I Am Power
I am power, that’s what they say
Everyone has an inner light that shines, but
Mine shines brighter – so why
Am I afraid? Power can be good,
But power can be bad. But I guess
It’s my choice.
I choose to use my power to
Fight for a cause, to push myself
To greater heights and fly above
Where I thought I could ever go.
I am powerful.
Everyone says I am – here at TRJE
Anyway – and I’m starting to
Believe it’s true, no matter what
People at school say. The power of light
That shines within me - it’s up to me
To make power blossom
So that everyone can see.
So that everyone can see
Me.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Pouring of Libations
One man sits alone. Many come from far around to the meeting place, waiting for the gathering to begin. As members of the community pour in two or three at a time, they find a seat somewhere around the circle. The sun is setting, and there hasn’t been rain in many months. Crops are dying, people are dying, and the scorched earth is cracked and broken with dehydration.
The elder who had previously sat alone watching his people arrive now stood. The sun had set completely, alleviating some of the treacherous heat, and the entire community breathed a sigh of relief, and welcomed the end of the day. Now it was time for the elder to invite the ancestors into this world, and to ask for their wisdom. He carefully took a jar of water from his robes and poured a little onto the ground, where it was eagerly lapped up by the scorched earth. The pouring of libations is a time-honored tradition dating back to the very earliest days of Afrika, and the elder and the people knew that honoring the ancestors was a way to get results. The elder lifted his eyes to the black sky, and spoke:
“Awaken, ancestors. Speak with us, and live alongside and through us. We are here seeking your wisdom, and we need you to come and be by our sides. Give us the wisdom to see through these hard times, and to entice the rain. Grace us with the wisdom of the past and teach us your ancient ways so that we may inform our future.”
The walls of the blue room upstairs on Brackenridge Street shiver with winter morning cold, but as the students gather around a circle, they cover themselves in homemade blankets while they wait for Ketu, the elder, to begin. In the center of the circle a small plant sits in a clay pot, unassuming and plain. But it holds a link to the past, and to a story that began half a world away.
“After the community members invoked the spirits of their ancestors to be with them in their time of need, rain poured from the sky feeding the crops, and helping to make the people well and healthy again. We always invoke the ancestors’ help by pouring libations in their honor. When we pour libations, we are in effect asking the ancestors to join us in our time, and in our place to teach us. We don’t know everything, so we need the help of those who came before us.”
The students nod in understanding, and from somewhere around the circle, I hear a few tiny but strong voices murmur “Amen.”
The elder who had previously sat alone watching his people arrive now stood. The sun had set completely, alleviating some of the treacherous heat, and the entire community breathed a sigh of relief, and welcomed the end of the day. Now it was time for the elder to invite the ancestors into this world, and to ask for their wisdom. He carefully took a jar of water from his robes and poured a little onto the ground, where it was eagerly lapped up by the scorched earth. The pouring of libations is a time-honored tradition dating back to the very earliest days of Afrika, and the elder and the people knew that honoring the ancestors was a way to get results. The elder lifted his eyes to the black sky, and spoke:
“Awaken, ancestors. Speak with us, and live alongside and through us. We are here seeking your wisdom, and we need you to come and be by our sides. Give us the wisdom to see through these hard times, and to entice the rain. Grace us with the wisdom of the past and teach us your ancient ways so that we may inform our future.”
The walls of the blue room upstairs on Brackenridge Street shiver with winter morning cold, but as the students gather around a circle, they cover themselves in homemade blankets while they wait for Ketu, the elder, to begin. In the center of the circle a small plant sits in a clay pot, unassuming and plain. But it holds a link to the past, and to a story that began half a world away.
“After the community members invoked the spirits of their ancestors to be with them in their time of need, rain poured from the sky feeding the crops, and helping to make the people well and healthy again. We always invoke the ancestors’ help by pouring libations in their honor. When we pour libations, we are in effect asking the ancestors to join us in our time, and in our place to teach us. We don’t know everything, so we need the help of those who came before us.”
The students nod in understanding, and from somewhere around the circle, I hear a few tiny but strong voices murmur “Amen.”
