultima vez todavía se duele como el momento ocurrió. Su papa salió de la casa hace 11 años y Aldeo no nunca vio ni habló con él desde aquello tiempo. Truda supo que inyectar el nombre de su papa en una conversación cortaría los lesiones emocionales tan profundo de su hijo que no nunca había curado completamente desde su juventud, pero ella tuvo que hablar.

-¡No me hablas de ese hijo de puta!- rugió Aldeo, aporreando un puño en la pequeña mesa.

Inmediatamente él sintió un profundo arrepentimiento por sus palabras y acciones miraba a su madre se retiró en  el miedo. Fue solo durante las charlas acerca de su padre que su madre le permitió a maldecir en su presencia. A lo largo de los años Truda había demostrado un gran tolerancia para la volatilidad de su hijo cuando ellos hablarían de la tema de su padre.

-¡Aldeo!- declaró Truda. -¡Tienes que escuchar lo que tengo que decirte!-

Como ella seguía hablar nerviosamente, a la misma vez empezó a tirar a los bordes de la vieja caja para zapatos de nuevo.

Aldeo notó la ansiedad de su madre mientras ella continuó a tirar, con ansia, a los bordes de la caja. El bajó su voz a un nivel más respetuoso.

-Me disculpas mamá.- murmuró Aldeo en deferencia. –No intenté tenerte miedo, lo siento mamá.-

Trudo siguió hablar mientras lágrimas comenzaron a formarse en los ojos.

-Aldeo.- se detuvo a lloriquear y frotar la nariz. –En este mundo la gente debe ser perdonando a veces por cosas que ha hecho en el pasado. Tu padre…-

Aldeo interrumpió la voz de su madre a la mitad de la frase.

-¡Pero mamá él eligió a dejarnos, no nunca lo perdonará por eso! A causa de él, hemos vivido en las calles, a causa de él hemos sufrido días sin comido…-

Truda escuchaba a su hijo, pero más ansioso y nervioso tiró a los bordes de la caja delante de ella encima la mesa.

-Mamá no puede pedirme a perdonarlo. En mis ojos él no es un hombre verdadero.-

Lentamente, Truda deslizó la caja anciana para zapatos hacía su hijo. En su estado de ansiedad, ella arranco un pedazo de la caja.

-Este es para ti.- susurró ella mientras acariciaba la mano de su hijo alcanzando para la caja.

Los ojos de Truda comenzaron a hincharse y entonces un mar de lágrimas caían rápidamente. Ella desesperadamente trataba de contener la tentación a llora en voz alta. La caja para zapatos era tan viejo, maltratadas y muy arrugada. Fue obvio que la caja había sufrido muchos inspecciones a través de los años pero Aldeo no nunca la había visto antes de hoy.

El silbido de la tetera interrumpió la tensión en el aire. Trudo saltó por su silla y corrió a mover la tetera del fuego. Al instante volvió a la mesa. Hoy no habría preparado nada de té. Aldeo quitó la tapa de la vieja caja para zapatos. Dentro de la caja fue un foto anticuada encima de una colección de objetos sin relacionados: trozos de papal doblado poniendo amarillo, un par de anteojos, insignias militar para un uniforme de un soldado, y un añejo libro pequeño y manoseado cuyas páginas se vuelven marrones en los bordes.

Aldo levantó sus ojos de la caja hacía su madre. –No entiendo mamá, estos no son mis cosas. ¿Por qué me da la basura de otra persona?-

Truda apenas podía hablar por el torrente de lágrimas corriendo baja de sus mejillas. En un voz roto y  llena de pena ella habló.

-Aldeo la foto en la caja es un foto de su padre “verdadero”.-

Las palabras “padre verdadero” chuparon el aire del cuerpo de Aldeo, forzándolo estar situado en un sitio desconocido y oscuro en su mente. En su cabezo Aldeo empezó sufrir un silencio doloroso.

Lentamente levantó la foto de la caja. El hombre en la foto llevaba un uniforme militar y, en su cara, fue las mismas gafas enterrado en el fondo de la caja. Aldeo sentó mirando a la foto, en silencio sin un pensamiento en su cabeza mientras la voz de su madre continuó hablar temblorosa.

-Ese hombre en el foto es su padre…-

Mientras Truda continuó hablar, los oídos de su hijo se quedaron sordo. El podía percibir sola sonidos pequeños como si su cabeza estaba sumergido bajo de las aguas de un lago tan profundo.  De repente, sin advertencia, el silencio en el sitio oscuro de su cabeza fue invadido, violentamente, por una sucesión de imágenes, sonidos y eventos de los últimos 17 años de su vida.

Mientras muchos pensamientos y imágenes corrieron por su cabeza, Aldeo capturó uno. Se dio cuenta que había odiado un hombre que no era una relación a el por muchos años. El fantasma que había salido de la casa hace 11 años fue una ilusión, un espejismo. Este pensamiento y otros movieron la tierra bajo sus pies.

Truda estaba llorando incontrolablemente y repitiendo sin parar: -Me disculpas mi hijo, por favor, me disculpas…-

En su mente muchos pensamientos competían con sonidos e imágenes alternado con fuerza ida y vuelta. En la caja, debajo de las gafas fue un papel doblado, frágiles y marcados por la edad. Aldeo desdobló el papel con cuidado. Ahora se dio cuento que la caja contuvo cosas pertinente a su vida. Después se desdobló el papel, vio que fue un certificado de nacimiento.  Aldeo lo leyó. En la línea reservada para el nombre de la madre vio “Truda” y su apellido de soltera. La línea reservada para el padre fue en blanco.

-Me disculpas, te quiero más que mi vida, por favor, me disculpas…-

La voz de su madre se levantó y se cayó entre silencio y sonidos casi imperceptibles.  Aldo sentía, por la primera vez de su vida, un dolor ardiente depositado profundamente en el estómago. El dolor fue un tóxico mezcla de odio, furia y congoja que se negó tranquilizarse. Aldeo había perdido su orientación en el mundo, alguien lo había robado de su equilibrio. La mesa y la cocina empecían a mover en direcciones opuestos de cada uno. Se sentó del otro lado de su madre. Le caían las lagrimas de ambos Aldeo y su madre ahora. Ella te suplicaba sumamente. Aunque él podía ver los labios moviendo, todavía estaba sufriendo en silencio sin la capacidad oír nada.

