Musical obsessions

When I was a kid I was told I was nothing. That wasn't true.

Love. Civilizations have been created for the word. People have died in its name. Others have fallen helpless to it; willing and unwilling victims. Music, food, animals, places and people inspire such a feeling from us.

And yes, I have been fortunate enough to enjoy love in each category.

Music.

When I was a teenager, I was a bit of a hellion. I drove my mother to madness, and she had to relinquish me to the courts. I became a ward of the state. When this happens, a social worker is assigned to a troubled youth and is paid to “get them back on the right track.” My guy: Mr. Wayne White; a black man with a good heart and a passion for jazz. He became the father I’ve always envied others for having.

He was assigned to come to my home three times a week with a list of questions to check my daily progress. This was considered an outreach rehabilitation program. At the beginning, I was skeptical. I answered every question on his list sprinkling curse words and epithets into his ears. With patience, he allowed me to continue this foolishness. He knew it was only a matter of time before he’d break the ice with me.

I should add humanitarians aren’t paid to care. They’re barely paid enough to compensate the meager hunger cravings humans are bound to have. I know this because of the following experiences:

1.      I knew a woman, through a school education program that would pick me up every morning and take me to a school nearly an hour away from my city. One particular day she had had enough of my crap and looked me dead in the eye, saying, “You’re the reason why I hate coming to work every morning. I used to love my job, but now I hate it. Do you understand?”

2.      My foster mother, a staunchly conservative woman, proud of herself and her status in life, perhaps even a bit racist (I say this because she adopted a Mexican child after his mother was refused custody and changed his name from Jose to Joseph at the age of 10), was fed up with me. Grabbing me by the arm and making sure I heard her words she said, “You’re different than us. You come from a place where you don’t deserve this. You and I are different, and I want you to know that. Know your place.”

3.      Herbert Black, a family social worker I had known for three years. He pathetically fought my cases with numerous judges, and met my family on a weekly basis. He referred to me constantly as number “2368.” And would need to open his manila folder to even catch a glimpse of my name.

4.      Ms. Gladys. My mother sought refuge in a church nearing the eleventh hour of night while walking home, knowing she and us needed help. The moment we got inside, we kids were passed out on the pews from sheet exhaustion. My mother pleaded with the first person she found in the church to give her children a meal. Ms. Gladys’s heart was crushed at our condition. It was the best Christmas we had ever had. The church and she were incredibly generous. I wish we crazed children had been taught to be more respectful. But alas… Out of sympathy she dropped five-hundred dollars on new bedroom sets for each of us kids. She wanted us to have something nice. She was bored, and she had the money and comfort to do this. We destroyed our new property. She was crushed and rightly so. Instead of giving up and walking away again, I had that face to face meeting. “Why would you do this? What is wrong with you? You children don’t deserve a damn thing in this life. You should be ashamed.”

I hope you understand why I could care less about the man in front of me. He was just another in a long line of people that never saw or would want to know me.

Mr. White was different. I don’t know what motivated him to look past my piercings; the bullshit attitude or the filthy mouth life had given me. After his questions and list, it was, “All right get in the car. We’re going to take tours of colleges today.”

“Does the state pay you to do this?” I questioned. I didn’t understand why someone would go out of their way to help. Let alone show me a college. My grades were a joke.

“Nope.” Humbleness. No need to elaborate.

A bridge was built between us and I came alive. I transformed. He did what the courts couldn’t. He gave me hope in myself. Something my foster family struggled with and never achieved. Too many people, from the church, from my community, from my blood, they couldn’t. I was a bad egg, just give up and walk away. He didn’t.

He played the piano. And being the eager little girl that does what her father does, I became quickly absorbed. I fell in love with the piano, because it gave me a father. It gave me something that physically walked out fifteen years prior. And it gave me a chance to see who I was when the world was telling me I was nothing.