when Q was 3 years old in daycare they celebrated Martin Luther King day with simple words of world peace. his teacher told Q and his friends of how Dr. King taught the people of the world to be more loving. when Q was 4 years hold he was excited to bring in to his unitarian-universalist sunday school a library book we had found titled: My Brother Martin: A Sister Remembers Growing Up with the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther, King Jr., a lovely book about Dr. Kings childhood, told in a way only a sister could. in that book was the first mention Q had ever heard that some children wouldn’t play with others because of the color of their skin. to a 4-year-old it had as much meaning as saying the men who built the pyramids did so against their will. it was ancient history. Q was proud to be african american like Dr. King. when Q was 6 years old we celebrated Martin Luther King day by listening to his speeches, played Abby Lincoln and Nikki Giovanni even more than we already do, and we spoke of how Dr. King was not an american hero but a world hero, that what made him really different was that entire world changed because of him; not just his town, or state or country – but the world.
Q is now 7 years old attending a wonderful public school where white children are the minority. he’s in first grade, in a classroom that combines first and second grade children. this week his teacher chose to show a video about the life of Dr. King that had especially graphic violence. for Q himself, who has challenges that i do not discuss publically on the web…the images he saw have been especially overwhelming for him.
and so, we’ve had some sleepless nights. first addressing what he saw and helping him to process the information in physical way. there is also, for the first time his understanding of where we as a family fit into history. as with most of parenthood there is no, right or wrong time for this or anything else, however, it comes after a week where i did not see him at night because i was getting home at 10 PM or after.
yesterday, after being up 4 times at night with him from his nightmares i finally took him down stairs and as he watched cartoons i sat next to him and paid some bills on-line (the work never ends right?!) he kept jumping on top of me and my laptop to hug me. maybe fifteen times he jumped and hugged.
‘please, please, baby…i just want to pay the bills so we can go into the city and have a fun day, OK?
‘i can’t help it mom…i can’t help it… it was the hardest week, the hardest i’ve had and i’ve missed you so much and i’m so glad you’re here.’
i paid the last bill, turned off the computer and he and i went to his favorite diner as i had promised him on friday night when i called from work to say i wouldn’t be home for breakfast. he had bowl of maple syrup with a few bits of pancake floating in it (never let a seven-year old boy pour his own maple syrup while you are looking for the waitress for more coffee) and we sat at the counter and watched two greek teams play soccer. he was in his glory. the greek owner of the dinner standing next to us ‘oh, no out out out teach that player a lesson.’
my son is a guy’s guy. sitting next to the owner saying that is for him like oprah knocking on my door and saying she heard i had the ugliest kitchen in america and get out of the house because she’s redoing it for me (which i honestly believe could happen one day) for Q sports and grown men talking to him about sports = nirvana.
‘but i can’t find ‘diary of a wimpy kid!!!!’ i can only find ‘captain underpants!!!!’
‘you don’t need to have a book in order to get on the train – you need to get to the train in order to get on the train’
blank stare at me “you don’t NEED a BOOK on the TRAIN?”
‘GET IN THE CAR!!!!’
i am pulling the train tickets out of the ticket machine as Y holds the door open and i jump on.
it is true, you do not need to have a book in your back pack in order to get on the train
we go for the second week in a row to harlem
there was no planning in any of this, no thinking of the time of year, or well heck no thinking. i still have a herniated disk (i see my first surgeon on tuesday) 80 year old women with canes are making comments that i’m walking too slowly as i hobble around, so i’m still at that stage, get up, don’t think, don’t plan, just go.
we are in harlem for the second week however because it is the open-house and registration day for an arts school that we are considering for Q for the winter. while we live in a mixed race, blue-collar town with some art opportunities, the quality and other issues have us wanting him for him to a different experience than any we have available here in our town. this will mean an hour and a half one way for the next fourteen weeks. hmmmm…i’m trying to figure out who on earth is going to do my laundry.
there are times when a person comes into your life at exactly the right moment and you suddenly feel how healing come happen without anything other than being with that person
and there are times when that same experience comes from a place
for our family, that place is harlem and that time is now
one of the reasons we considered the long commute to take him to this particular school was that it teaches a huge variety of the arts. so while we’re walking to the dance studio, we’re hearing piano being played, someone behind a closed-door is singing and there are a group of children from 4 years old to 12, boys and girls, dragging their conga drums up to the circular stage to start practicing with their teacher.
