The Joy of Teaching

I believe I was born to guide, mentor, and teach. I'm the oldest of three brothers, and from my earliest memories, I've been in the role of emotional and spiritual counselor. Family relationships are different from friends and colleagues, yet the roles have always been the same.

I have taught computer technology and software applications, which I wouldn't want to do ever again. The people I taught were bored office workers who wanted to escape their cubicle or frightened middle management or executives without their trustworthy assistant. Education works best when there are mutual goals.

I prefer natural teachers than those out to prove something. Some of my favorite past teachers were those who put their students on the top their priority list. I remember my seventh grade English teacher who doubled as my drama coach, for subtle gestures such as making sure we knew a world existed outside our junior high school.

No matter where I am or have been, I've fallen into the role of mentor/teacher. In summers past, I spent weekends rollerskating and inline skating in Central Park. No sooner than I'd arrive, someone would stumble in my direction, I'd break their fall and try to say something encouraging : "Don't bust your butt!" No, I wouldn't say that. I'd guide said person off to the side and commence teaching the basics of inline skating.

Natural teachers operate on a different wavelength than those who must teach. Natural instructors (guides) are able to forget ourselves (egos, fears, insecurities) and concentrate on our student(s).

When I wasn't teaching people how to roll and bounce on their Rollerblades, I was near Bethesda Fountain or the Bandshell in Central Park channeling my ancestors in the middle of the circle with the African drummers and dancers. Before moving to New York City, I had never seen or heard a djembe drum or an African from the continent. The dundun talked and I listened. The sound of the djembe ascended and I met it three feet in the air, unbeknownst to my body and mind that I'd gazelle genes. Once back on solid ground, children and courageous adults would approach and ask me to teach them what I'd just performed in my trance-like state. My impromptu students in a single line, and I'd set about reconnecting with spirits summoned from the beat of the first West African rhythm.

Viewing past pictures of me dancing in the park, I truly believed I was 'taken over' by someone. (I dare not say possessed, my friends in the Bible-belt of the south would send up a pastor or two to perform an exorcism.) I've never taken a dance class in my life, but there I was dancing on rollerblades and barefoot in Central Park. I was a student to the wind and ancestors present. Teachers and students learn from each other. Teachers have the knowledge, but it is with individual students we learn to teach.

In recent months, this principle has unfolded in my life. I've taught the Language Arts GED component in Spanish Harlem since June. I had no expectations when I walked into the room for the mock-training session that was part of the interview process. What was there to fear when I've performed in front of packed auditoriums and in front of my family at church?

I stood in front of the class unsure of them as they were of me. I might have channeled my past instructors, or my aunt who has taught third grade for the last thirty or more years in Houston when looking into the eyes of the assembled students. By the end of the allotted time, I was asked to extend my tutorial. A good sign for all involved.

Teaching is emotionally, spiritually, and physically draining. There have been days when I've wished for a hearty Eastern European masseuse, Inga or Svetlana, to wrap me in seaweed and masssage my temples. I teach one day a week, and I've felt this way. Imagine if I taught five days a week, and for several years. Kudos to my aunt and other teachers around the world who love to teach.

I think politicians and school administrators should create an insurance policy much like car owners have auto insurance for accidents or destruction of their automobiles. If such a plan were put in place, I would teach fulltime knowing that I could select a list of restorative amenities from a drop down menu. It might attract the necessary qualified and dedicated teachers to classrooms around the world.

Cost of Living in New York City

Life in New York requires a tax account, a psychologist or psychiatrist if one requires medication, and boundless patience.

When I relocated to the East Coast several years, I experienced sticker shock when shopping for food or clothes, and especially paying the Life in New York requires a tax account, a psychologist or psrent for a less than perfect apartment.

I live uptown Manhattan, at the end of Central Park West, near St. John's The Divine Cathedral, and Columbia University's main campus. I'm fortunate, I think, that my monthly expenses are lower than friends in other neighborhoods and boroughs.

My building is weird; not at all what I'm accustomed from having lived in Texas. I miss having a front and back yard. I miss family BB-Q's and parties, complete with boisterous poker games, screaming babies, and sleepy relatives after they've eaten too much sweet potato pie or peach cobbler.

