Turned 60, been on a find myself
mission since my first breath. Now I am tired of all the trying as
prescribed by others. We've all been duped by the American dream. I
open the garage and stare, big hole in the roof, pile of leaves
beneath it, junk from previous owner and my busted car. I bought
another one, have to park it in the driveway. From the gaping auto
cavern I view the house, needs repair in many places. I'm not a lazy
person just financially challenged, that puts a damper on things. I
resigned inside from keeping up most appearances, don't wash my car
or feed my lawn so I don't have to cut it every other day.
I tried to discover my African culture
in college. I had no understanding, neither did my cohorts. We
acquired conga drums, played and danced. Our minds were oblivious to
our real condition but ponder we did, like little children. I look
for my drums today, they're gone. In my mind I would pat it's skin a
little each day sitting before the gaping auto cavern filled with
junk and leaves. Caring not for the neighbors who make their own
intrusive noises, yet mindful of the grade school on the other side.
No one watching, everyone's listening, something new in the ambient
noise. Pit patter pop, pit patter bop.
I just play to myself, play to the
trees, to the air around me. There is a space that widens, soon the
beats merge with the neighborhood sounds. I start to visualize. I
meet my ego in dreams of greatness, my fear and wonder if some will
complain about the noise. I think about the curious who are drawn to
listen for an entertaining thrill and wonder if I am putting out
enough for them, glory days. I wonder if my arms will tire or I will
become bored with this whole thing. It all fades away, the beats go
on for every reason and for no reason. The few on lookers walk away,
he's not band quality, not showing off his skills, not speaking to
us. They are right, I am trying to remember. My hands sore and warm
start to remember. I can feel all the parts of rhythm, the heart, the
breath, the meter, see the dancers glide and pound, the dust kicked
up, the smell of stirred energy, even though it's just a squirrel and
some blackbirds. I remembered my first extended play, so long we
played. I peed blood afterward, thought I was hospital bound.
Drumming shakes the earth, rattles the
wind and vibes the fiber in a man. It is about the wholeness, not
just the flesh, that is just what you see. Dance is not a vehicle for
flesh lusting, it is about a soul expressing itself the only way it
can, through the body it is apart of. Drums vibe and the soul extends
and animates the flesh, gives space to share a story where words are
not adequate. Drumming is a great responsibility, takes training. We
had to sit under a leader who assigned our parts. He was strict but
compassionate with us. We had to face our egos before we could bridle
them. No explaining just doing. We showed off our skill like young
lions ready to lead. Skill but no endurance, no wisdom. We made the
noise but had no voice.
We would have to play our part without
elaboration, embellishment or passion. Play the form then listen to
the playback. What is that little strange sound in the background?
That's me! Once the pattern is engraved into my muscle memory then a
small space is given to embellish a little then come back. If your
part is to keep the time, you keep the time, if to wail away and
roll, you wail and roll. You are a part, in your place, of the whole.
Without you nothing is said, with you the whole is said. You play the
part given until called to speak. You emerge and then submerge, in
context, not straying away.
With us going through the process with
no real commitment, that is we were practicing for entertainment and
learning, we did poorly. Our egos were never really tamed. Our
cohesive energy did merge a little, it was entertaining but far far
short of being real drumming, a most serious thing. Drumming in
Africa was/is an integral part of many social constructs. Tonal
languages could be uttered by the drums and distant signaling for
warnings and events of every sort. Drums brought people together for
worship and praise and to heal and celebrate.
The encroaching world
of New World enslavement, education, religion and finance has no
need of drumming except for entertainment. Their re-civilization
effort to remake us in their own image in order to include us
according to their understanding required us to forget our drums.
They failed, it's in our soul, I remember as a young person hearing
older white persons saying “black folks got natural rhythm”, many
many times. This is why our keeping the beat is used against us, the
infectious rhythms permeate everything in popular culture but has no
substance for sustaining healthy black culture. The beats are there,
the words twisted and distorted. Our serious stuff marginalized to be
aired when everybody is asleep, or in night spots where people go to
self-indulge. Such it has been with jazz. Rock drumming kings
portrayed as wild men who still manage to keep time. In my drum troop
that wild-man ego would perish, still the beat would go on. Only one
complex drummer is the modern way, a multiplicity of simple drummers
are African. Each playing the pattern with the potential of speaking
out when needed. If all of Africa's drummers would drum on one day,
the world would shake.
I don't own a dashiki or wear beads,
more often than not am pressed to wear the Euro culture clothes from
the local store with a sigh. Doesn't really matter, the African
within is being realized. History can't lie forever about my story
that was a myth-story er a mystery to me. The outer has no need to
change, the inner must change. It can't be the well reading of many
books or watching videos and documentaries. It can't be degrees in
education though I do appreciate ones who appropriate the tools to
research and tell all of us. I need to pick up my drum and play to
remember. Who ponders anymore? Most fill their brain bandwidth with
media voices, drugs and sleep. Using waking moments to meditate and
ponder and I will add, to pat the drum, pip patter bip, pit patter
bop, and remember.
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