|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Class Notes
|
Uda. B. Bartholomew
|
5/17/2012
|
|
Hi!
This will be a VERY informal, stream-of-consciousness, past-oriented entry, quite unworthy of further publication, in hopes of connecting face-to-face with compadres of The Era.
I was called Francine Braithwaite in the Class of '74 when I knew you at Stony Brook: the AIM Program, G-Quad, Black Dorm/ The Black Choir, the Infirmary, Student Rep to the Executive Committee of the Faculty Senate, Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship/ IFES, Three Village Church, dancer at gym concerts [Does anybody- perhaps from The Statesman- have a comprehensive list of the major and "minor" lectures/ concerts/ residencies/ master classes of the 1967-1975 era? It's worthy of a website/ book, alone!], hanger out with the guys of the 3rd floor, Black Dorm Year 2 Returnee --> The Experimental College, the Coffee Houses, the drop-ins, The Rockefeller Program for Urban Studies and Policy Analysis...
Faculty: Armistad Robinson, Mr. Bayles (sp?), David Swinton, Owen Carroll (sp?), David Schroer- who visited me twice in Philly in the '90's, Richard Dyer-Bennet, Marvin Kalkstein--> SUNY's Empire College, Steven Schwartz- Physics, C. N. Yang- niceguy!, T. J. J. Altizer (with whom I produced a debate with Arthur Katz).
I'd love to connect with any of that era, having come from Jamaica High, as well.
By the way, I have a memory of an afternoon when I was newly at the Black Dorm in the Fall of 1970. And, in hindsight, being given my last chance to be proven worthy of social life there. I believe that I was studying Calculus 101 with Trig Functions when visited by some women who were coming to hang out with me. And my listening to some progressive-folk-art-rock station. I assume that they assumed that this white music was all that I listened to, and I could be introduced to better things, a little later, but that day, they were patient and sisterly. They seemed interested in how I could be comforted by this stuff while I studied, so I shared a little about the music, with some animation perhaps... I was so pleased that I wasn't on the hot seat for once.
Then, on came, a performance by Odetta, a grand dame of the Blues and folk scenes of the 1950's through 2008, when she was pegged by the Obamas to sing at his Inauguration- had not Death come a'knocking at her door a few weeks before. Mother Odetta's loss was Sister Aretha's gain. But I digress. I had loved many an authoritative interpretation of The Roots Repertoire that Odetta had bequeathed and popularized to so many, but, now, obviously not my Black Dorm sisters of the moment:
I grew silent, then dumbly embarrassed with a sheepish almost tearful mangled smile and a shaking "No, no..." with my head, as Odetta, in poorer voice and slipshod almost pitchy tempo meanderings gave an uncharacteristically contrived Grade-D performance of a Grade-D pop song - during what she later described as a drugged-out hippie phase... her voice. ...her lungs. ... her health. I had never heard her like this before- I knew that they must be concerned for her too. I thought- was the DJ trying to degrade her by this one horrible song-choice? Why such excellent deep tracks for everyone else that day, and most days- and this lunacy from a great Black musician? And after holding my breath for what seemed to be a verse, and a chorus, and the start of another verse, and not hearing her sing any better- I sighed, and my Dorm-mates looked at each other knowingly and without a word- left.
I think I later closed the door and cried. As I often did. I didn't notice if my Dorm-mates were kinder or less to me. I don't think I thought to see if that confusing incident was a hinge on which my life at the Black Dorm creaked. I just hated that Odetta had been humiliated that afternoon on my watch, and those young women, with whom I wanted continued dialogue, were present for the DJ's insult.
I was told two and a half decades later that the reason I was "frozen out" from that day on was that I was listening to white music joyfully, enthusiastically, and when a Black woman came on the radio, I shut down and was rejecting. Black-Self-rejecting. Rejecting them. Blackness.
I was so shocked that I couldn't speak. The phone conversation ended, without my self-defense, or my defense of Odetta, or...
I've not gotten a chance to share with all my Stony Brook Era schoolmates the blessings that they were to me, even when it was "Hard Love (hear the songs of Bob Franke, someday)". I learned SO much from all of you! And so many gave such dear gifts, students, faculty, staff, neighbors...
Fast-backward to a time in the middle to late 1970's when I chose to work in Mississippi for a time an economic development project, that took me to a Parchman Prison annex in Jackson to write letters for prisoners; when I co-managed acoustic Blues musicians in Chicago for a record label, when I went on the road with them to coffee houses and folk festivals, and was blessed to help them wherever I could. When I sprung my big "little brother" from my parents' agenda of Computer Science, Computer Science, and more Computer Science, and helped him establish life as a Jazz musician...
I still love the sounds of classic-progressive-art-folk-rock, and their roots, and a dozen other sorts of music, but I'll always love me some Blues, and better yet, my first music, some deeply loving-grace-forgiveness Black Spirituals... Especially when I get to sing them myself... Always worse than Odetta on a bad day.
Hey, do me a favor and YouTube her sometime in the next 55 hours until I see you at The First Generation gathering...
And, by the way, my name for the past 30 years or so has been Udadade bo Jesu Braithwaite Bartholomew, Uda. Bartholomew, or Uda., for short. It's a spiritual name that I was given by Apartheid-era South Africans, at a Christian peace community, in Evanston, IL, where I hung out for 5 ½ years.
But that section of my life is another thousand or so stories...
I've learned that: Everyone has a story to which one would do well to listen. Everybody is a genius, and Everyone is learning-disabled. And I don't have to cry for 4 hours a day anymore! Life, including at Stony Brook, is intense, but also, very good. |
|
|
|