“Who has fully realized that history is not contained in thick books but lives in our very blood?” ~ Carl Jung.

My mother taught (or attempted to teach) all of her children to play the piano and read music, to one extent or another.  By the time she got to me, the youngest, her patience, already threadbare, was worn particularly thin.  Especially when she realized I was using the numbers over the notes (used to tell you which finger to use) rather than reading the notes themselves.  I never became adept at any instrument (apart from the universal recorder, that torture device!) mostly because I wasn’t willing to put in the hours of practice.

As children of the minister, we all spent some time in the choir.  Even though I haven’t been a part of a church choir for over fifty years now, I can still hum the alto line in most of the hymns of my childhood, enjoying harmonizing more than singing the melody line.  Sitting through choir practice on a Friday evening (quite a social event in a Jamaican town that had few entertainment opportunities for young people) meant that you had to listen to each of the four voice groups go through their paces, especially if the choir was getting ready for a special performance, like an anthem for Harvest Sunday.  Some anthems were particularly dramatic: ‘when the wicked, even mine enemy, came upon me, to eat up my flesh, … they stumbled, they stumbled, they stumbled, and fell!’ The drama was magnified by the minor key in which it was played.

In those days our church did not belong to the kind of foot-stomping, handclapping, tambourine shaking schools of praise.  Ours was more sedate, more well-behaved, more subdued.  It wasn’t until I attended a funeral held in an AME (African Methodist Episcopal) church in Liberty City that I heard such a joyous celebration of life that I found myself rocking and stomping, unable to resist the uplifting rhythm commemorating a life well-lived.  It reminded me of my childhood, of the sounds of the Pocomania Church whose drums could be heard wafting all the way up to our house in Chapelton, from the lower road below.  What a soul-stirring, chest-thrumming sound.

I recently read somewhere (with apologies to the author, as I did not make note of the originator of this thought) that one of the reasons that the United States continues to live in division, with (as we have recently seen put into policy) a one-sided view of history, is that the various groups within the society do not share a common memory of the country in which they live.  Whether you divide the groups along racial lines, or countries of ancestral origin, each group has their own set of memories which do not include or incorporate those of the other groups.  Unfortunately, this division has been compounded by current state and federal policies which aim to eradicate or whitewash facts about the origin story of this country.  Book-banning aims to cleanse library shelves and schools, removing any stories that do not jive with the (current) majority’s retelling of the story.  Even the National Parks have been told to remove displays which teach the truth about enslavement, about broken treaties.  Which is to the detriment of all of the groups that make up this country.

If this society is to move towards a better, a more perfect union, there will have to be some honest acknowledgment of the facts.  The United States was established on a land already occupied by the ‘Native Americans’, indigenous people who had lived on the land mass for thousands of years.  The colonizers used power to subject, kill, and overcome the indigenous people, to claim ownership of the land.  Over the past six centuries, the people descended from the colonizers (who originated in Europe) became wealthy by using the blood, sweat and bodies of enslaved Africans.  Even after the abolition of slavery, Jim Crow and other more subtle practices (such as the ‘Red lining’ of neighborhoods) created a system designed to maintain a tiered system, where the possession of any skin color other than white made living a struggle.  This reality pervaded all of the continents where the European powers invaded and captured power, ruling over landmasses occupied for many centuries by non-Europeans. 

How can we possibly ensure that all of the disparate groups within this particular country finally gain a better knowledge and understanding of the history of others?  How can we all become more informed?  Apparently, a visual history lesson can be provided to a vast audience in less than fifteen minutes!  Last Sunday, at that most ‘American’ of events, the Superbowl, a huge audience was entertained, educated, shocked and awed by a spectacular history lesson.  The now infamous (he was a celebrity before, but many of us had not been paying attention) ‘Bad Bunny’ demonstrated the history and culture of Puerto Rico in a rapid-fire mash-up of images, colors, music and dance that has occupied the airwaves for much of this week.  If you didn’t catch it at the time, you must have seen some of the replays, the reactions, the re-enactments of that joy-filled celebration of Borinquen life.

Although many of us had no idea what he was saying (proudly singing in his first language, Spanish, and yes, Virginia, Puerto Ricans are American citizens too), you could not help but be moved by the joy evident on the faces of all the participants (although to be fair, we couldn’t see the faces of those disguised as grass!).  And as his performance drew to a close, he brought all of the countries of The Americas into his love-fest, reminding the United States that the name ‘American’ is not exclusive to citizens of the United States. 

Everyone who has grown up in a colonized country (especially in the Caribbean), regardless of their native tongue, recognized themselves in Bad Bunny’s landscape, in his posse.  The most important lesson that he exhibited was that the oppressed, despite growing up with few possessions, in countries where electricity cannot be relied upon, where the only opportunities may be found in back-breaking field work, the people have always found ways to be happy, to live life to the fullest, to be joyful together, in community.  And perhaps, after all, it is not love that conquers hate, but joy! And the beauty of these joyous occasions is that anyone can join the party.

We have seen love and joy in action in Minnesota, where music has been used (like the protest songs of the last century) to call us to a better life, a better way of being with our neighbors.  Jazz bands, choirs, Native American dancers showed up at the protests, demonstrating joy despite confronting heavily armed, masked agents of those in power.  Puerto Ricans (and others) joined Bad Bunny on his sugar cane field despite the hatred shown by a (white) minority, who failed to see that the American story is comprised of people of many colors, many languages, and together they weave a joyful tapestry that can display everyone’s story.  Even the painful parts. 

This Friday morning, as I think about the richness of my particular story, I give thanks for the ability to appreciate the thumping beat of a Reggaeton sound; the rhythmic sway of a reggae bass line; as well as the harmonizing of a Welsh male voice choir.  I give thanks for the opportunities I have had to imagine the lives of others, and to work towards a world where ‘all are created equal’, to believe that, one day, MLK Jr’s dream can be realized. 

Have a wonderful, joy-filled weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.