Las manos de Aldeo comenzaron a temblar. Cuando su madre le alcanzó, rehuyó con un reflejo violente. Aldeo estaba respirando una combinación ácido de desprecio, el asco y traición para su madre como lagrimas formaban en los rabillos de sus ojos.

Truda continuó su mantra rogando perdón a los oídos sordos de su hijo. -Me disculpas mi hijo… por favor, me disculpas…-

Fin

I’m supposed to be sleeping right now. I’ve got a performance at a middle school in another 6 hours. For some reason the urge to write this evening was overpowering so I got out of bed, came into the office and started doing what I do. Can you hear Big Daddy Kane’s “I Work” playing in the background. If you don’t know don’t sweat it. If you do know then you “feel” me.

This weeks assignment basically seemed as if we were supposed to create a treatment. For those who aren’t familiar with the Hollywood lingo out there in the land of LU-LU, a treatment is an outline of a movie (not a script) but an outline used for pitching your ideas. I might be off, I’m not an “Industry” insider guy so anybody feel free to correct me. I played the scene out that I wrote a few times in my head before actually putting pen to paper. It was a cool exercise and I enjoyed it quite a bit.

Below are copies of the story I wrote, one in English the other in Spanish. Some of you seem to be forgetting that this class is really a “Spanish Creative Writing class.” I only provide an English translation because, well… most of “my” people don’t read Spanish. Since so many of you have requested that I continue doing this “extra” work by providing you with an English translation, I would appreciate a little feedback from you when you read it. You don’t have to say anything elaborate of scholarly just a few words on your impression of the work.

As always, any native Spanish Speakers/Readers out there should feel free to correct my corrupted Castillian as you see fit.

If you would rather download the story there are a couple of pdf. links below. Enjoy mis compañeros, adios.

The Dancer.pdf

La Bailaora.pdf

Her fingers delicately traced invisible patterns in the air as she slowly turned in uninhibited, gentle circles. Poised on the toes of a single foot, she traced the outline of her leg with the other from the ankle, continuing up until she was fully extended. She bent at the waist allowing her outstretched arms to mimic the movements of a graceful wingspan. Breaking away from the dance she walked across the practice room floor to begin other exercises. Her stride and bearing were as enchanting as the complex choreography she rehearsed.

Double, triple images of her reflected in the surrounding mirrors, positioning her in my mind, not as a woman, but rather an angelic apparition that I would venerate for a lifetime, if permitted. She extended her right leg up to the wooden bar attached to one of the walled mirrors and began stretching. As she leaned into herself and then away slowly, one arm greeted the ceiling while the other pointed away into a mysterious distance. The fingers of each hand beckoned to the unknown their desire to share the rhythms playing out in her head.

I, an unrefined soul in filthy overalls, stood transfixed with the handle of a mop in one hand and a bucket of filthy water in the other. I could only dream of a woman such as her even daring to touch the hem of the tattered fabric of my life.

An inaudible voice grew louder. The incessant repeating of a word rose from some muted depth to an audible sound before I finally heard it loudly, and clearly.

“Grandpa, Grandpa…what’s wrong with you?”

My granddaughter had made her way to her throne, my lap and was trying to proudly show me the pages she had colored in her book. Her voice began to fade once again as I stared into the kitchen.

There she was, just as graceful and fluid in movement as she had been 40 years ago. The arthritic fingers that reached for the cupboard mimicked the delicate drawing in the air of unseen patterns decades ago. As she stood on her toes to reach the higher shelves cabinet, I could see that the graceful elegance of her youth had not faded been a victim of the years. When she walked across the kitchen, it was obvious that time had been incapable of crippling the dancer that existed within her. No longer were there mirrors in every corner of the room reflecting her image. They had now been replaced by the radiance of the sun silhouetting her in a warm frame of light.

She stood looking out the kitchen window. I, an unrefined soul in filthy overalls, sat there transfixed with our granddaughter in my lap trying to show me her colorings. 40 years ago she entered my life. I still savor each second that I am permitted another day to watch her dance as she does through life.

The End

Los dedos trazaban diseños invisibles en el aire mientras ella bailaba lentamente en círculos desinhibidos. Se balanceaba sobre los dedos de un solo pie y con movimientos suaves del otro pie ella trazó el contorno de la pierna. Continuó levantar la pierna hasta que la extendió completamente. Se inclinó a la cintura y permitió los brazos extender suavemente para imitar los movimientos de un pájaro grande con una envergadura tan linda.

Ella paró su baile y atravesó el piso de la sala para comenzar la práctica de otros ejercicios. Su zancada contuvo la misma energía y belleza como la coreografía que ella había ensayado.

Uno, dos y tres imágenes de ella reflejaban en los espejos situado por todos partes en el cuarto. En mi mente ella no nunca existía como una mujer nada más. Ahora ella me parecía como una aparición angelical que yo veneraría por toda mi vida si me permitió.

Ella extendió una pierna sobre una barra de madera adosado al pared y comenzó a estirarse. Mientras se inclinó el torso hacia adelante y luego hacia atrás, ella saludó el techo con las manos. Los dedos de cada mano parecían a llamar una persona desconocido a venir y compartir su alegría.

Yo estaba de pie paralizado, un alma inculto, en ropa sucia con fregona en la mano derecha y un cubo de agua mugrienta en la mano izquierda. Sólo podía soñar de una mujer como ella tocando el borde de la tela de mi vida hecho jirones.

Una voz inaudible se hizo más fuerte. La incesante repetición de una palabra se levantó de un sitio de silencio completa. Finalmente la escuché.

-Abuelito, abuelito … ¿qué te pasa abuelito?-

Mi nieta había subido su trono, mi regazo, y ahora trataba de mostrarme un dibujo que había creado. De nuevo su voz comenzó a debilitarse mientras yo miraba hacia la cocina.

Allí, en la cocina, estaba mi bailaora. Ella tuvo la misma elegante de movimientos que poseyó hace 40 años. Los dedos, artríticos ahora, alcanzó al armario en la misma manera que trazaban diseños invisibles en el aire hace décadas. Mientras estaba de puntillas para llegar los estantes más altos yo pude ver que los años no se habían robado de su graciosa. Cuando caminaba por la cocina, era obvio que el tiempo no había tenido la capacidad a paralizar la bailaora que vivía dentro de ella. No hay nunca más espejos por todas partes para reflejar su imagen. Los espejos han sido sustituido por los brillantes reyes del sol que ayudan formar su silueta delante de la ventana en la cocina.

