It has occurred to me, through reading yesterday’s comments, that Black History really should have something more tied to it than just a litany of events and dates and names of inventors and musicians and politicians. Though, historically, being tied to politics is a serious and warranted part of the struggle that very history wrought. So, here, I tell another story.
When I was little and growing up in Hyde Park my sisters and I had the run of the neighborhood. Tracy, my younger sister, had a friend named Gigi with whom she got into a heap of trouble most of the time. The apartments we all lived in are the kind with long hallways that seemed to stretch on forever. Bedrooms and kitchens and living rooms were set off to the side of the hallway and some of them had courtyards. They were pretty to look at, but no one ever seemed to be out enjoying the courtyards. They just had some flowers and benches at stood alone. Almost lonely.
One time, while several kids and I were playing hide and seek across the street from Gigi’s house (why I mention this or her I do not know except that she is such a part of this memory that I can’t shake her) we happened upon an open window where jazz music was playing. Growing up, we listened to everything. I mean EVERYTHING. There was no music that wasn’t allowed and the blessing here is that both of my parents came from such different places that they brought their own musical experiences with them to the marriage. This jazz music, however, was different. It was live. Someone was playing a trumpet and we heard a piano through the window. It must have been Spring or perhaps it was summer because it was beautiful outside. Every single one of the kids playing in the courtyard area stopped to creep up beneath the first floor window giving us a free concert.
Eventually, it stopped and we heard someone talking. We peeked into the window, the tops of our heads probably already visible by those inside. But standing upright we were sure to be seen. It felt just like playing hide-and-seek for me because every time I play that game I suddenly and inexplicably have to pee.
This might be why I never won that game.
Whoever it was that was talking was obviously an interviewer because he had a microphone and there were cameras (video and still photography) in the living room where the music called to us. The man holding the trumpet turned to see us and we thought we were in trouble, but he laughed and handed us some candy and shooed us away with a smile.
To this day, I don’t know who that man was or who was interviewing him. It was probably something on Chicago Public Radio or maybe Channel 11, the local channel for the arts at the time. But almost every time since that day that I’ve heard some jazz musician playing I have wondered, “Is that the guy who lived across from Gigi that we heard playing music and doing an interview that day?”
This is all to say that art seemed to creep through a window in my life and I can’t seem to shake it. So, in the most awkward segue I can manage, here are some Black artists I have enjoyed throughout my life. That, plus a quote from Donald Miller’s book Blue Like Jazz which is currently floating around my house where multiple family members have picked it up and thumbed through it and read it:
I never liked jazz music because jazz music doesn’t resolve. But I was outside the Bagdad Theater in Portland one night when I saw a man playing the saxophone. I stood there for fifteen minutes, and he never opened his eyes.
After that I liked jazz music.
Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.
Jacob Lawrence. “The Lovers”
Jacob Lawrence. From the Migration series.
Funeral Procession by Ellis Wilson
From Gordon Parks’ “Big Momma and Boy” photo essay
I shouldn’t like the photo essay from Gordon Parks about this woman. She was battered and lived in poverty and he photographed her right after she scalded her abusive husband. But this series, first found in Life magazine, hit me so hard the first time I read it in the stacks at the library during undergrad, that I can’t forget it.
Gordon Parks
Finally, a piece of art by Dinah Washington. “What a Difference a Day Makes”
Finally. Oh, finally. This is the art I love and appreciate and not because of some music appreciation class (even though I did take that class once). This art and much much more.
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Great post and nothing is wrong with the title. I like the title as well.
Love the post and love the quote from Donald Miller’s book Blue Like Jazz.
“Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way.”
Love this post. It is so important to remember all the ways our world is made better by those we often forget. I need to remember to teach my children (who happen to be black) about the rich cultural ancestry in this country that is created by the wide diaspora of “black” in our nation and world.
Thanks.
Funeral Procession always reminds me (and most people) of The Cosby Show. Its one of the piece I want hanging in my own place one day! I smile every time I see it!
You know what the problem with Black History Month is? All of the missing. I didn’t understand until one day I was talking to a coworker about the beauty of Marian Anderson singing at the Lincoln Memorial. His eyes blazed as he said “You don’t get it, do you? Sure, she got to sing there. But because of racism, how many Marian Andersons are there that we never got to hear?”
It’s the same way with every oppressed group. The people we didn’t get to hear because they were deemed not worthy of being heard, or too dangerous, or too out of the mainstream.
So while we celebrate Black History Month, I think we should also have something like Rosh Hashana, a day of atonement, real mourning, for what was lost.
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