Monthly Archives: February 2017

The Sound of Love

Daddy used to say, “Ooowee, Lola, Buddy made that horn talk!” My daddy called my brother Buddy and almost everyone else called my brother “Butch.” Although my brother answered to at least two nicknames, the name Mama gave him was Charles which made my brother a junior. People called my brother “Cooper, Jr” in order to distinguish him from Daddy. Butch and Daddy didn’t look just alike, but but they had very similar names and very similar professional paths. It made sense that the folks added “Junior” to my brother’s name when they spoke about him.

Butch and Daddy both graduated from Alabama State University in Montgomery, Alabama. My father played baseball there and my brother’s claim to fame was being the head drum major of the Marching Hornets in the late sixties. When Butch graduated from college, he went to work at a high school about thirty miles from Montgomery where Daddy was the vice principal. Daddy and Butch went to work at Autaugaville High School in 1970 to begin the process of integrating public schools in that rural Alabama county. Daddy had a master’s degree in administration, my brother had a bachelor’s degree in music, and their new principal had a degree in agriculture. In my opinion, their working relationship enhanced their relationship as father and son. In addition, they grew to respect each other as professionals working in a challenging environment. Daddy had the chance to mentor Butch as a young educator who wanted to use his gift of music to change the lives of the young people at the school.

Daddy was very proud of the fact that my brother was the first band director at the school. Daddy was also proud that my brother was well-prepared for the role of band director. Daddy supported my brother’s passion to be a musician from the time that Butch was a young boy. Butch, our sister, and me took piano lessons from the same piano teacher, Ms. Black. At some point, Ms. Black told my mother that Butch had a natural gift for music, but she didn’t think the piano was the instrument for him at that time in his life. Apparently, boys teased him about playing the piano so Daddy bought him a horn. As I recall, Daddy found someone in the neighborhood who had an alto saxophone for sale for $40. My dad paid the man ten dollars that day and gave the man the balance when he got paid. I really think my brother used that horn to get him out of years of chores like cutting grass, making beds, and doing laundry. Daddy often boasted that he made the statement that, “As long as Butch was practicing that horn, I would support him.” (Let me just say that by the time I came along the level of expectation changed and practicing a horn was not enough to eliminate a chore list.) Butch practiced, found his passion, and his voice through music. He loved music and invested himself in music to become one with everything that generated sounds. He became an amazing musician who blessed the world for many years with musical abilities. His first love was the alto saxophone, but his heart made room for many instruments over the years. He was not a classically trained musician, but his delivery was classic. He hit minor chords in a major way and the sax could make runs and scat like the best vocalists.

Mama, like Daddy, recognized the that the boy had talent so she would “invite” him to play or sing at every church program Old Ship A.M.E. Zion Church sponsored. Once the planning committees announced the themes and the dates of the annual events, Mama would call Butch and “ask” him to put the dates on his calendar. She made sure to tell him what selection she thought most appropriate for each event. Butch would oblige and the audiences were never disappointed. Most of the time he played a hymn my mother liked on his alto saxophone. When he had a pianist to accompany him, he would integrate smooth tenor vocals into the performance. In recent years, we have joked about him being the oldest kid slated for the church programs. He laughed about how Mama never saw it as odd that her really grown son was on the same program as the youngest members of the church family.

When I was in the seventh grade, I wanted to enroll in band class. Although I knew that he was a band director, it was then that I first appreciated how much he knew about musical instruments. I learned that he could play more than one instrument. He played the flute, the guitar, the saprano sax, the bongos, the keyboard, and all of those random percussion instruments I didn’t know had a function in a band. I began to understand the breadth of knowledge he had about music. I realized he was a master of music and that his commitment to the sound was deeper than the pitch or tone made by a person playing one instrument. He spoke about balance between the horns, woodwinds, and percussion and the need to produce a harmonious product for the audience. He was concerned about the details in the music and the heart of the musicians. Conversations with him about music turned the space into a laboratory and he was the head chemist in charge. Most of the time I didn’t really want to know the science behind the sound. I just wanted to hear the sound. My brother taught me to make the effort to hear the heart of the artist when I listened to music. Hanging out in his makeshift laboratories taught me to appreciate the ability of music to reach the heart of a human soul then influence emotions, thoughts, and actions. It seemed that his goal with every performance and in every composition was to create a moment that would allow his love of the music and his hope that the music would meet the heart of a listener and transfer his passion and the pureness of the spirit he invested into the sound. My brother loved the sound because it carried his expressive messages. He loved the fact that he could mix chords, blend instruments, write lyrics, and deliver all of it in a perfectly timed melody intented to empower folks to love the sound and be made alive because of the sound.