Yo soy un alma inculto. Trabajé toda mi vida en ropa sucia y, ahora, me sentí aquí paralizado con nuestra nieta en mi regazo. Hace 40 años esa bailaora entró en mi vida. Saboreo cada segundo que tengo aire en el cuerpo porque me ha sido permitido más tiempo para mirarla bailar una vez más.

fin

It’s going to be heartbreaking to locate the artist and discovery that I wasn’t the muse for the section of the wall titled “Imagine.” We’re closer than before. I’ll let you all know what I come up with but until then, you be the judge. I’ve placed my images next to the mural for a little “side-by-side” comparison.

Come on guys, who else could it be? I mean really!

I love minimalist art (i.e. sculpting, painting, mixed-media, design, etc.) but, for some reason, when it comes to literature, I can’t stand it as a literary style. I’m just being honest, or maybe closed minded (you choose).

I promised that I would be as transparent as possible through this process so I am attaching what I wrote below. There is an English version as well as Spanish version.

Since the actual class is based in Madrid and is conducted in Spanish I’ve begun to focus more on being as creative as possible with the Spanish versions. Following the advice of  my professor “Jesús el Terrible;” I’ve begun writing my assignments out in Spanish first. I’m trying to re-wire my brain to process poetically in Spanish primarily as opposed to translating everything. Headaches are part and parcel of the deal. So if you read in both languages you’ll notice that the English and Spanish versions read nothing alike. Well, maybe close but definitely distinct from one another.

As always I look forward to your input as I suffer through this dissonant process.

Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da.

Necesidades contra Deseaos (pdf.)

Wants versus Needs (pdf.)

“You’ve got to understand Ana that the world does not evolve around you and your teenage life!”

“Mom! All of this drama because I needed money to buy a new CD?”

“No Ana, there you go again. You “want” that new cd. You don’t “need” it.”

Ana began walking around agitated circles in the kitchen as her mother sat calmly.

“Mom, I’m not stupid! Ok I want the cd but what I need is a new dress for next weeks dance.”

No Ana, you don’t “need” a new dress. You “want” a new dress.”

“But Mom everyone has already seen me in all of my other dresses!”

“Ana there are people in the world who really need things like food, shelter and medicine. It is not good to think of a dress is an equivalent need. Ana you “want” a dress, you don’t “need” a dress.”

“Ahhhhhhh! Mom you don’t understand! You just don’t get it!

“No Ana, you are the one not understanding. Knowing the difference between wants and needs is very important to becoming a mature adult.”

“Well I heard you tell dad the other day that you needed him to spend less time at the office and more time at home.”

“Yes Ana I did say that.”

“Well mom I think you “want” dad to spend less time at the office and more time at home. You don’t “need” dad here at home more!”

“Ana I “need” your father to spend more time here at home with our family and less time at the office.”

“No you don’t Mom! We have food; we have shelter and medicine if we need it! So according to you everything else is a “want.”

“You will understand when you are older Ana, but for right now you just have to understand that saying you “need” everything is not good.”

“I don’t say I “need” everything!”

“That’s not the point Ana.”

“Mom you’re not making any points your just tell me that your “needs” are more important than my “needs”.”

“Ana go to your room and we will discuss this later!”

Ana storms out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the living room and up the stairs. As she is ascending the stairs, she passes her father who is on his way down. They stop, embrace at the midway point of the stairs.

“Good morning Daddy.”

“Good morning baby.”

He kisses her on the forehead.

“I love you Daddy.”

“I love you to baby.”

He hugs his daughter a little tighter.

“Daddy?”

“Yes baby.”

“I really need a new dress for next weeks dance.”

“Oh ok baby.”

Her father reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet, handing her a wad of cash.

“Enjoy your shopping baby.”

“I will daddy.”

Ana bounds down the steps and runs out of the front door to head to the mall just as her father enters the kitchen.

The End

-¡Ana tienes que comprender que tu no eres el centro del mundo!-

-¡Mamá! ¿Me castigas porque necesito un CD de Alejandro Sanz?-

-No Ana estás exagerando de nuevo. “Deseas” el nuevo CD no lo “necesitas.”-

Ana comenzó a caminar en círculos pequeños, agitadas, en la cocina mientras su madre quedó con calma.

-¡Mamá no soy tonto! Entiendo que el CD no es algo que necesito. De hecho Mamá lo que necesito es un vestido nuevo para la fiesta que viene la semana próxima.-

-No Ana tu no “necesitas” un vestido nuevo. Tu “deseas” un vestido nuevo. -

-¡Pero Mamá todo el mundo ya me ha visto en todos mis otros vestidos!-

-Ana hay gente en el mundo que realmente necesitan cosas como comida, refugio y medicinas. No es bueno pensar en un vestido como una necesidad equivalente. Ana “deseas” un vestido nuevo, no lo “necesitas”.-

-¡Ai Mamá no entiendes nada! ¡Eres vieja y no entiendes las maneras modernas!-

-Ana yo creo que tu no entiendes. Saber la diferencia entre deseos y necesidades es muy importante para convertirte en un adulto. -

-Mamá te he oído decir a papá que necesitas que el pase menos tiempo en la oficina y más tiempo en casa. –

-Sí Ana le ha dicho eso. –

-Pues mamá yo pienso que “deseas” papá a pasar menos tiempo en la oficina y más tiempo en casa. No “necesitas” que papá pasar más tiempo en casa.-

-No Ana necesito que tu padre pasar más tiempo aquí en casa con nuestra familia y menos tiempo en la oficina.-

-¡No, no mamá tenemos comida y una casa! ¡Podemos obtener medicina si la necesitamos! Así según tu manera de pensar mamá todas las otras cosas son solo deseos.-

-Vas a entender cuando seas mayor Ana. Ahora solo tienes que entender es que decir que necesitas todas las cosas no es bueno.-

-¡Ai mamá no siempre digo que necesito cosas!-

-Ana estás entiendo el propósito de nuestra conversación.-

-¡Mamá tu no estás hablándome con claridad! ¡Solo oigo que me dices que tu tienes “necesidades” y yo tengo “deseos”!-

-¡Bastante! ¡Ana vayas a tu habitación y nos hablaremos de eso más tarde!-

Ana irrumpió de la cocina, por el pasillo y a través de la sala. Subía las escaleras a la misma vez que su padre las descendía. Ellos se detuvieron y se abrazaron en el punto medio de las escaleras.