Q by the way, did not want to go to the school.
‘i’m not taking dance AND i am taking guitar, but not with other people, on my own, i’m taking private lessons.’
‘you, ARE taking dance. that is a parent decision not a child choice. like going to school, church and wearing under ware…you are wearing under ware right?’
‘why, do i have to get undressed?’
the blank stare – and then he cracks up hysterically – he truly loves his own sense of humor
‘of course i’m wearing under ware! it’s winter!’
good enough.
the classes were going on and we wandered the hallways sitting in on a small variety that were right for his age. modern dance (girls in black leotards bending and stretching – got an instant ‘NO!’ from Q ’remember’ i tell him, ‘ i decide what you’re taking’ his eyes got HUGE at that’) and then hip hop. still mostly girls, only one boy, but a young guy teacher. kind, with a great attitude and Q’s feet never stopped moving as he sat in my lap.
we wander to the lobby area and listen to a reed section, students to 3 former directors of the music program learning, practising a modern piece where each player has the same notes to play but decides when and how to play them. i loved it. Y goes to explore, comes back down to the lobby and then Q and i are off to do our own roaming. upstairs we go to the music section. rooms small and large, most with closed doors and music and voices behind each. one door is open and we hear a piano. a man in his 60′s who is giving a private lesson sees Q and yells out to him…
‘young man, come. come here and listen for a moment’
Q immediately walks down the hall and stands in the door way. the room is the size of a small bathroom. the piano fits and the bench and that’s it. there is a window which helps. the man has an eastern european accent, gray hair, a kind face. he introduces himself and Q does the same. the man smiles. his student, a really beautiful dark-skinned black teenaged girl with natural hair is nice, smiles politely but i could tell she was wanting to play her piano.
‘do you play the piano?’ the man asks of Q
Q says he does not.
i explain that we are here for dance classes and are just exploring. we listen to a lot of different musical styles, love music and that no (in answer to his question) we do not have a piano but are hoping one day to bring his grandparents piano to our home. i tell him, that Q’s father started playing piano at 8 years old but now when he has the time he plays the flute for his own pleasure.
the teacher claps his hands in a rhythm and asks Q to do the same
Q does exactly as the teacher had
the teacher claps again, this time a more complicated pattern, and Q returns the pattern
(Q took private drum lessons when he was four years old so he has some experience with pattern and rhythm – he was too young for those lessons but loved being in them so much we let him follow through for the winter – it got him for a while to stop begging me for private chinese lessons – and the money spent on the drum lessons was worth it for that alone)
the teacher smiled broadly and then played a pattern on the piano
‘can you clap with your hands what i just played on the piano’
i thought to myself – ummmmm, no of course he can’t
but he did
the teacher then showed him where a c note was and asked Q to show him two other places where the c-note would be. on and on it went, this little musical test. Q stumbled here and there but really was amazing (for me, his mom, i know i know i know) to watch.
the teacher stopped, sighed. smiled. and then looked at me. ’i only take a few students. i only have 4:30 available on Saturdays. you would need a piano.’
i stopped him, we’re really here for the dance and it’s early for him i think…
‘yes, i know’ he said. ’but i only take a few students. and he’s very musical.’ he took Q’s hands in both of his and looked at his fingers the palms of his hands turned them over, the white veined bony hands of experience, the brown lovely young hands in his. i gave me pause, a heart flutter. this is why we are here, i thought
‘he has the right hands…beautiful hands.’
‘yes,’ i smile thinking of Levonia ‘he inherited my mother-in-law’s hands – he’s very lucky.’
