28.08.08 8:08 pm
Yesterday I finally met the dance and drum teacher. I saw him walking across campus from my classroom window and knew immediately it was him. I had to work to remain focused on the student presentations going on. As school was letting out, I found him outside my door talking to Justin and the library teacher. I sprinted over to ensure an introduction.
Initially I had thought to play it cool. I wanted to show up at the dance class just to watch, evaluate, hopefully catch an earful of music. But he was there and I found myself gushing, blubbering and rambling all over. There was nothing cool or reserved about it. There I was being overwhelmed by a feeling of home from a complete stranger, an African stranger at that, reminding me of my little slice of America. It was a bit like meeting the radio personality you listen to every morning. You hear their voice so intimately in the car on the morning commute and you begin to think you know them, that you are forming some kind of relationship. Its natural, you’re listening every day, laughing at their jokes, agreeing with their commentary or sometimes even arguing against it, there in your car driving to work. But when you actually meet the person to accompany the voice it is a strange experience of sensory dislocation. Your ears recognize a familiar and friendly sound, your eyes witness a complete stranger and worst of all, that person has no idea who you are. Its over as quickly as it began, all the intimate mornings exposed for what they truly were- shams, false, one-sided attempts at friendship and camaraderie.
Meeting the drummer was a bit like that. I was so anxious to be surrounded by the sound of drums and the rhythms that bring me comfort I was spilling all of my history and inviting Mohamed and Nabih to rehearsals. The more he tried to explain that he could give a drum class to the boys but that drumming generally occurred off campus, the more I was envisioning the familiar. And when he brought up his own ‘ballet traditional’ I had to concentrate on breathing to prevent babbling. Here was finally someone talking a language I understood.
So I’m flowing with this feeling of familiarity and understanding and it takes me a minute (or 10) to realize that he is really not flowing with me. There’s actually no reason he should reciprocate this feeling of brotherhood and let us come to ‘repetitions’ (as opposed to shows, which are great but the boys need the informality of a rehearsal. I suppose he would like the formality of a paying ticket.)
It wasn’t really until the next day that I had the good sense to be embarrassed. It seems a bit of home sickness crept up on me. Nabih has been bugging me for weeks to take him to ‘the drumming’ and I guess I got carried away. Of course, Mohamed says he doesn’t want to drum (he already knows how) but I understand his reservation as well as his style of observation. He may not want to drum with a teacher, but watching a few practices will send him home to try out all the new moves he saw.
And me? I would love to dance, really dance. The classes on campus will not have live drumming and that will only leave me feeling hugely unsatisfied. So my quest remains, because it has truly become one. It is a search to find someone to give me lessons, or at least a place to visit where we can feel the energy and life of Africa. Completely. I’ll try to be a little more reserved next time, but with such a vital quest, I doubt I’ll manage subtle. I guess I can always blame it on being American.