-Buenos días papá.-

-Buenos días princesa.-

Él le dio una besa en la frente.

-Te quiero mucho papá.-

-Te quiero mucho también princesa.-

El papá la abrazó a su hija con un poco más vigor cariñoso.

-¿Papá?-

-Sí princesa.-

-Necesito un vestido nuevo para la fiesta la semana que viene.-

-¡Por supuesto princesa!-

Su padre alcanzó en el bolsillo de su chaqueta y sacó una billetera. El padre le dio a su hija un montón de dinero en efectivo.

-Disfrutes tu misma mientras ir de compras mi princesa.-

-¡Absolutamente papá!-

Ana saltó por las escaleras y salió rápidamente por la entrada a la casa. En la misma segunda que ella estaba cerrando la puerta de la casa, su padre estaba abriendo la puerta de la cocina.

Fin

Also, if anyone out there knows the person who painted it could you please contact me and give me their information? I’d love to meet this artist just to know if I served as “inspiration.”

I’ll make this even more interesting. Whomever gets me this artist’s contact info first, I will mail a free CD. How’s that for motivation? LOL!!!

Anyway does it look like me or not? Give me your input.

Anyway, let me know what ya’ll think. If you are reading the Spanish version and just want to correct my grammar, spelling, etc. for good measure, please go ahead. I am not faint hearted.

Well, off to the next assignment. Yes…already.

I was trembling. My body shivered uncontrollably, nerves disquieted by things I had little or no control over. I sat stewing in a rage of irrepressible anger, the walls closing in on me. I had never in my life experienced claustrophobia but this sudden affliction of terror blended with agitation that had taken hold of me were its’ unmistakable symptoms. I labored to breath; sweat forming on my forehead. My mouth had dried out to an unfamiliar and troubling point of discomfort. I felt as though I was losing control.

All of these disquieting emotions erupted from within me I sat caged within the confines of my office cubicle reading management’s most recent memo

“Due to an incessant abuse of lavatory break privileges, all requests for relief from one’s workstation must be channeled through supervisors without exception. ”

I read it once, twice and then a third time to make sure I understood what I was reading. Management was telling me that I, a grown man and father of three, had to ask another person’s permission to go the bathroom!

My hands were shaking as I clutched the piece of paper, contemplating the indignity. I was experiencing a violent flood of emotions of which anger was the most prominent. The ringing of the phone on the tiny desk before me interrupted my incendiary thoughts. I only had 7 seconds to answer the phone according to company policy. The tangled, spiraling chord tethered to my ear from the automated phone assured that the policy would be strictly adhered to. I transformed instantaneously and answered in the appropriate, gentle tone that the company had trained us to use.

“How may I help you?” I asked.

“My children don’t visit me any longer…” the caller spoke continuing her tepid tirade in an incoherent skip from one topic of her family to another.

This was a “time-killing” call. That’s what the company labeled these types of calls. Calls from the elderly abandoned in nursing homes or left to their own devices by family was common. I had 15 seconds to get her off of the line according to company policy or suffer a reprimand from one of the supervisor’s monitoring the call. I followed the script given to us during training and ended with, “thank you for calling ma’am and I hope we are able to meet your needs sometime in the future,” before disconnecting the call. I have no doubt that she called back. They all do.

In my nervousness to answer the call I had dropped the memo. I retrieved it from the floor and re-read it.

Once again my heart began its’ agitated palpitations and the feeling of breathlessness returned. How humiliating to be a grown man and have to ask another adult for permission to go to the bathroom! Over the years the company had implemented one policy after another, whose only purpose seemed to be to feed on our souls.

I pounded my fist on the desk and propelled my little chair on wheels forward slamming my knees into the jumble of computer and metal recording equipment hanging underneath. The searing pain raced from my right knee throughout the rest of my body. I winced grabbing my knee. Once a month I unconsciously punished myself this way, trying to fit into a cubicle created for someone half my size.

This was the final straw and I would protest this as I had done many things in my youth. When I had been a young man I was fearless, yelling in the face of any and all injustices I encountered. I would not stand for this assault on my dignity!

I could feel the anxiety lessening and that old familiar rebellious fire in my belly rising to the surface. That fire was what I knew I was made of. That fire produced a fearlessness within me that was needed if I were to challenge the inhumane policies of this corporate Goliath.

As I looked up from the nurturing of my right knee the images of my family in small frames greeted me. My wife and three children, all smiles and shining brightly in images from a day at the beach. My heart melted.

One beautiful woman and three adoring children were all the ones responsible for taming the rebellious beast of my youth. I smiled.

“I love being a father,” I thought to myself, “whatever sacrifices were required to care for my family I would make.”

Family. They were my reason for getting up each morning and coming to this place. They were the ones who gave meaning to my daily ritual of subservience.

Slowly, I began raising my hand. The higher my hand went in the air, the lower to the ground my dignity crawled.

I had to go to the bathroom.

The end

Yo estaba temblando. Me estremecía.  Me agitaba sobre cosas que no había ningún control. Me sentaba dentro de mi mismo hirviendo con pensamientos enojados. Me sentía como los muros volvieron cerca del cuerpo. Nunca en mi vida me había sentido la claustrofobia, pero ahora esta aflicción de terror mezclado con la agitación me había agarrado. Trataba de respirar y el sudor se formaban en el piel. La boca se había secado a un punto que la me molestaba. Me sentí como si me faltaba el control.

Todas estas emociones inquietantes estalló dentro de mí me. Me sentaba como si situé enjaulado dentro de mi cubículo. Estaba leyendo una nota nuestros gerentes.

-Debido a un abuso incesante de privilegios, todos las solicitudes para descansar de visitar el cuarto de baño y estar afuera de su estación de trabajo debe ser canalizada a través de los supervisores, sin excepción –

Lo leí una vez, dos veces y luego una tercera vez para asegurarme de que yo entendía lo que estaba leyendo. ¡Los gerentes me decían que yo, un hombre adulto y padre de tres hijos, tuvo que pedir el permiso a otra persona para ir al baño!

