Fifth World Journal

How do we decide what we do? What makes us notice a particular person, place, moment…. or a song?
Several years ago, i borrowed a cassette tape from my late sister, a recording by an a capella group called Malaika.
Malaika is Swahili (via Arabic, i think) for Angel. They named themselves after the first song they shared together. And that was the song i fell in love with. So, one day, faced with a 6-hour road trip, i put that cassette in the tape deck and i drove. Through the spruce woods, the river lands, the open prairie, through the sandhills and the pines, i drove absorbed in the melody, harmony and sounds of this song whose meaning i could only guess. It was obviously a love song.
Over and over, i strained my ear to catch the pronounciation of each syllable, sang along intent on embodying the cadence, the rhythm of a foreign tongue.
It was a fabulous trip, and at the end, i could confidently sing that song on my own.

Some time later, i sang it for a friend who grew up in Africa. She doesn’t speak Swahili, but said my cadences sounded correct to her ear, familiar with African languages. But, other than her, i mostly kept that song to myself. It was something i played and sang just for myself, a way to swing into pure lyricism, imagining the meaning, making up my own story.
Then one day, i had a haircut from an African student hairdresser. I mentioned this song. She said, why yes, everybody knows that song. And she told me the gist in English… “Angel, I love you, but I don’t have the money to marry you.”
There was a part of my mind that said it was unlucky to sing such a sad song too much. But that part was sooner or later over-ridden by the larger part of me, that thrilled to the sounds, that delighted in being able to sing in another language, and have some idea what i was singing.
(At this point i could digress, and tell you a story of one of my brothers teasing my elder sister about a song she sang, in a language she didn’t speak… and we were all at the airport, and … oh, never mind)
Anyhow, i couldn’t resist that song. But i sang it just for me. (Except for one memorable occasion last fall, which digression i’ll likewise not indulge here and now….;) )
And then, this spring, i found a little job, as an assistant in an English class for immigrant ladies. And on the first day, met a grand old grandmother, Clothilde. The classroom volunteer spoke with Clothilde in Swahili, for the lady has barely any English, and precious little formal schooling in her own language(s).
As she looked me over with her calm old eyes, i found myself intrigued and captivated. What would she say to me, if she could speak and i could understand?
Going home from the first class, i got a thrilling idea. And i came in early the next day, stopped at the public library downstairs from our classroom, and googled Malaika.
And there! The lyrics, written out. There was also a full translation, expanding on my hairdresser’s synopsis, to detail the singer’s longing and love in simple and exquisite terms. “Kitege, nakuwaza, kitege” – “Little Bird, I dream of you, little bird” … but of course, lacking the money, defeated by the fortunes of the world, the singer cannot marry the beloved angel.
Looking at the words, it occured to me that this song was pretty much the lyric kin of any Country & Western tale of hardluck and longing… but so pretty, so irresistibly melodic.
What was most exciting to me, though, was to read the Swahili lyrics, rendered phonetically.
I felt ridiculously accomplished, for, about a decade after i learned it, i had remembered it very well indeed. And i was also in awe of the ladies who’d sung it, for their rendering was pure enough that i, not speaking the language, could so accurately hear the syllables of the words. Ladies of Malaika, wherever you are now, Chi Megwetch! A huge Thank You.

So, i wrote down the 2 or 3 syllables i needed to correct, and ambled to class full of glee.
I had to wait til today, though, for the right opportunity to spring my surprise on Clothilde.
It was great. The teacher i work for, Jessica, graciously gave me carte blanche to teach a lesson today, on the topic of Aboriginal culture. Anything i wanted to share, as next Monday is National Aboriginal Day….
So, i whipped up a lesson plan, prepared some snacks using traditional foods, and brought my drum.
By the time the drum came out, i was giddy as a little kid, because the ladies dove right into my offering.
“Remember,” said Margaret the head teacher, having praised my lesson plan, ‘that the most important thing is to use your stories to provoke them to share their stories.’ Then she glimmered out the door.
And i started talking about foods, and almost right away, the lesson plan fell away, and i found myself remembering one story after another, about the origins of certain foods. So, i told the stories. And with each one, somebody would say, ‘Yes, yes! That reminds me of a story from my country…” and off they’d go.
By the time i brought the drum out, they were pretty giddy, too, excited about our shared wealth of stories about the way things are, what nurtures us, how we learn to nurture.