My brother was seventeen years old when I was born. He graduated from high school two months before I was born. He was old enough to be my father and that made for an interesting relationship between us. I looked to him to shelter me like a big brother, yet I hated it when he wanted to protect me like he was my dad. Because of the age gap, we never really lived in the same house so I looked forward to the announcement that he would be stopping by the house or to his surprise drop in visits. Because of the age gap, I didn’t have the privilege of hearing my brother play gigs anywhere except in the garage at the house when his band, the “I-85 Express” practiced. They would play hits from the rhythm and blues chart and the pop chart. One time he gave me the microphone and let me sing the female vocals with the band. That was cool and scary at the same time. Until then, I was used to him singing lead or leading family sing-a-longs. It was also common for him to sing happy birthday to family members on their special days. Once, when I was a freshman in college, he did the unexpected and he called me early one morning to sing Stevie Wonder’s song, “I Just Called To Say I Love You.” That was one of the sweetest things he had ever done. The funny part of the story was that he later admitted that he dialed the wrong number the first time he tried to call me and he woke up some girl down the hall from me. I loved that he called me “kiddo” and always wanted to know what I had going on in my world. He was the big brother who wanted to make me laugh. He aimed to impress upon me the need to own my intelligence and to think of myself as “pretty.” He would tell me that he was proud of me and end conversations with “love you girl” and his infamous “virtual hugs.”

My brother’s name became synonymous with music. He took pride in the science of the sound and he worked his craft with great discipline. He wanted his family, friends, and students to appreciate music beyond the notes on the page. He wanted his audiences to love the sound and appreciate the artistry and science that produced the sound. There were times when I just wanted the answer to the question, the short version of the tale from the band room, or for him to just sing the song, but got a lecture or demonstration to make a point about the methodology behind the tune. My brother believed that there was no substitute for hard work and that musicians should not make excuses when they fell short on reaching a task or goal. When he wasn’t playing, he was thinking about playing or arranging the next band drill. He stayed in planning mode orchestrating the next thing for the band he was directing, the church choir, or gig that was on his radar. My brother spent his time away from work working on music. I know that because he took me with him to the music store downtown to pick up instruments that he left to be repaired, to look at refurbished instruments that he could afford on the meager high school band budget, or to select sheet music for the upcoming marching or concert band performances. My brother loved music shops like my technically driven Daddy loved stores that sold picture tubes and radio parts. At the time, it seemed like his extra effort was too much and unnecessary. Now I know that without his extra effort some kid might never have had an instrument, his high school band would not have been invited to play at two NFL games, and a lot students would have missed out on college scholarships.

Butch expected excellence from himself as a musician and from musicians he performed with and those he taught. He led bands with pride and competence. He expected hard work, precision, and passion in performances. My brother has been fighting a good fight against a vicious opponent for about three years. He has fought gallantly and with resilience and pride. Even with chinks in his armor, he has continued to hold his ground and reestablish himself when his footing was challenged. I love my brother and the lessons he has transferred from his years as a musician to this life challenge. He has lived out one of the messages to his students over the years to never quit and to give your best in whatever you do. Recently, he told me that he continues to believe that he will “get better before [he] gets worse.” Even now, he has shown himself a resourceful leader who in the face of a challenge made a new way; he took new paths when needed to overcome the adversity in his life. In addition to the lessons on hard work, accountability, pride, passion, resilience, resourcefulness, and strength he has taught over the years, that statement taught me the benefit of believing in yourself and the mission and the benefit of maintaining a proper perspective while you show up to deal with whatever your challenge might be any given moment of any given day.

His heart lived in his music. The sound of his music delivered his heart to me. I am thankful that I will always have the sound of his love for me in my heart. I wrote this so that he and everyone else would know how much I have always cherished him and his gift. I want him to read this and know that I heard all of the love he has for me in every sound he blew from his horns and in every melody he sang. I want him to know that I love that he shared his love with me. To my brother, with love!

Motivated by My Special Relationship with Death

Death burns like an ember left in the fire pit. The ember signals the end of a fire that provided an audience for the living whether the fire is in the backyard pit or a bonfire before a rival football game or a campfire at a youth camp. The fire beckons the living to draw near. The fire provides light and warmth for those who answer the call. For those living in the distance, the benefit of the fire is an awakened imagination enhanced by wonderment and reflection. It sounds rather cliché to say that people make cool memories around a communal fire, but it is true. While I don’t remember specific conversations from my time around the fire pit, I do remember feeling alive. That type of experience provided a forum for conversation, laughter, and relationship building. The fire seems to have enough power to permeate the walls that separate communities and at least get people to enjoy the same space for a moment. Life focused on the light, warmth, and the wonder of a fire, leaves no space for thoughts of the fading embers and death. Something that created a communal vibe and breathed positive energy among a group of people is also symbolic of the cycle of life.