Las manos temblaban mientras yo agarraba el pedazo de papel, contemplando la indignidad. Que estaba sintiendo una violenta inundación de emociones. El timbre del teléfono encima de mi pequeña mesa de trabajo interrumpió mis pensamientos incendiarios. Sólo tenía 7 segundos para contestar el teléfono según un política de la compañía. La cuerda enmarañada y espiral atado al oído desde el teléfono aseguró que yo seguiría la política estrictamente. Me transformé a mi mismo instantáneamente y contesté con el tono suave que la compañía nos había entrenado para usar.

¿En qué puedo ayudarle? ” Le pregunté con una voz dulce.

“Mis hijos no me visitan…” la anciana por el teléfono continuaba hablar palabras incoherentes sobre su familia.

Esta tipo de interacción fue conocido como un “asesino de tiempo” por la compañía. Las llamadas de los ancianos abandonados en asilos o extranjeros era común. Tenía 15 segundos para sacarla de la línea según la política de la empresa o sufrir una reprimenda de uno los supervisores. Seguí el guión que ellos nos habían dado a los gerentes durante el entrenamiento. Terminó la llamada con las palabras, -Gracias por llamar señora y espero que sean capaces de satisfacer sus necesidades en el futuro.- antes de desconectarla. No tuve ninguna duda de que ella volvería a llamar. Todos lo hacen.

Por que mi nerviosismo para contestar la llamada rápidamente yo caí la nota de la compañía. Lo encontré en el suelo y volví a leerlo.

Una vez más, el corazón empezó las palpitaciones agitado y la sensación de ahogar devuelto. ¡Qué humillación para un hombre adulto y tenía que pedir a otro adulto permiso para ir al baño! A lo largo de los años la compañía había sido comiendo pedazos de nuestros almas con políticas como esa.

¡Golpeé el puño sobre el escritorio! Con fuerza me propulsé a mi mismo a mi sillita de ruedas hacia delante. Golpeé las rodillas en el revoltijo de equipo y aparatos de control de metal colgando debajo la mesa. El intenso dolor corrió de la rodilla derecha por el resto del cuerpo. Hice una mueca agarrando la rodilla. Una vez al mes sin conciencia me castigué a mi mismo de esta manera, intentando de encajar en un cubículo creado para alguien media de mis tamaños.

Este tuvo terminar inmediatamente y protestaría esta política de la compañía como había protestado muchas cosas cuando yo era joven. Cuando yo era un hombre joven, no tenía ningún temor a gritar en la cara de injusticia. ¡Yo no permitiría este asalto a mi dignidad!

Podía sentir la disminución de la ansiedad. Este viejo fuego de rebelión estaba creciendo en la vientre. Ese fuego era lo que yo sabía que estaba hecho. Este fuego tuvo la habilidad de producir una ferocidad dentro de mí que necesitaría si yo quise a desafiar las políticas inhumanas de este Goliat.

Mientras levantaba la cabeza hacia arriba de pensar en el dolor de la rodilla derecha,  me saludaron por imágenes de mi familia enmarcados. Mi esposa y tres hijos, todos sonriendo brillante y intensamente en las fotos de un día en la playa. Las fotos conmoví.

Una bella mujer y tres hijos adorables fueron responsables de domar la bestia de rebelión de mi juventud. Sonreí.

-Me encanta ser un padre- yo pensé, -Cualquier sacrificios eran necesarios para servir a mi familia yo haría.-

Familia. Ellos fueron mi razón para levantarme cada mañana y salir a nuestro hogar para trabajar. Ellos me ayudaron sobrevivir mi ritual diario de sumisión.

Poco a poco comencé a levantar la mano arriba.

Tuve que ir al baño.

I remember I said that I would attach the newly written stories to the post but I’m going to have to back off maybe just for this one story. I went way out of my comfort zone on this story and there is a lot of, how shall I put this, “colorful” language and adult topics. I’m sensitive to what I put out because a lot of kids frequent my site.

I titled this new story “Grave Error” and it’s a little twisted. Like I said, “out of my zone of comfort.” If any of you would like to read it then just send me an email to Baba(at)babathestoryteller.com and I’ll forward you it as a Word file.

I’ll try to tone it down on the next assignment so that it can be posted to the blog. For those of you who do take the time to read it, please send me a little feedback. Also, let me know if you want the English version or the Spanish version.

It is a strange thing to have to admit but, as difficult and torturous as this process of writing creatively in a foreign language is, I’m actually enjoying it. Yes, I know I complain from time to time but I am human after all. Right?

A diseased, parasitic depression was feeding on me from somewhere deep within. My thoughts were trapped in a dark hole from which there seemed no hope of escaping from myself. I had only arrived in Senegal four days before. The dream of self-discovery that had carried me across the Atlantic from the United States was rapidly decaying into, what felt like, an unbearable hallucination.

This journey, my first trip to Africa, was begun as a sort of pilgrimage. I had come in pursuit of reconnecting an intangible broken link with my ancestors. In a classic exhibition of youthful exuberance tied to ignorance, I landed in Africa with almost no money. I was armed with only a contact name, address and phone number. I had also failed to prepare for this trip properly and was now paying the price, quite literally, through blood, sweat and tears.

Through the compassion of a host family who knew me less than I knew myself, I was given a place to stay. My room, which I shared with three others, was a tall stack of cinder blocks with a thin sheet of tin thrown over the top forming a makeshift roof.  A brick wall along the small alley of these cinder block bungalows acted as a partition, separating us from the open-air community outhouse. The toilet, a large hole in the ground, was housed within its’ own rectangular row of cinder block walls.

On this particular day the sweltering heat of the sun was roasting my flesh. I felt as though I were being cooked in a giant oven. I, and about ten other men, sat outside of our stone enclosures, leaning against the coarse walls under a sliver of shade provided by the overhanging tin. Talk consumed energy and so was avoided. Even though I sat surrounded by others, depression and loneliness remained my only true companions.

Intermittent breezes appeared as both blessings and curses. Weak sporadic winds brought a slight coolness to our scorched, dry surroundings. These deceptively inviting wisps of air also transported the choking stench of stagnate pools of urine mixed with decaying piles of feces from over the adjoining wall of the community outhouse. We covered our faces with cloth as each nauseating draft passed through. Dogs, appearing lifeless lay, panting motionless except for the rise and fall of their distended bellies and tongues hanging from their mouths.

