A conversation with my grandpa

I have planned my lessons for tomorrow on the geography of Africa.
I have meticulously assembled the parts (the skills) in the hope that it connects with the students.
You know, …innovative teaching, making teaching more meaningful and relevant.
Now, slightly inebriated, I ask: What is going on with Black people?
Okay, let me refrain from articulating such a blunt statement.
Let me simply state that I love teaching. I love learning the behavioral processes, mechanical phenomena, and the societal clichés that encompass real learning. But, why don't we care about Africa, our culture, our roots; rather, why attempting in every way to embrace a eurocentric take on everything except on education?
I started writing a book on African Americans’ creative processes interconnected with the zeitgeist of the time. Half way through the book, I stopped.
I stopped because I know not when and where to end.
The vicious cycle is devouring my sense of creativity.
Here is a small section that I care to share with you (a conversation with my grandpa):

“ I am not disagreeing with you, my son.” He said. “Sapir makes an important point. The convoluted dynamics behind the linguistic industry in concocting the right mix of words to give shape to a particular group’s discernment of what is real is rather a very intriguing one.”
“Since language does not determine thought,” I said, “for they are separate entities, no matter the numerous negative connotations of the word black that have been plaguing the Black race, why don’t we give it a rest? Why don’t we start fixing it where we can?”
“Where is that, my son?” He asked. At this time, it was obvious to me, as it has always been, that Black people have been placed in the receiving end of an unfortunate history. Nevertheless, it became clearer that many of the problems that we are faced with today are a product of our own sluggishness. They have blamed prominent people during the Harlem Renaissance and thereafter for making such statement. I was ready to be crucified just as well.
With the number of African-American children being raised in single-family homes because their dad refused to assume responsibility as a man has no direct connection to slavery. So many other variables can be manipulated to change the current condition. Nonetheless, we remain inactive in that regard.
“Come one,” he said, “you can’t measure and will never be able to measure the factors that account for slavery with respect to the African-American problems! Slavery has been macabre and …”
“I was not disputing that slavery was not a horrible institution,” I quickly interrupted, “to claim a human being as one’s property is torturous enough, let along, the pain and anguish inflicted on slaves themselves through hard, forced labor and various exploitations of basic rights, and dignities. To refrain people from implementing anything to better their situation is certainly horrendous.”
“For sure!” He added.
“Black people’s problems at this juncture, however, are not a direct result of slavery.” I asserted.
“How can you know for certain?” He asked.
“They arose as Black people migrated from the southern region of the U.S. in the 20th century.”
“What prompted them to move?” He asked.
“I don’t know!” I answered puzzlingly. If I were not so stubborn, I would have conceded this argument for in the lives of African-Americans, all roads lead to the horror of slavery. “But, that is the problem!" I exclaimed, "We have used slavery in all aspects to justify any misfortune of the race; When will that be not the case?”
“It is sometime hard to fight such vicious cycle!” He said. “But, what was the argument you were making?” His face searched aimlessly.
“Well, the mass migration contributed to a sort of disconnect to significant cultural values.”
“Oh, I see! You are making a point as to why black kids are dwelling in single-family homes more and more?” he posed. “...But, marriage and family relations, respect for eldership, and general social harmony are characteristics that Black people strive on.”
“But, because of The Willy Lynch fairy tale about a White man who came from the Caribbean with his successful manual on how to turn an African to a slave…” This time was his turn. my grandpa abruptly interrupted me.
“Don’t bring this into the argument!” He stated firmly.
“Yet, many people ignore this fact of Black social harmony in the early- to mid-20th century in order to believe the Willie Lynch fairy tale.” I wanted to know what he really thought about Willie Lynch tale. The first time I have expanded a little on it," I posed, recollecting my conversation with an AP at a school in Williamsburg, "was with my supervisor who is from Jamaica who decided to let me in on the complexity behind the psychology of humiliation for a Black man."
“Okay…” He nodded, patiently waiting for me to finish my point.
“This fake speech is a serious distraction because instead of tackling the problem at its real sources we continue to falsely believe that ‘everything’ comes from slavery and that ‘Willie Lynch’ was a white god who gave a single speech with a single handbook that, ...somehow controls 40 million Black people 300 years later!" "They have been oppressed," He boasted, "through years of slavery. And, ...even if the Willy Linch theory…”
“I just don’t understand why you are angry, grandpa. It is what it is!” I was not sure that he was still on the topics he first walked in the room with or disenchanted with my blunt possible assertions on the Black race.
“Okay, my son, you are a jazz musician,”
I quickly inhaled and tilted my head to my left to correct him from articulating that I am a jazz musician. Though in theory everyone is a musician. If I play jazz, it is safe to say that I am a jazz musician.
“Okay, Okay,” he quickly modified the statement, “You are a jazz buff. You choose not to play jazz for money only for yourself. But, let’s take jazz for example.”
“What about it?” I asked defensively wishing that he tried noting as an attempt to dilute what I think of the music. “A genre of music cannot be compared to a race of such complexity. When we are referring to Black people, we are referring to the Hispanics, the Brazilians, the mulattoes, the people from the Caribbean, Latin America, Africa, Europe, and a great deal of people all around the world. As a matter of fact, there is no measurement for calling a person Black! Jazz, we know!”

Howlin' Wolf

I know not what this blog will serve anyone.
What I do know (nonetheless) is that I will exploit this to inculcate some sort of order, strict observance in keeping engagements in what has become a rather hectic, reckless debauchery of schedule.
I will attempt to make habitual, weekly visits to type; type whatever, however.
To anyone who starts taking an interest in this blog, I will be counting on you to keep me adhesively tuned.
Page 1, I have decided to revisit Howlin’ Wolf.
Wolf reminds me of my favorite jazz pianist (Art Tatum); maybe because of their size, their public eminence (or lack of it – particularly to the …, I'll leave it there!)
Art Tatum is to his fingers what Sidney Bechet is to his improvisation and Wolf to his voice.
Art Tatum, fingers; Wolf, voice.
Maybe I am not making much sense. Maybe I should rest this Vietti Barolo Rocche 2000 (Piedmont) to gather my thought. But, what sense would that make?
One needs to speak of jazz as one indulges in a rare bottle; it is only appropriate.
Now, back to Art Tatum and Howlin’ Wolf.
Bringing forth such parallel between these like features and talents does not neglect or devalue Sidney’s immeasurable contribution to jazz together with his unique, unmatched skills, but it is mentioned to convey something deeper than that.
I will get back to you when I get a hold of it myself.
Until then, cheers.