My building is a year-round brick oven that seems to be falling apart from the center outward. Each floor has its own set of characters, personalities, and gossip. One apartment in particular reeks of something: soiled furniture, clothes, or perhaps a rotted corpse. Often times I've thought about pouring Lysol or Clorox Bleach at the base of the door to decrease the escaping stench. I think that would be rude. Instead, I might leave a few plants and flowers at the door. The flora would contrast the thick yellow and brown paint in the hallway and cut the scent from that apartment.

I think anything would be an improvement over the current state of my building. My main concern is that I'll have moved out before the building buckles and collapes.

The Sanctuary Within

Close your eyes and imagine a manmade place that has taken on a life of its own, filled with trees and wildlife scurrying back and forth in what seems to be their natural habitat. Keep your eyes closed a moment longer. Populate this place with different people in various sporting and recreational activities. It shouldn’t be hard; such a place exists in the middle of Manhattan – Central Park.

I go to Central Park to breathe when the walls at home seem to close in on me. The park represents many things: solace, a free gym, a source of inspiration to write, and a place to disappear to read. I usually enter this enchanted forest through a gateway of benches leading into the park at West 110^th Street. I’m filled with expectation each time I head to the center of the park. Below, a pathway remains uncharted for me. I’ll explore what goes on down there one of these days, for now, my destination is West 72^nd Street. Central Park is an 843-acre backyard that reminds me of my Texan upbringing, although climbing trees, camping, singing songs and telling ghost stories around a fire might be frowned upon by The Central Park Conservancy.

As I journey toward my final destination during the spring and summer, patrons make their way up a hill to a picnic/rest area and a jogging course. There’s a dense concentration of trees that release their scent without fail as I roll by on my inline skates just around the bend heading down past the pond. The baseball field and tennis courts are nothing more than a blur as I shift into second gear. Each succeeding year I promise myself a detour for a pick-up game of volleyball in the worn grass across from the Reservoir. The castle, the boathouse café and canoes seldom register as I begin to anticipate the African Drum Circle. There are days when the beats travel across the water and pull me into a hypnotic trance like a futuristic tracker beam.

I’m at home in the drum circle. I have met people I wouldn’t have otherwise. I get back to my roots each time I dance. I was introduced to and formed a bond with Africans from Senegal, Mali, and Ghana, countries previously unfamiliar and distant to me prior to relocating to New York. There’s no assembly required, special training, or equipment needed to dance in the center or off to the side. Friendships are forged, strengthened, and healed as various African and Caribbean rhythms underscore. The drum circle is a family of brothers and sisters who aren’t keen on parental figures. The aim is unity without a pecking order. There’s harmony among the core drummers and dancers, yet there are periodic challenges from outsiders seeking to strike a sour note. Languages, cultures, burning incense, and comfort zones intermingle, and in some instances collide. The music grabs the observer, seduces, and later propels the listener into the center. The music invades the body, fills the mind and ears, causes foot-tapping, finger-snapping, and hip-swaying. The crowd encircles the drummers and dancers because the music calls out to them from their safe vantage points. With each changing rhythm, the assembled draw nearer. Often is the case that it’s difficult to dance, let alone breathe. The beats touch a primal nerve in all; some are more willing to allow their body to respond to the drums that reverberate in their torso and echo in their ears.

People come and go all the time; it’s no different with the drum circle. Over the past five or six years, I’ve seen prodigal sons and daughters stand on the perimeter, waiting for an invite, unsure if they’d be welcomed. It’s as simple as taking a deep breath, smiling, and stepping back into the enclosed area – they acknowledge their absence and signal their return.

Prior to dancing with the drum circle, I can’t recall a time when I was airborne without being tossed in the air by an older cousin, on an airplane, or compared to a gazelle. It escapes me when I was likened to a puppet without its strings, or having coils in my legs instead of bones, before becoming a member of the drum circle.

Six years ago I was intimidated by the circle. I didn’t know if I was out of touch with who and what I was as an African-American. I didn’t know what I’d say or do if one of them said something to me. I discovered drummers as I’d the dance-skaters who made me feel comfortable with classic disco, house and club music. I felt as if I was betraying the skaters when I first encountered the drummers while drinking water from one of the fountains. The music was different. I was comfortable on roller-skates. I’d only seen these faces on television and in movies. I didn’t know if I’d be received – I didn’t see Andrew Lloyd Webber in the vicinity, auditioning for Starlight Express wasn’t an option.

