The first week in February, I went to a writing retreat at the Hilton Hotel in Pensacola Beach, Florida. It was organized by a friend for friends who were working on creative projects and needed a bit of community inspiration to remain motivated. Individuals traveled from across North America to attend—Washington state to Washington D.C., Montreal to Miami. The group was diverse with people from many walks of life—black, brown and white friends all came together with one creative heart.
Among the typical writing prompts and publishing presentations, there was an ongoing discussion about racial justice and healing in our lives among the participants in the sessions and between us as we gathered as friends around the hotel. One session, led by Naledi Raspberry and Katherine Phillips, asked us to explore and connect our desire for equality with our writing practices. We read thought-provoking quotes from the book Toward Oneness, compiled by Tod Ewing. This encouraged us to openly share about our histories and cultures. The session culminated with two reflection questions and one call to action:
- How does your writing condone racism?
- How does your writing counter racism?
- What are you going to do? Put the appointment in your calendar now.
Of course, I want to think that my writing is a catalyst only for good in the world, but honesty requires soul searching to explore difficult truths. The implication that my writing could condone racism was an uncomfortable realization that I did not want to admit. It annoyed me like a sharp rock in my shoe—one that returned every time I put it out of my mind.
The ugly truth is that I condone racism by just not talking about it. I treat it like a math problem solved by a calculator—I sidestep the necessary details and rush to the tidy resolutions. I have not yet written the complex stories from my life because I worry about the words necessary to explain the experiences that I had growing up around the world. And, it takes a lot of courage to remember my past. I am afraid that my story will be judged harshly, that I am going to write things wrong, and that I will be canceled, unfriended, and misunderstood. These fears have caused me to avoid all that is full of color and emotion.
But today that changes! I am going to start writing my stories. My husband has tentatively named the project Mangos and Donkeys. It will explore what it was like for me to grow up American—born in Tanzania, raised in the Virgin Islands, educated in Michigan, and shaped by China.
Here is a story from my teenage years that I was reminded of during the Pensacola Writers Retreat. The group camaraderie reminded me of a special song from Sweet Honey in the Rock. The music became like an anthem for my writing time in Florida.
When I was eleven, my family moved from sunny St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands to snowy Marquette in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Our CD collection consisted of albums from around the world. We had picked up favorite musicians that reflected the many places we had lived: Detroit gave us all the greatest hits from Motown; the Caribbean taught us to sing along to Bob Marley. We listened to everything from Tracy Chapman to Sweet Honey in the Rock. We had fallen in love with these musicians as we lived where their music lived.
When I was a teenager, my dad accepted a sabbatical from his professorial job in Michigan to conduct research in Sichuan on the educational system in China. My mother, sisters, brother and I traveled with him so we could live in a new country, learn a new language, and experience a new culture. Fortuitously, this year abroad coincided with the United Nations’ Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing, China. That is how I had the opportunity to meet my music idols: Sweet Honey in the Rock. At the age of seventeen, I attended their workshop and received a musical education in how they created intricate a cappella compositions by experimenting with joy and laughter.
We attended the Non-Governmental Organization Forum held outside Beijing in the town of Huairou. Thirty thousand women and men from the four corners of the planet overwhelmed this makeshift conference center. Heavy rains turned streets and sidewalks into muddy thoroughfares as attendees walked back and forth from accommodations to the event spaces to restaurants and shops. Many women came dressed in traditional garbs with rainbows of colors as well as exquisite scarves, hats, and belts. I got a lesson in geography with each new person I met.
My sister, Lua, and I were so excited when we discovered that Sweet Honey in the Rock was on the conference schedule. We arrived early to the event. The hall quickly filled up with nearly a hundred people—standing room only. People from around the world joined together to celebrate the emancipation of women through music. We all could not speak the same languages, but when the music instruction began, we became unified in a four-part harmony. The members of Sweet Honey in the Rock taught us through call and response until each quarter of the room could hold their own melody. When the time was right, they orchestrated us into a choir of voices.
The sound of a hundred people singing different but harmonious melodies reverberated through my body. The music flowed through us and united us in a common wave of happiness. I have sung in choirs before, but this group experience was a different feeling. It transcended letters and sounds. It is a memory that I cherish thirty years later.
That same week, I visited the Great Wall of China with my father and sister. The wall spans the peaks and valleys of high hills in the mountains. There are two ways to get to the wall. Some people take an adventurous hike up the hillside trails. However, we took the cable cars to the top so we would have more energy to walk along the wall which rolls over the terrain with steep stairs and tall towers. When we were at a particularly beautiful overlook, we met a few members of Sweet Honey in the Rock. My younger sister and I were very excited to see them and wanted to ask for their autographs, but we did not have any paper. I am not even sure that we had the chance to take a photograph together, but I do remember thanking them for their workshop.
At the Pensacola Writers Retreat, one Sweet Honey in the Rock song constantly played in my head like an anthem. It ran through my head and was often on my lips. When I was walking on the beach or down the halls of the hotel, I sang the chorus for “Ella’s Song” which goes like this: “He who believes in freedom can not rest until it comes.”
This is my wish. It is time for me to write more of my stories. I cannot shy away from the difficult and beautiful, the colorful and the emotional.
Please check out the many renditions of “Ella’s Song” on YouTube. Sweet Honey in the Rock is not built on individuals, but it is an ever-changing group of musicians who perform variations on a body of work. This organizational structure allows the music to shine and the musicians to be instruments of God’s grace.
I’m so grateful that I was able to meet some of the members of Sweet Honey in the Rock and participate in their workshop at the women’s conference. I will always love them for giving me a deeper appreciation for music.
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