Death lives with me even though I have never considered it a friend. Death reminds me of that nosey neighbor whose company is never the mission, but who I know spends a lot of time peeking into my world for any glimpse of what it must be like to be me. Death is a bothersome, abrupt end to a relationship with the world. Every day that I live I overcome death. However, every day of life gives death opportunity to loom over me like hovering rainclouds. Seeing the clouds pregnant with change brings anticipation and consideration about the unknown. I am left wondering at what exact moment nature will dampen my life with a storm. When will death be relevant in my life again?

I had the blessing and the curse of being raised by older parents. The blessing of their wisdom housed in bodies weathered by the experiences that made them wise. My father died about twenty years ago after a lengthy, complicated relationship with heart disease. He had a love affair with stress and cigarettes that resulted in death teasing us for years with phantom knocks on our door. Mama lived on after his death to share stories about his life, their lives together, and the legacy they wanted to leave behind. Daddy always said he wanted to die a quick death and he did. On the other hand, residuals from Mama’s stroke and subsequent seizures frustrated her for about six years until she died a little over two years ago. Daddy refused the last surgery that might have extended the life expectancy of his heart and Mama said, “My brain doesn’t match my mouth.” Mama and Daddy always said to live life with your head and your heart. They encouraged me to live life passionately and with thoughtful, considerate decision making. Ironically, it was the malfunctioning of her brain and his heart that quieted their voices and quenched the kindling spirits within them. Watching Mama and Daddy flirt with death for so many years didn’t make me any more comfortable with end of life discussions or preparation for the finality of death.

Everything in me resists death talk like being forced to wear heels and pantyhose for more than a couple of hours on a hot summer day. Even if I could limit the conversations, I couldn’t separate from the sight of my dying loved ones. As much as the thought of being without their physical presence saddened me, I appreciated the resilience and courage that lives in a dying person. Good church folks talk a lot about life over yonder and the transition to a place with many mansions in the sky. Unfortunately, when the fire of one who warms my spirit becomes a burning ember of a smoldering fire, death is like the nosey neighbor imposing unexpected confidence that brings him knocking at my door. Death is complex in that it arouses competing thoughts and emotions. How does something representative of lifelessness ignite movement and motivation? I don’t know how it does it, but I know it does. Maybe it has something to do with the cycle of life and the need for mankind and the universe to continue to exist.

After Daddy died, I remember struggling to recall the details of our last conversation. After Mama died, I remember thinking, “If I had known that it would be the last time we…., I would have done something differently.” The thoughts I had after death called Mama and Daddy made me thankful that I supported my loved ones in the best ways I could so that I would not have to live with regret. Death motivated me to do all that I could do to honor them after death in the celebrations of their lives. Because I was forced to be more intimate with death than I ever dreamed I would be, I was moved to come to terms with the truth that we each have a limited amount of time to contribute to the greater good. Death motivated me to be present in moments with those I care about because I never know when it might be the last time I did anything with that person. Familiarity with death moved me to use my voice and to express my passions out loud in service to others while I have the blessing of time. I challenge my audience to learn from my relationship with death. I want to inspire my audience to live life out loud every day and to value the relationships in their lives.

Sewing Machines and Quilting Bees

There have been days like today that I needed a reminder not to get caught up in negative thoughts. I reminded myself not to let those negative thoughts dictate the tone and pace of my day. I went to sleep last night feeling like a remnant of a bright, sturdy, textured sheet of fabric – relatable yet frustrated with the separation from my normal by some situations that were out of my control but connected enough that I was left feeling like the remnant after the shearing. When I was a child, my mother, her sisters, my grandmother, and my sister sewed. While Aunt Willie Mae was the master seamstress, the others could lay a pattern and piece together an outfit suitable to be worn outside the house.

I have memories of visiting fabric stores with my Mama when I was child. We would spend time sitting and flipping through the pages of very large, heavy books that contained pictures of all sorts of clothing one could make by following the pattern instructions. Mama’s favorite fabric store had a section with rows of chairs placed around a long, wooden table with a slanted top that seemed to be specially made to hold the pattern books. The pattern books were the do-it-yourself manuals for fashion. There were catalogs for at least four or five companies and Mama would take more time looking through the catalog books that suited her taste or wardrobe needs at the time. Each item of clothing in a catalog was assigned a number. I sat next to Mama and dreamed about which outfits someone could make for me. Until now, I hadn’t considered that the exposure to women who made clothing contributed greatly to the development of both sides of my brain. The exposure taught me to appreciate those who mastered a trade then used it to serve the village.