I sat with my back uncomfortably pressed against the gritty concrete wall, head buried in my hands, slowly approaching a dispirited point of tearful regret. Why had I come to Africa? What the hell had I been in search of?

Dark clouds began gathering above, rescuing us from being cooked alive. Never in my life had I seen clouds come together so quickly. It was eerie yet intriguing. The clouds were zipping across the sky blending into one another, forming larger darker, more ominous clouds. This sight was miraculous to me. None of my mute companions were as impressed with this spectacle of nature as I was. It was a common occurrence to them, but uncommon to me. Something about nature’s distraction displaced my depressing thoughts.

Without warning, a vicious reverberating thunder shook the air around us. The clouds released a torrent of water unlike any I had ever experienced in my life.

Everyone, everywhere got up and began running. The dogs that I had assumed were dead came to life fleeing the heavy downpour. I was transfixed in a moment that was as surreal as it was real. I had been abandoned, left alone outside as everyone else ran for cover into the bungalows.

Enormous drops of water were hitting the ground, which, initially, made tiny billows of dry dirt plume. I sat, partially protected, beneath the overhang of the makeshift tin roof, my back pressing more forcefully against the wall. The plummeting water beat out loud, chaotic rhythms on the tin roofs of the bungalows. There was nothing else my ears could discern from my surroundings, only the dead thud of drops of water hitting the ground and the resonant drumming as it beat against the tin roofs.

My feet were exposed and being pelted by hot, clear, huge dollops of water crashing down from above. I was wearing a floor length tunic. I pulled it up to my knees exposing more of my bare legs to this wondrous deluge of hot water falling from the sky.

From the safety of their windows my companions stared out at me. They were all motioning for me to run for cover and join them inside.

So much water was falling and so quickly that puddles began forming all over. This rainstorm was hot. It was hot! I had never experienced the sensation of hot water falling from the sky. Without hesitation I stood. I had no objective, no plan. I walked out from beneath the overhang and stood in the open air allowing the waters of the cloudburst to bathe me. Within seconds my tunic was drenched and clung to my body like a second layer of skin. Instinctively I allowed my eyes close. The stale wafting of putrefied excrement, puddles of stagnated urine and dry dirt was dissipating, ousted by the cleansing scent of fresh rainwater. Whereas my nostrils had contracted in retreat from the bitter odor of my surroundings previously, they now flared in acceptance of an uncontaminated fragrance.

It felt as if each drop of water falling on my head was cleansing me of my foul state of mind.

Eyes still closed tightly, I tilted my head back, allowing my lips to slowly part, my jaw to fall and my mouth to open wide. I extended my tongue out to greet the rain. Spoonfuls of water pelted my tongue, face, hands, arms and feet. My mouth filled with tasteless, unpolluted hot rainwater that streamed down my throat. The violent strength of the rain forced into hiding those obnoxious fumes from the other side of the wall. Even the air smelled and tasted clean, purified. The mud began encroaching around my feet, rising to my ankles. My toes were experiencing a bath of mud and warm water as they submerged under a tiny lake of saturated earth.

For the first time in four days, since my arrival in Africa, I smiled spontaneously. To this day I still do not know why. I just smiled.

As quickly as the clouds had gathered and delivered their overpowering burst, they abruptly stopped and tore apart from one another. The sun was back.

I stood there out in the open, dripping wet. I slowly lowered my head and allowed my eyes to open. Everyone, everywhere was staring at me from the dry comfort of the bungalows. Their eyes were suspiciously inquisitive, housing hints of dread or fear. I saw them. They were clearly thinking that they were in the presence of a mad man. I continued smiling at them, but this effectively heightened their perception of me as deranged. Some of them guardedly smiled back at me but their smiles were forced, awkward.

Something shifted inside of me at the conclusion of that phenomenal cloudburst. My depression exposed itself as having been a monster of my own making, a dysfunctional ally in helping me to interpret my surroundings regardless of where I was in the world. I now had a better understanding of why it had been necessary for me to come to Africa.

The end

Una depresión parásita daba de comer en mí de algún lugar profundo dentro. Mis pensamientos estaban atrapados en un agujero oscuro del que no parecía haber ninguna esperanza de escapar. Acababa de llegar en el país de Senegal hace cuatro días. El sueño de auto-descubrimiento que me había llevado a través del Atlántico desde los Estados Unidos fue decayendo rápidamente en una alucinación debilitante.

Este viaje, mi primer viaje a África, se inició como una especie de peregrinación. Yo había venido en busca de un vínculo intangible, roto con mis progenitores. En una exposición clásica de la exuberancia juvenil, ligada a la ignorancia, aterricé en África, sin casi nada de dinero. Solamente estaba armado con un nombre de contacto, dirección y número de teléfono. No había preparado adecuadamente para este viaje y ahora estaba pagando el precio, literalmente, por sangre, sudor y lágrimas.

A través de la compasión de una familia, que me conocieron menos que conocí yo mismo, recibí un cuarto para quedarme. Mi habitación, que compartía con tres hombres, había construida de una pila de bloques de cemento. Un una fina lámina de estaño fue arrojado sobre la parte superior del cuarto para formar un techo improvisado. Una pared de ladrillo a lo largo del callejón de bungalows de bloques actuó como una partición separando un excusado exterior usado por toda la comunidad. El inodoro, un gran agujero en el suelo, tuvo su propia sitio con bloques de cemento apilados en una forma rectangular y tan alto.

Durante este día particular, el calor sofocante del sol me estaba asando hasta los huesos. Me sentía como si me estaba cocinado en un horno gigante. Yo y diez hombres, estábamos sentado fuera de  nuestros cuadros de piedra, apoyando contra las paredes gruesas en una franja de sombra proporcionada por el techo de lámina colgante. A charlar consumiría energía y, por eso, se evitó. A pesar de que yo estaba sentado, rodeado por otros, la depresión y la soledad sigue siendo cierto sólo a mis compañeros.

Brisas intermitente apareció como bendiciones y maldiciones. Vientos débiles esporádicas trajo un ligero frescor a nuestro entorno secado, cálido. Estos mechones engañosamente invitación de aire también se llevaron con ellos el olor sofocante de piscinas estancamiento de la orina mezclada con pilas de las heces en descomposición del otro lado de la pared donde situó la retrete comunidad. Nos tapamos la cara con tela como todos los proyectos de nauseabunda pasar por allí. Los perros yacía y aparecían sin vida, jadeando inmóvil excepto para el ascenso y caída de sus barrigas hinchadas y las lenguas colgando de sus bocas.

