Malachi was able to get sound out of a sax the first time he picked one up. I told him how remarkable that was. He wasn't with us the day we went to the music store. He got to hang out with his friends, but I saw a wistful expression cross his features for a second as he looked at my pictures of all the gleaming instruments. That the place is not thronged with a Scarborough Fair of people making music at all hours is a mystery to me. I wanted to run around like a six-year-old and tootle and honk on everything! I wanted to hear someone play! Musicians are withholders. You gotta pay to hear em play, and who can blame them?
There is not enough music for our children anymore. No one is teaching them how to use these precious instruments. Music lessons were of no importance in my branch of the family. At all. So I was completely and hopelessly cut off from them. I don't want the same thing to befall my children. Shoot, I haven't given up on me. I don't like that picture of me I posted, but my goofy, joyful expression tells me I'd better dare to look dumb some more. We've forgotten that our kids want to learn to make music. We're not investing their limited, finite resources of time and attention into music, art, dance, poetry, the humanities, at anywhere near the rate we ought to be. Not everyone will wind up on a production crew for Ang Lee, or Peter Jackson. We cain't all be on Glee. But kids need music. To learn with. To live with. To grow and develop with. They can be emotionally stunted without it. A plugged outlet. I know how that feels.
Creativity bubbling like steam in a pot with a tight-fitting lid. Your kid is wilding out and you don't know why. Maybe he needs to paint. He could have a frustrated tap routine bothering his brain. Might need to sculpt or carve something, and never even know it.
What if your child would love to create in wrought iron? How would you know? I remember the Polish ironworkers in Riverhead. Some of those men could craft the most delicate forms in iron--fence finials, balustrades, porch railings, and a special form of ironwork whose intricate patterns indicated to fellow Poles where they would be welcomed and understood. Sometimes interlocking circles, always three birds in flight, articulated within confining bars, somehow. I remember suddenly coming to grips with this visual symbol on a street full of Poles, (on my way to Pulaski Street Elementary) and how two or three of the eldest women turned, startled, to gape at me. I had been looking at the intricate form of the low iron railing in front of an old Polish doctor's office, Dr. Bryzcynzski, I believe. I looked at that awesome collection of consonants every day on my way to school, and the funny little ironwork rail, just above ankle high, that outlined his little slab of pavement near the corner of Ostrander and Roanoake. I had seen the elderly ones lining up to get into his office, and their bright head kerchiefs stood out in the new morning air as I approached. It was springtime, and the snap in the air was just pleasant enough to remind them of home. All of them. As as happened to me since before I knew it did not happen to other people, I was overcome by a sense of limitless ocean, and the birds suddenly appearing on the horizon, indicating land, America, in fact. Beautiful Land at the end of a long and arduous journey. Many of the ironworkers, barkeeps, beer-truck drivers, grocers, and cobblers in my hometown were Polish Jews. Some were Greek Jews. Some of them were Italian and German Jews. Even then, I took it all in through the eyes of a writer--with an eye toward memory, place, time, and recall. I cannot tell you what I had for breakfast last Tuesday, but I do know that Polish craftsmen also make fine chocolates and exquisite violins. And pastry. And cold cuts!
I went to first grade with a delightful little girl whose first and only words to me in flawless American English were: "I've come too far ever to be an outcast again. I come here and find out I look completely American. I can never look back. I will always value your friendship. I will always know you are my friend. But this will be our only conversation!" And it was. I'm still her friend, too. This was in spring; 1969 or '70. She'd arrived from Poland the previous fall not speaking a single word of English. I'm a Q, and she was an S, so she was seated in the row across from me. I watched her enormous china blue eyes on that first day, taking in the big warm, room, me, the other kids, Mrs. Leahy, the teacher, me again...I am terrified, she thought. I wish someone would take my hand. So I did. It was ice cold, so I held it until it warmed up, and then just dropped it. She decided not to faint, and that it was all going to be ok. A Brit's riff on Paul Revere brought beautiful Anna Stremsky to mind again, with her bright, blonde, Dresden-doll curls and rosy cheeks--how close she came to missing freedom altogether.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog.
#FriendsofMalachiMaxwellGlass