The drum circle has evolved through several locations and years in the park. When I first danced on my skates to the drums, they were stationed near Literary Walk. The mobile village then moved to Bethesda Fountain, a favorite locale for all. The music beckons passersby from all corners of the park. It’s a legal intoxicant that causes people to lose track of time. Cameras flash as professional and amateur photographers do their best to capture the spirit of the drummers and dancers. The drum circle lowers inhibitions and people cross ethnic, religious, and economic boundaries and dance. There’s no need for red tape, velvet ropes, or governmental polices. The circle is its own world. The only rule is to enjoy the music and atmosphere. Flailing of bodies, heavy breathing, and sweating is encouraged.

Passport To New York - Part One

I’ve had as many jobs as the years I’ve been on the East Coast. I had a job waiting for me as a credit card authorizer at Lord & Taylor's on Fifth Avenue before I had a place to live. One of my supervisors in the credit collection department at Foley’s in Houston arranged a lateral transfer over the phone and with corroborating faxed documents as a personal favor and parting gift. My co-workers couldn’t believe that I was leaving the comforts of southern living for New York City – El Paso salsa jokes aside. I had no sensible reason to uproot and move to unfamiliar territory and endure inclement weather. An alumnus, a female photographer, at my high school’s fiftieth-year gala anniversary dangled the possibility of New York in my face at one of the rehearsals during my junior year. “If you ever make it to New York, I’d love to photograph you!”

After graduation, I arranged a visit to New York and an audition for the theatre program at NYU. I called her with the good news that I was on the way to the city and she offered her living room futon as free shelter. I remember locking myself in the bathroom when her two obese protective cats wanted no part of my spending the night in their apartment while the lady of the house was away.

I also remember a bobtail cat at my Granny’s house the summer before I started first grade. I began the school year with bandaged legs due to allergies and sores. I don’t think I recalled that episode or my belligerent mother who warned Mrs. Johnson of my condition, and that she’d best be careful about disciplining me should I misbehave, as I tried reasoning with two growling and hissing cats from the other side of the locked door. I slept in the oversized bathtub on her plush white robe, covered with expensive towels as long and thick as bed sheets. She returned the next morning and the psycho cats trotted over to her, cooing and meowing as if nothing had happened. She laughed when I recounted the previous night’s adventure. The apartment was on West 72^nd Street, five minutes from Central Park West. I wasn’t going to allow cats that needed medication and therapy to change my mind on moving to New York. She never photographed me.

I returned to Houston after auditioning for Tisch School of The Arts at NYU, and began the emotional and spiritual process of letting go of family and friends. I had to find out if my drama coaches and guidance counselors were telling the truth about my acting and public speaking talents. I wouldn’t have been satisfied performing in local theatres, cutting ribbons at dedications and special events, or working as a radio deejay. I had to find out if I had real talent, unlike many of my privileged high school classmates who received special treatment. I needed to hear from reputable New York professionals that I had that elusive quality to create and sustain a career as an actor.

The often times overwhelming magic of the city was an experimental drug back then, and I was a willing addict. My original plans were to come to New York and work one job, audition on my lunch break or at the end of the business day, and lay the foundation for taking over Broadway. At some point in the early stages, survival and saving face became more important than pursuing my dreams. I didn’t want to give up too soon and return defeated to face my family and friends. It was more than the geographic, social, and climate differences that gave me pause. I wasn’t content working in the authorization department with a surrogate mother supervisor who fussed over me, concerned for my well-being and smooth transition from Houston to New York. I thought I’d be happier working in the collections department. Cliché aside, I didn’t know what I was giving up until I no longer had it. The supervisors in the collection department didn’t make eye contact in the mornings or as I left for the night. There were no seductive smells of home cooked meals warming in the microwave during lunch. There was pressure to collect and close delinquent accounts. There were disciplinary meetings about personal phone calls to Houston on company time. I resigned months later and began years of seeking out the perfect artist’s job while auditioning for theatre and film roles.

During this early transitional period, the next decisive test of whether to stay took place in a courtroom in New Jersey for withholding rent from an unscrupulous landlord. I lived in a basement apartment the size of a broom closet in Union City, and had to sleep with the oven door opened at night to keep warm. My first winter was bleak; my mother sent an electric blanket to help combat the cold. I appeared before the judge who ordered me to pay the back rent or face eviction.

