The Wikiness

At ten-years old I felt confused by life and my place in it. My sad mood set me apart from my peers, and one day I found myself singing my alienation in a way that soothed me. It went, 

No one told me why, Sweet Jesus, no one told me why./No one told me why the birds fly way up in the sky./No one told me why when other folks are having lots of fun/I feel like I’m walking head on straight into a 50 cal. machine gun.

About twenty years later, in the darkness of a two a.m. changing table, this occasional piece came to me:

I know that you don’t really too much like this/I know that you just wish that we were through/I know that you don’t really too much like this/But it’s really what we’re gonna do, right now. It’s really what we’re gonna do.

Because it’s diaper-changing time for Annie,/Diaper-changing time for you–ou./Diaper changing time for Annie./It’s really what we’ve gotta do, right now. It’s really what we’re gonna do.

For some reason, I had the ability to stretch feelings and ideas over meter and melody, to make songs. This skill has allowed me to express my emotions, celebrate life events, reflect on literature and history, and connect with other humans in places and ways I would be too introverted to try otherwise. 

I first picked up a guitar in my late twenties, teaching myself first position chords and developing calluses to strum recognizable folk songs and lullabies for my kids at bedtime. Then in my first teaching jobs I mustered the courage to bring music into classes. When teaching  French at Mount Carmel I crafted my own “French Rap” and led them in beginners classics like “Aux Champs Elysées,” and “Alouette.” And even Hank Williams’ “On the Bayou” had French lyrics! Despite their macho pretensions, the boys loved it. 

Encouraged by this beginning, I set Navajo lyrics to music and led sing-alongs of “This Land is Your Land” in my American Studies sections at York, again to positive reception. These songs were the stuff of edu-tainment.

Having had no formal training, my ukulele, mandolin, and guitar playing remain basic. But my lack of technical facility makes me an un-intimidating collaborator and a comfortable accompanist for musical people I encounter. An Amateur Musicians Club grew up around me, where kids could meet, share, and collaborate every week after school. Many a main stage performance and musical partnership began in this club.

One Friday I got really brave and took my guitar to an after-school faculty party. My set of songs apparently sounded great, especially after a few beers. The assistant principal got inordinate pleasure lending his rich baritone to my chops, and within a year, he and I started an Americana music group. Chicago’s Double D Blues Band started out busking and ended up on a paid stage in New Orleans, the cradle of American music. For years thereafter, we entertained residents in places like the Oak Park Arms and Belmont Tower with chestnuts from the American songbook, Holiday shows, and St. Patrick’s Irish music sets. 

Now I exercise my talents mostly for myself. It nourishes my spirit and relaxes my mind. After even a quarter of an hour playing a piece I put my heart and soul into, I feel both more empty and more full–off goes nervous surplus energy, and in comes the contentment of pouring your self out through the fructifying portal and rectifying filter of song.