Talk Back to Me
The first time I met the Jenbe kids, I wondered why everyone talked over one another (no more than some young people do, maybe), and talked back to the "elder", the person who had the floor. I found out at one Saturday morning meeting. In the Afrikan culture, the act of "talking back" to a speaker is a way of showing respect to not only the speaker, but to the ancestors as well. The act of talking back represents that the one talking back is paying attention, and moved by what the speaker is saying. It's support.
In my culture, it's a sign of disrespect to talk while someone else is talking, but it's expected and embraced in others. Now I understand.
Talk Back to Me
Talk back to me if you hear what I’m saying. Let me know that you hear me!
Amen!
Say Amen if your spirit is hearing what I’m saying to you!
Amen!
Understand that when you talk back, you aren’t just talking back to me – you’re talking back to our ancestors, to the ones who came before us! And they are here with us, in spirit form, listening to what we are doing. They’re supporting us as we carve a future for the ones who have yet to come. They’re our framework, and we need to respect that! Did we not invoke our ancestors, our blood, before we began this meeting?
Yes, we did!
I can’t hear you!
YES, WE DID!
Amen. Let’s carry on, then.
In my culture, it's a sign of disrespect to talk while someone else is talking, but it's expected and embraced in others. Now I understand.
Talk Back to Me
Talk back to me if you hear what I’m saying. Let me know that you hear me!
Amen!
Say Amen if your spirit is hearing what I’m saying to you!
Amen!
Understand that when you talk back, you aren’t just talking back to me – you’re talking back to our ancestors, to the ones who came before us! And they are here with us, in spirit form, listening to what we are doing. They’re supporting us as we carve a future for the ones who have yet to come. They’re our framework, and we need to respect that! Did we not invoke our ancestors, our blood, before we began this meeting?
Yes, we did!
I can’t hear you!
YES, WE DID!
Amen. Let’s carry on, then.
Connections
During my time with TRJE, I kept a blog, and sometimes I logged my experiences with the kids. While the children performed at an event, the main reason for the gathering was that Afrikan author Malidoma Patrice Somé had come to Fort Wayne, and gave a speech to the Jenbe kids, and other members of the community. I was shocked at how accepted I, as an “outsider” was, and how the color/generation/ethnicity lines blurred to invisibility. An entry on my blog details some of the feelings I had that day:
“I never felt ‘at home’ in a church, but I felt it today with Malidoma Patrice Somé, and among the crowd that gathered at the Weisser Park Community Center. As Somé, an Afrikan shaman (medicine man or healer) spoke, I felt the connection to Mother Africa, to where the cradle of life lies, fertile and full.
This connection to the motherland, to the traditional drums, dancing and culture makes me sad, makes me feel like I'm missing something. My culture is all about modernity, and the past is seen as outdated, worn out, obsolete. We Americans are supposedly the newest, best versions of humanity. Our links to the past are fleeting, if at all.
In the Afrikan culture, among Afrikan Americans and in other Afrikan traditions, links to the past and to ancestry are the hands that lift up the current generation.
Ancestors are respected, loved, and still looked to for advice, even if they had passed years, decades, centuries before. They still gain wisdom, and pass it down to the living. There is a real, tangible relationship between the living and the dead.”
“I never felt ‘at home’ in a church, but I felt it today with Malidoma Patrice Somé, and among the crowd that gathered at the Weisser Park Community Center. As Somé, an Afrikan shaman (medicine man or healer) spoke, I felt the connection to Mother Africa, to where the cradle of life lies, fertile and full.
This connection to the motherland, to the traditional drums, dancing and culture makes me sad, makes me feel like I'm missing something. My culture is all about modernity, and the past is seen as outdated, worn out, obsolete. We Americans are supposedly the newest, best versions of humanity. Our links to the past are fleeting, if at all.
In the Afrikan culture, among Afrikan Americans and in other Afrikan traditions, links to the past and to ancestry are the hands that lift up the current generation.
Ancestors are respected, loved, and still looked to for advice, even if they had passed years, decades, centuries before. They still gain wisdom, and pass it down to the living. There is a real, tangible relationship between the living and the dead.”