After selecting the pattern, we walked around the store evaluating fabrics and notions until we found the combination of things to help us create a perfect outfit. Mama paid for her items then headed home to continue the process. Positioning the cloth on the bed took care in order to ensure that the fabric laid flat and taut. Next, Mama would open the package that contained delicate sheets of grayish brown paper with black markings. Mama trusted me to help cut out select pattern pieces, but not all of them. Unlike cutting out paper doll clothes, one had to use care not to cut the wrong lines of the pattern pieces on these delicate sheets of paper. There were solid lines, dotted and segmented lines and curved lines. Just being entrusted with scissors and allowed to stand near the pattern and the cloth was a privilege. I accepted the privilege with the level of responsibility and seriousness warranted by such an assignment.

I graduated to pinning the pattern to the fabric. As I recalled ,that task involved a round, tomato looking pin cushion and strategic placement of pattern pieces. We needed to make certain that each necessary piece found a place on the cloth. It was a real life two-dimensional puzzle soon to be transformed into a three-dimensional dream. Honestly, I believe that I am more excited about the potential and the process now than I was as a child. Seeing the finished product brought the thrill of accomplishment and the pride of persistent passion. I had witnessed the care invested into the process from beginning to end by the women in my family who stitched the garments. The women worked with an eye toward the details of the artistic piece of clothing. Moreover, the women loved and respected for the garment and the future owner of the garment who at every fitting realized the time for owning the envisioned piece of clothing was growing nearer.

The floor in and around the cutting table (Mama’s bed) was always littered with threads and randomly shaped pieces of beautifully colored, textured cloth. Like the cloth that found a path to the floor, I felt aimless and separated from the master plan. I could only imagine those odd-shaped shreds of fabric felt unlucky and without purpose. Would the separated pieces have chosen this station or was there excitement about the road less taken? As I considered my station this morning, I felt much like the discarded fabric pieces and I certainly didn’t feel like I chose these feelings for myself last evening or this morning. While there were so many things that gave my personal world light, color, and texture, my head and my heart were fastened to the heaviness of my week and the uncertainty of my future. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Life is a journey, not a destination.” This morning I felt like the remnants cut away from the pinned pattern pieces on the cloth. I felt like that discarded cloth trying to understand the journey so that I could convince my head and my heart that I had not yet reached a destination. Thank God for a pen and paper and for the women whose DNA owns me. Thank goodness that the lessons we learn and share during our journeys do not end when we reach our destination. Those distinct sounds of those Singer sewing machines are long gone, but the lessons from my DNA donors live on. The women taught me that the scraps from the cloth purposefully supported the making of the envisioned piece. The women, in my family, taught me that just because I couldn’t see a purpose for the cloth that was cut away from the pattern it didn’t mean the remnants had no purpose or use. I learned that there was value in the remnants.

In our family, the journey of the uniquely shaped, assorted fabric pieces led to the needling together of family heirlooms that warmed us for years to come. I began to think about all of the random pieces in my life right now and how the pieces seem to have no logical connection to me. Unlike Mama, I know that I am not the master seamstress in this masterful work, but I must trust that what appears unintended and without meaning will manifest itself as a perfectly purposeful and useful design. The banner on my blog site was created from a picture taken by me of a quilt made by women in my family. I hope that my audience will see it and remember that many random and seemingly useless things can create a beautiful and purposeful end. Living is in the journey and the journey is enhanced by the outliers. The goal is not to limit the potential of our most grand dreams by missing the benefit and usefulness of the pieces you needed to cut away. Once you complete the logical, intended mission, see how the things you needed to cut away might contribute to the elevation of you, your dreams, and those around you.

The Blessing of Unexpected Learning Outcomes

While participating in a national conduct administrator conference, I attended a panel discussion to learn more about paths taken by four student conduct department heads from four different college campuses. After the detailed introductions, the panel moderator who was also a panelist announced that the panel members would each respond to a list of scripted questions before answering impromptu questions from the audience.