I was fortunate to have met and befriended a Dominican whose family treated me as of one of their own. I opted not to pay the landlord, and in the one-week grace period, I scoured the neighborhood and surrounding areas for a new apartment. I walked into a realtor’s office and used tools from my actor’s training: motivation, cunning, and a desire to remain on the East Coast. She showed me several apartments before I settled on a one-bedroom in neighboring West New York, New Jersey. I told her that I had to find an apartment before I left on tour as an actor/dancer, an explanation for the urgent search and easy deposit. She was smitten with me, and I knew it. It was one of my better performances.

My Dominican friend, his cousin, and I moved the twenty or thirty blocks between apartments over the course of two days in grocery store shopping carts. When we returned to the first apartment for a final check, a law enforcement officer had plastered a yellow eviction notice underneath a metal rod and bolt across the door. I didn’t mourn the loss of the mop and bucket captive in the tiny abode. The experience taught me that I was resourceful, and perhaps similar to those cats that staked claim to their owner’s apartment.

Odd Jobs

Circa, February ‘92, I went on an interview for a personal assistant as advertised in the Sunday New York Times Help Wanted section. I phoned the person who’d placed the ad, an M. Kline who asked if I were available for an interview that very evening. With no pressing engagements, I agreed to meet Mr. Kline at his 5th Avenue apartment at 6 o’clock.

He asked my age, race, background, and the little voice questioned the urgency in scheduling the interview, but I had been out of work for over a month and thought this couldn’t be half-bad. It was Fifth Avenue, and maybe my head was in the clouds.

I phoned my grandmother and mother and told them about the interview with the mysterious and impatient Mr. Kline. As usual, Granny said, “Do your best!”

Mommie chimed in, “Be careful!”

Off to the interview.

When I arrived at the swanky (my by accounts) 5th Avenue address, an arrogant doorman gave me a hard time. What on earth would I be there at this hour? Five minutes later, after verifying information, I was on my way to the apartment.

Exiting the elevator, I noticed a young Latino about my age leaving the apartment. I thought he had been awarded the job, and why in the heck hadn’t I been told in the hours since the phone call!

I rang the doorbell, a faint voice called out to enter, “Back here,” the voice beckoned from the bedroom where his massive, freckled frame lie stretched out like a beached whale in his brass bed covered to his chest. Was this the big bad woof waiting to feast?

The apartment was dimly lit, and by this point, the Latino had returned from emptying the wastebasket. As he left the apartment, Kline told him he’d be in touch. Was emptying the trash and returning the receptacle a pre-job task?

Mr. Kline asked if I’d seen the apartment, and granted me a tour. Paintings, sculptures, Tiffany lamps and accessories filled his home, with splatterings of Lalique and Tibetan vases.

The sight of Mr. Kline reminded me of Jabba the Hut of the Star Wars saga. I returned to the bedroom, and as I spoke to him, I pulled a chair backward from his bed with my foot, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

Checking to make sure my mace was in my pocket, I sat and the interview began (Looking back on this, I should’ve departed then). I talked about my qualifications of being a caretaker (raising two brothers, cooking, being a take-charge person) and how I could benefit him, hours, fees, and perks.

He attempted flattery by telling me of his alleged friendship with playwright/actor Harvey Fierstein. He placed and received calls, two in particular, a “model” phoned and offered his penis-size, hair and eye color, and other measurements. Kline wanted to be offended, but was intrigued all the same. The little voice again spoke out! He then called a previous employee to scold him about his boyfriend calling to check up on him while working (during the phone call, they seemed to patch things up).

“Do you know how to massage? I tend to get stiff in and around my lower back.”

“No!”

He needed assistance getting his large frame out of bed to go to the toilet; I struggled to help lift this man, all of three-hundred pounds to sit up in bed.

He wheeled himself around to the side of the bed, and oops! He was nude, ughh-ughh!

Returning to his bed, wrapped in a king-size beach towel, he asked for soda/juice to take medication.

I attempt to change the subject back to clerical duties that were supposedly in the job description.

He started to nod, and would be out for a few seconds at a time, it was really funny seeing his massive cranium fall into his chest, and then his struggle to lift it again. The shocker came when he asked pointedly if I’d mind bathing him.

“Oh, my gosh!”

“You don’t have to be nude unless you want to, there are swimsuits in the bathroom to use.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have trouble getting myself fully clean.” (Well, if you wouldn’t stuff your face all day, you could fit into the tub!) “I can’t quite reach my balls; I have a brush you could use!” (Like hosing down Shamu or Jumbo?)

Okay, I’m ready to go, and show my discomfort. I ask to make a phone call to alert friends of being late for a nonexistent dinner date; (actually to give the address should I go missing in action) he was completely pissed off that I wanted to leave!