Invocation to Our Ancestors
Invocation to Our Ancestors
Invoke the ancestors. Invite them
to come and play. Let the past
mark your life, and carry you with grace
into the future – more bright, more vivid
and real. As real as the ghosts whose blood
races through veins
while you dance to a Malian chant.
Drums beat, sweat
pours life into tradition
invites you in to peer. No –
stare into the past,
watch its eyes roar back
to life while you breathe
Life back into a dance.
Maybe your great grandmother
danced too. Along with a beat laid
by your great great-grandfather who
Is communicating to you,
through you.
Invoke the ancestors. Invite them
to come and play. Let the past
mark your life, and carry you with grace
into the future – more bright, more vivid
and real. As real as the ghosts whose blood
races through veins
while you dance to a Malian chant.
Drums beat, sweat
pours life into tradition
invites you in to peer. No –
stare into the past,
watch its eyes roar back
to life while you breathe
Life back into a dance.
Maybe your great grandmother
danced too. Along with a beat laid
by your great great-grandfather who
Is communicating to you,
through you.
Introduction to Jenbe
I have to admit that I am an average Midwesterner – I drive to work, I drive to school, then I drive home. Sometimes I walk my dog to the park, though not often enough for his taste. I don’t really engage much within the community, and I can’t help but blame myself, and my culture for that. Community is a term that gets tossed around a lot, but we don’t see much of it exemplified around here. But without community, I became restless, looking for a place other than work and home to be a part of something.
Then I met with Ketu Oladuwa, of the Three Rivers Institute of Afrikan Arts & Culture (TRIAAC), and was introduced to the children who study there. These students range in age from six to 17, and they give up their Friday evenings and Saturday mornings in order to enhance their cultural understanding, and to learn something new and artistic that links them to a region half a world away, to ancestors who have passed centuries and millennia ago. Parents and other adults are invited to learn too; there is an adult drumming class that meets regularly.
Within this space, children grow and belong, and this division of TRIAAC is known as the Three Rivers Jenbe Ensemble (TRJE).
The Three Rivers Jenbe Ensemble, located at 501 E. Brackenridge Street, at the intersection of Clay Street, is a non-profit organization that educates children of all races about Afrikan history and culture. On Friday nights, the older students learn Peace Studies while the younger children learn traditional art. After class is over, students break up into groups where they practice traditional West Afrikan drumming and dance.
The art of the Jenbe drum lies with its sense of community; literally, Jenbe means “everyone gather together”, and with every beat and with every dance move, these children are learning about the living past, and with each lesson learned, traditions from across the world carry on right here in Fort Wayne.
TRJE is not just for one race, or one culture, or one ethnicity; TRJE is open for everyone in the community to experience, and it is extraordinary, transforming kids into artists, tapping into their power as such. TRJE teaches discipline and acceptance through history lessons, art, music and dance. This is community.
Then I met with Ketu Oladuwa, of the Three Rivers Institute of Afrikan Arts & Culture (TRIAAC), and was introduced to the children who study there. These students range in age from six to 17, and they give up their Friday evenings and Saturday mornings in order to enhance their cultural understanding, and to learn something new and artistic that links them to a region half a world away, to ancestors who have passed centuries and millennia ago. Parents and other adults are invited to learn too; there is an adult drumming class that meets regularly.
Within this space, children grow and belong, and this division of TRIAAC is known as the Three Rivers Jenbe Ensemble (TRJE).
The Three Rivers Jenbe Ensemble, located at 501 E. Brackenridge Street, at the intersection of Clay Street, is a non-profit organization that educates children of all races about Afrikan history and culture. On Friday nights, the older students learn Peace Studies while the younger children learn traditional art. After class is over, students break up into groups where they practice traditional West Afrikan drumming and dance.
The art of the Jenbe drum lies with its sense of community; literally, Jenbe means “everyone gather together”, and with every beat and with every dance move, these children are learning about the living past, and with each lesson learned, traditions from across the world carry on right here in Fort Wayne.
TRJE is not just for one race, or one culture, or one ethnicity; TRJE is open for everyone in the community to experience, and it is extraordinary, transforming kids into artists, tapping into their power as such. TRJE teaches discipline and acceptance through history lessons, art, music and dance. This is community.
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