And then i took the drum. And before i could play it, a couple of people wanted to touch it, talk about their own drums, how the drum is where they come from.
And then it came back to me, and they waited with their faces all shining. And i started a simple beat.
And then, burst into Malaika. And the African ladies – who are several, apart from Clothilde, and include a professional singer – the African ladies whooped, and laughed, and began to sing along.
And it was every bit as wonderful a surprise as i’d hoped. And Mama Clothilde looked at me and nodded, her old calm eyes glimmering with something quiet and sweet.
And as i launched into a song in Mi’gmaq, i marveled.
So long ago, i fell for a song, for no reason i could name.
Maybe it was just waiting, for this one moment here. Maybe some angel somewhere knew, down my road, i might find it joyful to have a song to offer that would be a bridge, a way to make co-conspirators in song and laughter. How could i know it would come to me? Who knows what moves us to do what we do?
A slice of the mystery, to all us lovers, and all us beloved angels.
all my relations
ams

Today in Grande Prairie, they’ll lay to rest a musician. Richard Callihoo lived 90 years, and by most reckonings, they’d have been full years. He had 11 children, if i recall rightly. I grew up with some of them, and with some of his grandkids.
His family and mine set up Local H.O.P.E. 5 of what was then the Metis Association of Alberta. HOPE – Help Our People Evolve – was about trying to help our little community of marginalised people, to make our lives better through whatever means a political organisation might leverage. Others would know better what HOPE 5 accomplished. One day, i mean to ask around, ask people who were there what that work might have meant to them and their families.
What i remember most about Richard was the music, the glorious music he played with my dad. Richard was a fiddler, and a fine one. My dad could play, too, but his real forte was in accompaniment. Together, they had a sound that was irresistible, if what you wanted from music was something that brought out the will to dance.

Last year in June, i found a box of broken fiddles, up in a closet in our old family home. I brought them here, hoping to rebuild them. I hoped i’d find, in that work, some way to pay tribute to the old guys. And i suppose i can say that, one year later, i have learned a little.
I’ve learned how easy it is to break things, how hard to mend what is broken.
And when you have no way to learn how it broke, sometimes you can only look at the pieces in mute wonder that they ever held a song.
I’ve not even managed to finish the first of the four fiddles. I don’t know if i’ll ever succeed to build them. And if i do, then what? It’s not like they were high-born concert instruments in the first place. Just a bunch of old wood, maybe marginal at best, the kind of thing that poor folks rom the bush could afford to have. The kind of thing that came to my dad, that he didn’t throw away, despite his lack of any specialised tools or knowledge about how to repair such delicate things. Maybe it was just foolish sentimentality that made him keep those fiddles. Maybe it was bull-headed arrogance, to think he could ever make music out of junk.
But maybe it was also part of the gift that he and Richard shared back and forth, the thing that i suppose was the glue of their friendship.
Maybe it was the spark of light that travels in the music, however faintly. Nobody can teach you that. Nobody can give you that. You have to feel it. And the great ones, they have the gift of transmitting that spark, of letting it grow in them, letting it loose. Richard was one of those great ones.
I will keep my box of junk fiddles, in honour of him, in honour of my dad, and in honour of the sure knowledge i have: those guys could make music out of anything.
Today, i will play the last whole fiddle my dad had. I will play it as well as i can, because i’ll be sending a message, a thank you, and a pledge.
I’ll do my part, however well or poorly. I’ll seek the song, and the spark in the song. I’ll be thinking of your joy. And of Hope. And whether or not i ever get those fiddles rebuilt, i won’t give up on them. On what they mean.
God speed your soul, Grandpa Richard. Chi Megwetch. Merci. Hai hai. Thank you.
All My Relations
ams

Well, sometimes dreams come true. And sometimes the reality is every bit as rich as the dream of it. Today is one of those times for me.
Today, i was a Dragon Boat Racer.

See, i have a good friend, let’s call her Charlene. Char and i go back a long way, back to theatre classes at the end of the 80s. After university, we lost touch. We met up by good fortune at the public library, a little less than three years ago, when her daughter was newly minted and my own was two. And we discovered how our roads since school had been, and that we’d both lived in and fallen in love with Japan, and so on.

And this spring, Char joined her company’s dragon boat team for Corporate Challenge, a day of fun races, a fundraiser/teambuilding activity… and a long-time dream of hers, to race a dragon boat. When i oohed and ahhed at her opportunity, she immediately volunteered me for the position of drummer. And we were off.
Not to the races, but to the first of 2 whole practices we’d get as a team before today’s competitions.
Two practices.
Twenty two people, many who worked in different parts of the company and had never met (and of course me, the ‘friend or family’ extra), all trying to pull together. What a concept.