Me senté con la espalda incómodamente presionando contra la pared de concreto áspero, la cabeza hundida entre las manos, poco a poco llegando a un punto abatido de pesar entre lágrimas. ¿Por qué había venido a África? ¿Por qué cojones me había estado buscando?

Las nubes oscuras comenzaron a reunirse más arriba, nos rescata del fuego. Nunca en mi vida había visto nubes se juntan con tanta rapidez. Era inquietante e intrigante. Las nubes estaban volando por el cielo de mezcla entre sí, formando nubes mas grande, oscuro y siniestro. Este espectáculo fue milagroso para mí. Ninguno de mis compañeros mudos quedaron impresionados con este espectáculo de la naturaleza como yo. Fue una ocurrencia común para ellos, pero no para mí. Algo sobre la distracción de las formaciones de las nubes desplazaba mis pensamientos deprimentes.

Bruscamente, sin aviso, un trueno vicioso y reverberando con fuerza sacudió el aire que nos rodeaba. Las nubes gritaron y comenzaron lanzar un torrente de agua que yo no había experimentado en toda  mi vida.

Todo el mundo por todas partes se levantó y echó a correr. Los perros que yo había asumido estaban muertos volvieron a la vida huyendo de la fuerte lluvia. Yo estaba paralizado en un instante que era tan surrealista como era real. Yo había sido abandonado, dejado solo fuera como todos los demás se pusieron a cubierto en los bungalows.

Enormes gotas de agua se golpee contra el suelo que, inicialmente, hizo olas diminutas de polvo saltar de la tierra seca. Me senté, parcialmente protegidas, bajo el alero del tejado, con la espalda contra la pared. El agua caía  tocando un ritmo fuerte, caótica en los tejados de estaño arriba los bungalows. No había nada más mis oídos podían discernir de mi entorno, sólo el agua que estaba cayendo al suelo y el sonido del latir contra la lata.

Mis pies estaban expuestos y se están arrojaron en caliente, cucharadas de agua clara, saltando de las nubes. Yo llevaba una túnica de la longitud del piso que me sacó hasta las rodillas, dejando más de mis piernas a esta maravillosa diluvio de agua caliente que estaba cayendo del cielo.

Desde la seguridad de sus ventanas mis compañeros se quedaron mirándome. Ellos me llamaban de las portadas y ventanas de las habitaciones a reunirse con ellos afuera de la tormenta.

Así que mucha agua caía y tan rápidamente que empezaron a formar charcos por todas partes. Esta lluvia era caluroso. Hacía calor! Nunca había experimentado la sensación de agua caliente que cayó del cielo. Sin pensarlo me puse de pie. Yo no tenía un objetivo, ningún plan. Salí de debajo la protección del techo y se quedó en el aire libre, permitiendo el aguacero bañarme. En segundos mi túnica estaba empapado y se aferró a mi cuerpo como una segunda capa de piel. Instintivamente, me permitió que mi ojos se cierran. El olor rancio de excrementos putrefactos, charcos de orina se estancó y la suciedad seca fue disipando, derrocado por el aroma de agua de lluvia fresca, limpia. Antes, mi nariz se había contraído en retirada por el olor amargo de este entorno, ahora se encendieron en la aceptación de una fragancia sin contaminación.

Me sentía como si cada gota de agua estaba limpiándome de mis pensamientos repulsivos.

Los ojos aún cerrados, incliné la cabeza hacia atrás, permitiendo los labios abrir lentamente y mi boca caer bien abierta. Amplié mi lengua a saludar a la lluvia. Cucharadas de agua cayó en mi lengua, cara, manos, brazos y pies. La boca se llenó con agua de lluvia. La agua caliente corrían por la garganta. La fuerza violenta de la lluvia obligó a esconder el olor desagradable en el otro lado de la pared. El aire olía y sabía a limpio, purificado. El barro comenzó invadiendo alrededor de mis pies, aferrándose a los tobillos. Mis dedos estaban recibiendo un baño de barro y agua tibia, ya que sumergido en un lago pequeño de tierra saturada.

Por primera vez en cuatro días, desde mi llegada a África, me sonríe. No sé por qué. Simplemente me sonríe.

Tan rápido como las nubes se habían reunido y entregaron sus estallido se detuvieron y quebraron el uno del otro. El sol volvió.

Me quedé a la intemperie, mojados. Bajé la cabeza y abrí los ojos. Todo el mundo estaba mirándome desde la comodidad de las habitaciones secas. Sus ojos eran sospechosamente curiosos, conteniendo pistas de temor o miedo. Yo los vi. Ellos estaban, claramente, pensando que estaban en la presencia de un hombre loco. Seguí sonriendo a ellos, pero esto efectivamente aumentado sus percepciones de mí como una persona trastornado. Algunos me devolvió la sonrisa mía con cautela pero fueron los tipos de sonrisas que parecían torpes, forzados.

Este día algo cambió en mí después el aguacero increíble. Mi depresión se expuso como un monstruo de mi propia creación, un aliado disfuncional que me ayudó interpretar mi entorno sin tener en cuenta donde yo estaba situado en el mundo. Ahora tenía una mejor comprensión de por qué yo había venido a África.

fin

I am proud to say one thing though. I have outgrown a few of my old Spanish dictionaries. That is a good feeling. I’ve purchased a new one called “Real Academia Española” and it has a really nice hardcover. Now I’m in search of an equivalent reference book containing Spanish synonyms and antonyms. Ooops… geek alert! I caught myself! Sorry ya’ll. I have to remember that people who get excited about reference manuals and materials are in the minority.

You guys can read the attached stories and let me know what you think. Be nice because I labored over these like you wouldn’t believe, even though it may not seem like it.

Baptism: English Version

Bautismo: Versión Español

As I’m writing, I keep going off on tangents. It seems easy enough but my mind keeps doing battle with competing thoughts. A one point an overwhelming, almost rabid desire to hunt down some chocolate chip cookies hijacked my thought processes.

Don’t ask. Yes I did and it was not a pretty sight.

To those of you who have written me words of encouragement, thank you sooooo much! Sistah Fair you are truly a gift from the ancestors. Charles I think we are starting for form a fraternal writing bond that might be long lasting. What do you think?

