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Voices of the
Culture
By Beverly Fields Burnette They
were forced to leave without their drums…
were
dragged off without their ancient, communal voices.
Some
were shoved, some tricked upon the vessels of their
capture,
their
cowry shells and colorful kente cloth left scattered
along the trail,
their
talking drums lost in the struggle.
The
drums they later carved from the mighty oak
were
not as authentic as those made from ebony,
but
they would have to do.
When
the captors heard their new drums
and
how the sounds pulsated in the wind,
these
drums were taken, too,
and
all that remained for their expression,
was
the percussive-ness of their bodies:
Hand
slappin’, finger poppin’, foot stompin,’
and
the stamping of old boots on new roadways;
quiet
religious chants were sung in hidden meadows;
cotton
picking story-songs and work songs created in turpentine
towns.
Each
hymn~ “a prayer,”
each
work song~ “a crying out”,
sad
tales of lost love ~ “a healing;”
stories told by the rhythm of powerful sledgehammers ~
“a protest!”
In the
few hours of their rest and leisure,
a
Hambone rhapsody emerged~
leathery hands creating a concert on powerful thighs!
And
when that African beat found its voice,
the
storyteller’s words matched the hand movement,
and
that innovation could not be muzzled.
Griots
were voices of the culture,
keeping time and creating records
with their telling.
The
invisible pulsating drum matched their noble spirit.
as
they sat among the others to share stories,
using
secret chants and old world ceremony.
When
freedom came, they passed on stories of hardships and
trials,
played “the dozens” for Zora’s books;
found
direction in the poems of Langston,
and
soulful messages in the Blues, and in the scratchy
mutterings
of
“Satchmo’s” scat songs.
They
told the world their stories in teasings, tears and
laughter;
gave
just a hint of their masked feelings,
while
some mournful tales were left untold.
Civil
Rights marches brought brave
freedom story-songs,
and
story-poems spoken
in
smokey coffee houses,
which
led to un-tethered tongues that tackled RAP
and
that Beat-box grove on BET ;
which
handed up that Def Jam move on HBO.
Yet,
in this 21st century,
when
words and pictures cross continents by a “broadband”
drum,
the
KINGS AND QUEENS,
crowned with kufus and tie-dyed head wraps,
still
speak among us….
share
age-old fables for new villagers.
The
royal ones pass on stories of our victories and our
valor;
tote
heavy messages of political caution and council
for
our own survival;
and
mouth lighthearted stories for our amusement.
Modern
day masses who’d nearly forgotten,
now
remove their shoes and approach the grassy stage to
listen;
they
disconnect cell phones, so they can sway,
as the
jeli plays a quiet kalimba tune;
Come,
gather round,
feel
the pulse of the balophone and the djembe.
Become
mesmorized by the voices of griots, storytellers,
historians playing NEW DRUMS and speaking in
spirit-healing proverbs,
as they summon the whole village To
Order.
* *
* * *
For A Season’s Griot~2006 NPR/PRI
Kwanzaa Program (Written on November 24, 2006 and aired
nationally from December 26, 2006-January 1st, 2007)
posted 7 January 2006 |