“I wanted to try you out,” have you cook for me, and give you a chance to bathe me.”

Apparently, he didn’t hear me say, “When there’s ice-skating in Haedes!”

“I thought you were an actor? Aren’t all actors gay?” (Look, Shamu, not everyone is, and I’m not!)

“No, a few of us aren’t!” “Is it the way I look?”

“No! You could be a matinee idol, I’m still not showering with you.”

The attempt to leave was again stalled by his asking me to fix the ailing VCR, (when will it end?) the machine was Greek to me.

“I should have told you from the onset . . .”

“What you need is a nurse, not me . . . ”

After all had been said, and all attempts to sway had failed, the man was searching for a boy-toy, preferably young and agile. After thanking God on High for leaving unscathed, I phoned Sarah from a corner payphone to explain the frantic call earlier. We laughed, and I returned home. About two weeks later, I noticed that Mr. Kline had placed the identical ad in the NY Times.

Round Two.

International Dance Festival (2003)

Dance unites people from all over the world and from all walks of life – rich, poor, young and old, black, white, and all shades in between. This was evident at the 2^nd Annual International Dance Festival, July 22^nd – August 10^th, at The Duke Theatre on 42^nd Street.

The Hip Hop Showcase featured Rhapsody: The Company, in a new show entitled “Ripped”, with special guest choreographer Brian Friedman. During the prelude to the show, the audience comprised familiar current and aspiring dancers and choreographers. The mood was charged, expectant, and electric in the intimate 199-seat theatre. The first installment Frozen, paid homage to the movie Flashdance and Jennifer Beals, with music by Madonna. A Day in the Life told the story of homoerotic love gone awry as white noise from televisions zigzagged in the background and flags waved while urban street kids enacted their triumphs and tribulations for all to watch. Trophy Girls was a stylized and sophisticated video shoot without the choppy editing and close-up on one star. This piece brought to mind Vanity 6/Apollonia and Sheila E, as go-go girls gyrated and groped to music by Jene sampled with Annie Lenox’s Sweet Dreams. This was a smooth ensemble.

Brooklyn vs. Queens was a ghetto fabulous romp that stirred the audience into a high-energy fervor, clapping hands and cheering as the dancers strutted and cavorted to an explosive soundtrack. A standout in this set was the gender-bending solo by a male dancer who blurred the lines between masculinity and femininity to the song Whateva Bitch. He set fire to Paris with his performance. Demolition of Joy switched gears to a softer, balletic and modern style. Three shadow dancers behind shears suspended from the ceiling set the stage for this appealing journey. This was the audience’s first opportunity to see the choreographer, Rhapsody. The dancing, music, and imagery worked in concert to create a solid performance. Colour was reminiscent of a thematic ballet with dancers poised in colored fabric bags, breaking free of their cocoon, waves of white fabric criss-crossing the stage. The male flag twirlers were stationary ribbons of color to round out the inspired choreography.

The Puppet Master addressed the interdependence of people in society illustrated by a masked puppeteer wearing a top hat atop stilts as three dancers “on strings” were subjected to his maniacal whims. A mystical and voodoo-esque subtext was woven into the choreography and staging. Devil dealt with the misconceptions of domestic violence. Sophisticated Lady transported the audience to a high school unisex gym class with kids from the block costumed in a sports motif. My Life was a soulful and reflective solo performance by Rhapsody to music by Mary J. Blige.

The MPAC Showcase opened with En L’Air Aerial Dance with an ethereal and light performance. The suspended ring dancer defied gravity, while the rope dancer brought to mind the professionalism and quality of a trained circus performer. Their performances were based on ballet and modern dance techniques, which was pleasing to the eye. Synthesis Too, Apprentice Company of Synthesis Dance Project, performed futuristic and sparse pieces. A Dream Called Happiness was the brainchild of Sheila Barker and Europe Harmon that pulled together eleven performers between the ages of thirteen and nineteen in a ten-day workshop that focused on dance, singing, and acting. The goal of the workshop was to give Broadway hopefuls a taste of the New York audition circuit. The vaudevillian opening emphasized their slapstick and chorus line uniformity with original songs, music and choreography. The future Broadway stars showed their ease reenacting life lessons as they went on mock auditions, dealing with rejections and ultimate success.