Anyway, I needed a second to vent and this is usually where I do it. It’s funny when you think about it. I have spent more than 9 hours today writing and then, in order to vent, I go on my blog and write some more. Insane huh?

I’m almost finished with this assignment. As soon as I finish I will post it as an attachment to the next blog “Initiatory Process VII.” Oh yeah, I’ll post an English and Spanish version as usual.

Two more months of the class. I’ve completed each assignment thus far. Will I make it all the way through? We’ll see.

Con cada ejercicio puedo ver que mi vocabulario español esta creciendo. Aunque he sido hablar español desde 20 años esta bien retar yo mismo de nuevo. Poco a poco se va lejos! ¿Verdad?

I’ve been speaking Spanish for over 20 years and this is really challenging for me. Although I’m getting agitated through the process, I’m loving the results. So typical huh?

Attached are two pdf’s of the story that I created. One is in English and the other is in Spanish. The title of the story is “Becoming a Champion.” I think I did alright but it is definitely not my best work. Part of this process is putting yourself out there so that’s what I’m doing. Feels a bit unsettling.

English readers let me know what you think about the story and Spanish readers let me know what you think as well. If any of the Spanish readers feel like editing or correcting any of my errors then don’t hesitate. I’m looking forward to hearing all of your critiques.

I’m going to go have a tall cool class of water, stare up into the sky and do nothing for a little bit. I’ve earned it.

Becoming a Champion (click here to download the story in English)

Convertirse un Campeón (haz clic aquí para recibir el relato en español)

Ok, breath… think. Don’t let this get to me. I can do this.

Deep long inhale,  hold it and now a slow long breath out.

Alright. I’m cool now. The whole point of an initiatory process is acceptance. Poco a poco se va lejos. ¿Verdad? Little by little one goes far. Right?

I’m going to have to mull this over for a little while to figure out what it is that I will write about. The last time I read something in 2nd person was “Fight Club” and that was bizarre experience.

Wow… I call myself a storyteller and I started out wining like a little… hmmm, like a little what? Oh well, forget it, move on because that’s what a champion would do. Did Ali bow out in Manila? No he didn’t and I’m sure that was a hell of a lot harder than contemplating writing your story in 2nd person.

Alright. I’m purged. I can move on now. I’m going to take a little time to think and then, without any hesitation and I’m going to sit my but down and write. After I’ve exhausted myself writing I’ll write some more.

See ya’ll soon swith whatever I come up with.

In my first assignment I was a bit lazy. I wrote one draft, didn’t check the grammar or pacing of the story. I was just happy to have it finished. I sent it off and washed my hands of it. That was until I got the critique back from the professor who basically told me that my use of the Castillian language in writing was “tan pobre (oh so poor)”. Do you know what it feels like to a storyteller to be told that his use of “any” language is “poor.” I was devastated but knew that the error had been all mine. When I write in English I, painstakingly, take my time to examine each little nuance of every word, placement of adjectives, adverbs etc. Why hadn’t I done this when writing in Spanish?

The answer is simple but not flattering. I was scared. Fear was a factor in writing my first assignment and when I got to the end of writing it, I just wanted it to go away, leave me alone.

For the second assignment we were required to examine a singular moment in time and illustrate it as best we could by using the sights, sounds, smells of the incident to pull the reader in. I chose to write on what happened with my family and I during the 92 Riots here in LA.

I am pleased to say that the professor gave me a glowing review of the second exercise. He basically said that I must have worked like a madman in order to make such improvement. Do you see me smiling?

I actually did work like someone possessed. I couldn’t see myself doing less than I was capable of (fear or no fear). I have been speaking Spanish for more than 20 years but I realize, now more than ever, that speaking and writing creatively are two very different disciplines. I, literally, spent an entire day checking and re-checking my sentence structure, grammar, word usage, etc.

Knowledge and wisdom are not the same. I feel like I possessed a great deal of knowledge when it came to writing in Spanish but, through this initiatory process; I feel like I may gain a little of wisdom if I keep pushing on.

If anyone wants to read it, just email me or get me a message and I’ll send it to you.

I actually love to write but attempting this creative writing course in the Spanish language throws me back to literary struggles I experienced in my early and mid 20’s. Vocabulary doesn’t flow as easily, metaphors are muddy and I don’t have an established, comfortable voice or style from which to allow my ideas to flow pen to paper. It is tempting to retreat to the familiar and only put on display well-developed skills. I intend to respect what I call “The Initiatory Process.” I’m trying to embrace the angst and awkwardness of appearing inept in this new world of Spanish Literati but I’ll tell you what, “It sure ain’t easy!”

I’ve decided to attach copies of each of the completed lessons here in the blog whenever I finish them, for those of you who really want to see wants going on behind the curtain. I’ll start with the most recent exercise. Remember, this is all being given to me in Spanish only and the majority of the students are in Madrid, Spain. I’ll give English translations of my stories as I write them for those willing to follow (it’s the least I could do – Big SMILE). I’ll also attach the Spanish version of my completed narratives for those bilingual readers (por supuesto).

So, here we go! In this current exercise we (students) had to recall a childhood memory. The professor wanted us to expound on this memory in narrative form and provide readers with an acute sense of our childhood experience.

I chose to write on a childhood experience I had while living in Texas. I was around 9 years old or so. Click on one of the links below to read the story. Oh, leave a comment or send me a message to let me know what you think.

English version of the story: Battles

Spanish version of the story: Batallas

Anyway, I got second place and this, my friends, is where the initiatory process begins. One of the awards was a creative writing course with “Escuela de Escritores” based in Madrid. While I am supremely ensconced in the subtle mastery and art of the pen in the English Language, well, Spanish, that is a horse of an entirely different color. But, lacking the common sense of a mule I decided to jump into the course with all ten toes and, hopefully, emerge a better storyteller and writer. By the way, did I mention the course is given in Spanish only?

I am in the second week of the course and I figured, rather than to continue crying and blubbering my way through extra large boxes of Kleenex, it would be better if I blogged the experience.

So for those of you willing the put up with the wining and exposed insecurities of a grown man, stay tuned. If this course doesn’t kill me it will definitely make me a better storyteller. If I were you though, I’d place my money on the odds of me not emerging alive.

e side. I submitted a

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.