‘he could play the piano…’ the teacher said one more time.
we thanked him for his time and apologized to the student for taking up so much of her lesson. she gave us a polite smile. it was open-house, her eyes seemed to say, what choice do i have. now please go, i want to play. she started as soon as we left and it was beautiful.
we walked down the hall and peeked into a couple of more rooms. in one i recognized the teacher of the conga drum players we had seen earlier in the day. he was sitting in the middle of a larger room and around him were about 8 young children who i would later learn were seven to eleven years old. one girl player was there. i opened the door and asked if we could sit in the classroom.
‘you can sit…he, nodding his head at Q can only come in if sits at this drum here (he patted the drum next to him) and plays with us. Q didn’t look at me for a moment, he marched past all the other drummers dragged over the chair that the director told him to (‘not that one – the taller one’) and took his place at the drum. the director (for that is a better name for this tall light-skinned african american man, born…where? new york maybe? a tall man who likes his food, with a deep voice, a broad calm smile and somehow on first meeting him, you know instantly, a divine sense of humor and a love of children. one boy knocked over his conga drum three times and each time the director without looking at him said calmly ‘let’s be careful with that’. basically the kind of guy you would invite to a party after knowing him for five minutes. a guy you want to be around
so the director gave Q a five-minute private lesson on the various sounds he would get from the conga drum he had in front of him. similar to the pianist he played a riff and Q repeated. he continued until he reached the level that Q had difficulty following. ’don’t worry, you’ll get it, we don’t PLAY the conga here, we play MUSIC. music comes from within you, you start playing with us, there is no right or wrong, just keep playing and the sound will begin to come in you and then to the drum and then you’ll have it.’
Q then looks at him and says “by the way my name is Q…..H………, nice to meet you”
the director lets out this great laugh and says ‘yeah, i know, nice to meet YOU QH.”
after a while we’re hungry and i’ve done my research and chosen the restaurant we’re going to. it’s a bus ride down 2 dozen blocks or so south and a one block walk over. easy peasy. they don’t ask any questions, my two men, they just assume, as always, i’ll take care of them. we’re off the bus before Q says ‘what type of food are we eating’
i love that question, i think it’s such a new york question.
‘ethiopian’
he stops in his tracks and his father looks at me too. every other time that i have tried to make him go to an ethiopian restaurant he’s refused. Q wants chinese, or, soul food, now that he knows it means fried chicken and banana pudding.
‘Ethiopian?’ Q exclaims. ”we didn’t all three talk about this. we didn’t discuss this. we all three need to agree on where we’re going.”
‘no we don’t. sometimes mom’s don’t even have to ask. sometimes hard-working moms who sit for hours in music rooms just so you can listen to hip hop music and bang on a drum – sometimes we just get to tell the men in our lives – i want ethiopian food and then we all go there and sit down and watch mom be happy.’
Y smiles. ”that’s right.” he’s a man of very few words, but they always come at the right time.
i’ve chosen for our first Ethiopian restaurant one that i’ve read has a more contemporary new york style. Q seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when we walked in the door of a charming, minimalist chic place, the type of atmosphere that he’s used to from all of our forays into SOHO and such.
the waitress is lovely. we let Q have soda (a big treat in our house) to give him some positive vibes and we order.
i don’t know Ethiopian food so i cannot comment on its authenticity of flavor. how true or not it might be to some ideal. however, i can say it was absolutely delicious and couldn’t be a better introduction for Q. he does however, hate eating with his hands. he learned how to use utensils very young, hates to play with play dough or anything ‘yucky’ and so eating with his hands , that was pretty big for him. but the food he loved, especially the spicy lentils. he ate so much i thought he might get sick and then he looked at me and said ‘so, what kind of desserts do Ethiopians eat’
“do you have room for dessert?” even for him he had eaten a lot, two beef patty things, lentils, a beef dish, a spicy bread dish…
‘do i have room for dessert?’ that deadpan look again ‘hello. are you my mother? of course, i have room for dessert. i LEFT room for dessert.’
god i love this child. he may have his fathers looks and my mother in-law’s hands but he’s got my sweet tooth!
a couple more buses and then the train ride home and he was in bed and listened to about 4 minutes of the true story of pirates before he had fallen asleep.