I knew i’d love the physical side of it, and it is grand. The full-body work of the paddling, out in fresh air, on the river, is nothing short of exhilarating. Sitting up on the prow, on the drummer’s chair, setting time and exhorting the team, also a full-body workout and exhilarating.
I got to do both things come race day. A team that was short of paddlers asked for volunteers to fill their benches, and i grabbed a paddle. So, i got to do both jobs, full-on, in races.

What is fascinating to me is what Corporate Challenge reveals about people in team situations.

See, our team fielded a full boat. And, we finished respectably, in the middle of the pack both in ranking and in average times for our heats.
And yet, there was a wide range of attitudes among our team members. I know, because i got to hear about things. Some people spoke up to me because, i suppose, i felt safe, not being a regular co-worker. Some things, i just happened to overhear. Some told me because i asked them.

Thus, i heard the opinion that we had ‘at least 19 captains’ on our team; which was looking accurate at the moment, but which begged the question of ‘and what do you propose we do about that?’
And, i heard lots of commentary on what everybody else could be doing better. And, because i was drummer and sat facing the squad, and because the captain asked it of me, i got to dish some of that out, too. And it was fascinating observing grown people struggle with their own confidence, competence and ability to learn.
We were all beginners. Why would any of us expect to have to know it all? What does it take to, as a team member, offer observations about a team-mate’s technique? And what does it take, as a team member, to hear suggestions and corrections in a spirit of confidence that we are really, all on the same team, just trying to be the best we can?

Did i mention? We had, in total, six different experts from the boat club directing us… and each one used different counts, different strategy, different commands. So, we’d get taught one thing, barely grasp that, then be taught another way. Down to the very last race, the experts kept changing the rules on us. Maybe that was to keep us from taking anything seriously?

So, there we were, two by two, and i got to be line leader, and some wag shouted out that it was just like kindergarten. And i couldn’t help wondering, how much have we, taken as a whole group, grown up? Would a kindergarten group be any more likely to seethe in thin-skinned sulkiness at the commentary of others? Would kindergarteners be any less able than we proved to follow the captain, listen, and each focus on doing our own part before we worried about correcting our fellow novices?
On the other hand, i doubt any kindergarten group would have more fun.

For every seething sulker, there was also a person who’d come out full of goodwill, full of intent to take this ride for all it could be, and leave aside any ego issues that might get in the way. So, yes, there was a woman who, when i said to her, ‘hey, wasn’t that fun?’ huffed, ‘i don’t like losing’ and turned her back on me. As a volunteer helping her company field a full team, as a person who’d just worked my guts out in the same boat, did i deserve that? No. But i don’t take it personally.
I also got to hear from the team-mates who took the initiative to say ‘good work, thanks for coming out’ or who shared a smile about the many positives in our performance. There were many team-mates who’d evidently learned, whether in kindergarten or otherwise, that joy is where you find it, and every group opportunity is what you make of it.

There were those of us who could remember to just be delighted to actually be there, in boats on the river, able to play, supported in so many ways in taking on something new, fast, engaging.

And that remembering is no small effort, sometimes, when people let fear or sourness get in their way, and show little sign of caring whether they hurt others.

But, it was easy, the remembering, when i realised, again and again, from one beat to the next, that i was part of a greater whole.
We were driving a dragon, lifting it through the water. I was out on the river in the fresh air. I was part of a tradition that goes back to a land far away, to a legend about a poet whose integrity and courage inspired the locals to honour his choice of death before dishonour.

We were hardly struggling for such stakes. There was nothing but corporate bragging rights at stake. All we had to lose was the opportunity to pull together, to know the heart-pounding joy of moving in unison, surging and gliding through the water.
I am proud to say that, despite the bitching and moaning along the way, we did not lose that opportunity. From my seat up in the prow, i whacked that drum with all my power, shouting the rhythm, exhorting my team, using my weight as best i could to augment the surge. And i could see everyone. And there was no mistaking it; every face, at some point, was alive with it, with the burning focus on rhythm and movement. Everyone got caught up in it.
We did not win.
We hadn’t gotten it together enough for that. We moved to the clash of paddle blades, with rocking and bumping, and plenty of splashing.
But we became, at various singing moments, a team. And, for a few moments here and there, we drove our dragon through the water with grace, and fire and style.
Not too shabby, that, when it comes to dreams come true.

All My Relations
ams