Shea Sullivan’s company opened the Eclectic Showcase with a polished jazz number, They’re Playing Our Song that seemed effortless. Synthesis Too continued with Slanguage, a performance featuring a classically trained ballet dancer and a hard-edged Funk/Tap dancer rival. Synergistic Energy eXchange performed a Fosse-inspired Jazz/Funk/Broadway number. Shea Sullivan’s company rounded out the first half of the showcase with a lively tap ensemble that left the audience exhausted and wanting an encore.

Magbana Dance and Drum challenged conventions and expectations as a predominantly Caucasian company immersed in West African drum and dance. In the piece From Kuku to Konkoba, the rhythms stirred memories of natives and intrigued the uninitiated as feet tapped, hands clapped and shoulders swayed to the beats. Matthew Dean was the standout performer who dared the audience to get involved with his interactive drumming.

Juxtapower, a South African dance troupe was an ideal follow-up to Magbana. Izigqi Zezizwe was the scene-stealing signature performance that made audience members sit back in their seats and take notice. Costumed in a prehistoric caveman motif, the symmetry and lines of the dancers’ bodies would motivate most to head to the nearest gym. The razor-sharp kicks to either side of the male dancers’ heads were awe-inspiring. Wondering how they were able to balance themselves, not fall backward, and keep time to the music might have crossed many minds in the audience. Sduzduzo Ka-Mbili and his brother Solomon Bafana Matea, by the end of their performance had new female fans and envious men who would no longer put off getting back into shape. It was an overall powerful performance – funky, hip, and traditional; with original music by Sduzduzo, Tomas, and Lucky Dube.

When the audience thought it couldn’t possibly be dazzled further, two top-notch tap dancers from Shea Sullivan’s company took the stage for extended solos and duet performances. Jared Grimes and DeWitt were extraordinary dancers, who played off each other in call-and-response method in their complementary style of dancing.

To round out the Eclectic Showcase, Magbana Dance and Drum returned to perform Ode to The Baga, an invigorating and spirited performance wherein the female dancers doubled as drummers as they alternately stepped forward to dance while the remaining company drummed and kept the audience on the edge of their seats.

People came to The International Dance Festival for any number of reasons – to support family or friends, to be exposed to different styles of dance, or to be reminded of dreams they once pursued yet abandoned for other interests. Audience members walked away with a new or renewed appreciation for dance and the Arts – job well done to the producer, choreographers, and dancers.

The Gospel According To . . .

Gospel music and spirituals were two of my building blocks growing up in the Bible belt of the Southwest, whether at church or in the glee club in elementary school. The glee club director was a flamboyant man who pulled good, if not great performances out of his students. The boys wore puffy calypso-inspired homemade long-sleeved shirts, which might have kept a few local seamstresses busy for a few years.

The girls didn’t suffer a lesser fate than we did; only they wore black skirts to our black pants. Patten leather shoes or real leather shoes, for those who could afford them, and dark socks rounded out the uniform. Apart from those garish uniforms, I remember his belief in us as a group and individually. I remember a few of the songs or scattered lyrics when I feel the blues coming over me or when thinking of former choir mates.

Ezekiel saw the wheel (sustain note, breathe) way up in the middle of the air. Ezekiel saw the wheel (breathe) up in the middle of the air. Doom-a-looma-doom-a-looma. A wheel, and a wheel.

* * *
Eli~jah R’o’c’k! Elijah Rock, Elijah Rock, Elijah Rock. Elijah Rock, Elijah Rock … Elijah Rock, shout! Shout! Elijah Rock, coming up Lord. Elijah Rock, shout! Shout! (repeat refrain, boys begin, girls echo) Satan’s a liar, and a conqueror, too. If you don’t watch out he’ll conquer you. If I could, I surely would. Just on the rock where Moses stood. Rock-a-Elijah Rock, shout! Shout.

* * *
Sunday morning services were different in my Methodist church. There were no tambourines to glory or choir director standing, playing the piano with hand one while directing with the other. I was in the children’s choir at church, but not for long. It’s probably a lopsided comparison, besides, an adult choir versus a youth glee club.

Each holds a space in my mind and heart. The various adult church choirs had experience and suffering that fueled their voices; the glee club with its natural and trained voices, now seems like the beginning of a journey.

Back in Houston when I sat in the balcony overlooking the congregation and choir, or standing with my back erect in the glee club before the curtains opened, I didn’t think ahead to how those songs and experiences would carry me through the rough spots in life.

Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King. Hallelujah, Hallelujah, we are going to see the King.