The first question asked by the moderator read something like this: “When did you decide that you wanted to lead a student conduct office?” Immediately, after asking the question, he answered the question. He explained that becoming a student conduct office administrator in higher education had been his goal for many years. He further explained that he planned his course of study and selected professional opportunities keeping in mind the end of being the leader of a student conduct office. Before I applauded his goal setting and persistent pursuit of the target, my mind wandered. I am certain that I missed something between his discussion about the rigor of his EdD degree (as compared to a PhD program) and his introduction of the next speaker. I am certain because my thought bubble read something like this: “This question could relate to any leadership role.” Once the thought bubble filled with my thoughts, the panel was silent to me. The panel was silent in the way that the ball game goes silent when the television has the game on the screen, but the volume is turned off. I took a mental detour from their well-planned journey of shared experiences so that I could explore my own thoughts.

I reflected on my paths to leadership and observed that I had many accounts of me ending up in leadership roles that were unintended when I was introduced to an organization, task, or cause. While I appreciated the process that placed the moderator in a leadership role, I knew that life for most folks, namely me, seldom presented in such an organized process that ended in a person being elevated to the role of leader. However, the mental exercise that followed his question kept me on an organized, scripted path. This type of organized process fed my natural bent toward developing a plan and then working said plan. His comments aligned perfectly with the belief system and the practices of Type A, overachiever like me. I thought, “It’s pretty exciting when the goal(s) and the outlined plan resulted in the likely outcome.” Then, I realized there seemed to be a stark contrast in the process of the thoughtful planner who chose a path that earned her a leadership position and the person I described as seldom having a specific plan of action specifically designed to earn her the role of leader of a group, task, or cause. This acknowledgment that leadership roles have found me more often than I have sought out leadership made me wrestle with my belief that stability and routine were foundational keys to my success as a leader.

My parents were career educators who taught primarily in rural Alabama. Most of my childhood I lived in the same house so I grew up believing that I would have one job in the same southern city close to all things familiar to me. I married a man who was the son of a soldier and his family moved frequently. They lived in many cities in the United States and abroad. Because of this transient lifestyle, he has welcomed change for as long as I can recall. He has regularly talked about the benefits of becoming comfortable with change and the practice of inviting new beginnings and adventure. Most of my adult life I have resisted change and failed to see the hopeful adventure of relocation or starting on a new course. How did my initial thoughts about there being many routes to the same end take me to this train of thought? How was it possible for me to be engaged in an this tangential dialogue in my head if there were many very different routes available to produce good paths and leadership roles for the person traveling those respective paths. How did I end up in a mental exercise sorting through what I believed were life challenges caused by my personality traits?

My lengthy aside from the panel discussion proved a fruitful blessing. I learned that I placed myself in a box sealed with fear of change, dread of the unknown, and insecurity about possibilities in the name of monotony, external expectations of others, and limited opportunities. The truth of me, and a lot of us, is that we instinctively live life way outside of those boxes every day. For me, and for many, we thrive in environments that breath the oxygen of color, vibrancy, and fluid change even if we often forget or fail to realize that is what we are doing. We live our lives being contributors to our spaces in ways that we hope will liven those in our spaces and that will energize us to give more. The truth is that we are not machines built by the folks who work to build those boxes around us.

My takeaways from the panel discussion were likely not the intended learning outcomes of the presenters. Nonetheless, I believed that I received the teachable moment I needed from the session. I realized that I subconsciously allowed myself to let one of those boxes be erected around me. I had become comfortable living out the anxious patterns of one who believed that the normal created by others defined my normal and my best circumstance. I sat in that room proud that my hypothesis that my end as a leader in higher education was still a good thing even though my script was different than that the moderator. I also learned that I was not as limited and controlled by fear of change, unexplainable circumstances, and an unknown ending as I thought. I learned that as a leader, I innately possessed the ability to manage change, unexpected events, and unpredictable occurrences. How did I ever let myself get caught up in the narrow-minded thinking that limited my growth potential?

Although I encourage students daily to use the lyrics of Jon Foreman and “make their wrong note a melody,” I realized after that panel discussion that I missed countless opportunities to apply that lesson to my own life. Through this positive affirmation exercise, I found strength and empowerment in the realization that I have successfully spent most of my life confronting the fear of change and the discomfort of uncertainty. The self-exploration gave me the ability to see that I had the ability to blend my Type A personality and my unscripted journeys. What I previously explained as conflicting principles, I began to define as a cool life balance. Suddenly, I saw that the strength and the perceived weakness served me well in leadership. I hope that my audience of leaders, the youthful and the more seasoned, will first identify the challenges that they believe limit their progress. Then, with lenses of positivity and life experiences, discover that they have already been doing the things they believed they might not be able to overcome. My hope is that the blessing of enlightenment and empowerment of the leader will strengthen the village.