8:00 PM. huh…thank-goodness.
i went to the basement, transferred the wet clothes to the dryer (you’re doing wash now? Y says. I leave for work at 6:15 AM. I get home sometimes at 10:00 PM. yes, i am doing wash now, because now is what i have…) i put in another load and head up stairs with the load i did yesterday. i set up the ironing board, iron four shirts and then at around 9 call it a night.
and then last night again, the images from the movie Q had seen came flooding back. i’m punched out of a deep sleep by the terrified voice of my son “MOMMM! MOMMMM! I NEED YOU!” From my sleep i answer “I’M COMING SWEETIE” and i get to his room,
‘i’m having bad dreams.’
it’s three am and i slip into bed with him.
‘i’ll stay here till you’re asleep and you start doing that kick me out of bed thing you do when you’re asleep – OK?
he quietly laughs nods and in about thirty minutes he’s asleep and sure enough he’s playing soccer in his sleep or dancing or i don’t know what and after the third kick in the groin i’m back in my own bed. Y has turned on the light and is reading. we talk for a while about the week i had at work. i need to go into the city to buy some things for work, but don’t want to be away from Q all day. Y offers to go into the city with me today so that i can be with Q on the train, then when i’m shopping, he’ll take him off to something fun and we’ll meet. we turn off the light and fall asleep at about 4.
Q enters the room at 5:15. he slides into bed. ’i can’t sleep anymore. i can’t stop thinking of those people (he means the movie)”
‘i know, no problem, we’ll talk more later’
Q begins to talk. he talks about everything. what he saw yesterday, the diner, not wanting to play piano, wanting to play conga, and on and on. however, the majority of the subject was the time of Martin Luther King and the blood he saw on the face of the some of the people in the movie.
i told him, what was often missing in those movies, and what i didn’t like was they always seemed to ignore the tens of thousands of ordinary workers who listened to Dr. King’s message. listened, and then followed him and changed the world. not with clubs, or guns or rock throwing but with making deep, difficult, and painful sacrifices. not getting on a bus is no big deal if there is a taxi coming up behind it. not getting on a bus, day after day after day, walking miles to work, and then not getting on that bus again to come home, that was heroic. and i told him probably the tv cameras then and now thought it would be just to boring to film a tired worker coming home at night and fixing dinner for the family or tucking their kids into bed. i said everything he saw was true, but it was one small part of it. an important part, something never to forget, but there were literally millions of other stories that have not been told that still need to be.
‘i wouldn’t be bored mom’
‘i know sweetheart.’
and i told him too that every single day when i say my thank full prayers as i do every morning (funny at the end of the day i’m saying my ‘please god help me…prayers – but in the morning it’s all thanks) i always include Dr. King in my prayers, and his family and thank god that he sent him to this country, when so many other countries needed him too.
and then my boy, my son (who never likes to pray, always makes funny riffs during our meal prayer, or wants to complain to god – actually he once did say a really sincere prayer when he was four years old thanking god for bacon – which absolutely thrilled me for i was happy there was something that actually moved him to prayer)
“i’m going to do that too, mom. i’m going to say thank you to god everyday for Martin Luther King. because if it weren’t for Martin Luther King, i wouldn’t have been able to have the best Mom in the entire world.”
and yes friends, while i have had on many occasions been able to hold myself back from crying in front of him when he says something that goes right through to my heart, on this occasion i just burst forth a fountain of tears and snot.
he grabbed me,
HE held ME
and when after a few moments i got myself together to start wiping first the snot and then the tears i stammered
‘happy tears baby, these are happy tears’
he smiled at me, completely calmly and said
‘i know mom, i know.’
God Bless, Dr. King’s family and all the families of those brave heros who listened, and then sat down, or got up or didn’t move even at the threat of their and their children’s very lives.
without them, i would not have my Q nor my youngest who may not be here yet, but who is on their own journey even now and would not eventually be with us with out Dr. King’s changing this world.
Q and Y in Harlem on the Dr. Martin Luther King Holiday 2010
and a special prayer for our youngest
may you feel gods love
even now
when your journey is most difficult
