by Harold McMillan

As hard as I might try, just by myself, I can't untwist these memories, can't retell those stories, can't clone those feelings, can't revisit times-gone-by without the guidance of the griots. And each hour of every day, another living, love-filled human history book slips on 'cross Jordan, taking with them a vision of the past that can't be found in Hollywood movies, reported by K-EYE News, read in UT history books, spoken in standard English, nor understood -- at soul level -- by most of you reading my words right now.

Every hour of every day, another tired, happy soul crosses Jordan (JURD-en), leaving us with yet another hole in our understanding of "from whence we come." As they cross over -- these elders whose souls merely thirsted for freedom, often only finding their own tears to quench their thirst -- will take with them a language untaught, a history unwritten, relics of a hard-fought battle to keep alive a soul-rich tragically-beautiful-yet-blue culture. The fight, those blues, that particular historical/cultural moment in America will never ever happen again (in some ways, let us thank God for this). However, the passing of our eldest African American griots, for the current generation and all subsequent ones, signals an end of an era, leaving us without the kind of cultural documentation afforded those groups whose roots tie them culturally and politically more directly to Middle America. The story won't be on the 10 o'clock news, won't be in the American-Statesman (they don't do Ebonics), won't get translated with sensitivity into the next history text book, won't have wide enough appeal for the Hollywood producers (even if Spike does it. You know he's too political and only goes for a VERY narrow audience).

Let's face it -- really, we must (please) -- Aunt Virgie's story will die with her. The scholars are too far away from where she lives -- downhome -- to understand its significance. Her relatives ain't exactly into doing cultural history documentation, and at 80-something she don't really feel up to writing her memoirs while high on the morphine, dulling the pain left by the surgery to wipe out the cancer. Aunt Virgie's thoughts on living her adult life, 60 years in Greenville, Texas -- God-fearing, proud, happy, productive, black -- across the tracks, six blocks from the sign hung over the tracks that read, "Welcome to Greenville, Texas: The Blackest land, the WHITEST people," will go to the grave with her.

To be sure, those 60 years (1930s 'til recently) do hold some truths about this country many would rather forget. What those 60 years do hold, however, through the life stories of folks like my Aunt Virgie, are cultural experiences, a distinct language, a decidedly non-Middle American nuance to living that often escapes the cultural historian's sensibility, as well as the oral memories of friends and family. The loss is tragic, and often final. It's too bad folks like my Aunt Virgie (and yours) don't often write books or make movies. What a loss for all of us!

Virgie's cancer, her age, her impending death are not news items. Old ladies get old, get sick, and die everyday. That is not the issue here. My aunt is not the greater issue here. The thing is, we've all seen lots of old ladies live and die on-screen. We've read many romantic novels about the courage of pioneering Middle American women. We've seen plays about, laughed and cried and appreciated the lives of a litany of strong-American-woman types. We've come to know numerous variations of Little House on the Prairie, Gunsmoke, Donna Reed, Leave it to Beaver, Beverly Hillbillies, Charlie's Angels, and Golden Girls. To begin to understand what's wrong here, just compare the former list with this one: Sanford and Son, Good Times, The Jeffersons, The Cosby Show, Julia. African America, although only 12 percent or so of the this country's population, is the culture of origin for the blues, jazz, (some would include rock and roll here, also) and rap musics, various pop culture influences in sports, fashion, language, and numerous hipness factor trends. Middle America seems to know all about how we sing and dance -- and JIVE; in fact, Middle America has been singing our songs, all the way to the bank, for years. Why doesn't Middle America know too about the lives, the courage, the shame, the beauty, the traditions and richness of the culture that has entertained it for so long? Shouldn't the life stories of America's blues people, of young America's rappers, of Northeast Texas' last (and dying) generation of grandchildren of slaves be part of the American cultural knowledge base? If we love the blues, shouldn't we also have a clue (a conscious respect and regard) about and for the folks and conditions that gave us the blues? Ain't that America?

No one person, group, financial institution, government agency, academy, media outlet, nor cultural intstitution is responsible for this cultural atrocity. Most of them are partners, however, in maintaining a continuing pattern of cultural ignorance and hegemony that is totally "un-American" in nature. It's not that the issues I raise here do not find debate, it's that the debate is skewed to (nay, founded on) issues of shame, guilt, pride, anger, retribution, ownership, denial, ignorance, insecurity, and oppression. Do not be confused about what I am getting at here. This is not the "white folks bad/black folks good" dichotomy. This is not a conspiracy theory on race and culture. This is just another set of results and examples of what (I think) local performance artist/playright Daniel Alexander Jones calls the OPPRESSIVE DISCOURSE that has American culture and society all at odds with itself. It's the discourse (the conversation) that needs to be exploded, turned over on itself, have new rules applied, be held up to the light, stripped of its jingoistic biases, and then -- only then -- re-initiated.

There are lots of stories to tell and be listened to, some more interesting than others. Those folks who lived the stories are the experts and have a perspective that no one else could possibly have (they should have the privilege to tell their own stories). But even in the most unique of circumstances, there is the commonality, at some level, of the human condition. Stories, real or imagined, teach us things about others and ourselves. This America of ours -- good, bad, indifferent -- is what it is because of the confluence of various human truths and how those truths find reality in the lives of real folks. If blues (or hip hop, or jazz, or Michael Jordan) is significant enough to be a cultural treasure claimed as American, so too should the fears, hopes, and happiness -- the lives -- of blues people. Ain't that America?

The mention here of my Aunt Virgie as an example seemed to force its way onto the page. I spent the weekend with her, watched her speechless shadow hover around the frail frame that once spoke of her hard good life in no uncertain terms. I watched her and realized that her ultimate passing will also mean the loss of another of those good stories that should be told (not so much for her individual amazing life, but for all of the ways that she represents important lives that don't find wide expression or documentation in the academy, cultural institutions, the media or our memory).

Last Thursday I sat at Hyde Park Theater and witnessed Daniel and Todd Jones' autobiographical performance piece, Clay Angels. These brothers spoke to me, directly, about their lives together and apart, their parents and family, the old neighborhood, about values and also about the two old widow women who lived next door. Their charaters, Lillian and Vivian, spoke to me, too. Lillian and Vivian, I'm sure, spoke to all who sat in the audience that night, but Lillian and Vivian spoke in language, with nuance, cadence, attitude, and style that rang true for black folks in a way that said: "I remember, child, when they wouldn't even let us in dis theater. But we always had a good ole time, none-the-less. I pray you jess don't forget where you come from. You know white folks ain't gonna forget." You see, it's so rare for us (black folks) to see ourselves -- in the paper, in theater, in the movies -- just simply being our unremarkable - member - of - the - family next door selves that we really feel spoken to when it happens. And it happens much too rarely in Austin.

After the play I just had to talk to Daniel about what touched me in the work. That line about being, at the same time, victims and participants in America's oppressive cultural discourse really rang true with issues that have been heavily on my mind lately. Then there was another line that came from Todd when he made a plea/prayer for America to come home and live up to its image of itself -- praying for our rebirth. Then, there was Lillian and Vivian. Lillian and Vivian took over this weekend while I sat with my aunt. She is Lillian and Vivian.

So, this piece will have to be continued. Daniel Alexander and Todd Jones' Clay Angels is the piece that inspired me to want to explore more about Austin's internal discourse on the value of diverse, unapologetic cultural work. There are essays in my head and much more I want to say about Daniel, but I tell you, Lillian, Vivian, and Aunt Virgie stole my attention this time out.