I stood in front of my beginning band class as they fumbled through the music for the halftime show that just happened to be two weeks away. As they played, I cut them off and gave them a look that if it were a gun, I’d be doing quadruple life for the massacre of a class of what were supposed to be some of the finest, middle school musicians in the state of Florida. I thought to myself, “Damn, somebody sure pulled the ole switch-a-roo on me.” I tapped the music stand in front of me with my baton.

"Okay ladies and gents, let’s take it from letter D. Now sing through those horns. Remember the horn is an extension of your voice.”

I snapped my baton up crisper than an overdone saltine cracker. The students’ response to my baton was less than acceptable. “Is that the best that you’ve got? Do it again, so we can see how many laps it takes to render a freshman band student unconscious.”

I raised my baton crisp again, and the snap up of those instruments looked so sweet, I had to do it again just to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. I counted them off, “1,2,3,4”. Man, they sounded as if someone had switched the band while my head was down. Now here we were playing Getaway by Earth, Wind & Fire. I doubt if any of the kids even know who EWF are.

Believe me before their four years at Freedman High are up, I’m going to have all of that old school music pumpin’ through their veins. Well, we made it through another rehearsal.

“I expect all of you to go home tonight and put in two more hours on this music. All songs will be memorized by Thursday, and we shake the tree for the starting line up on Saturday morning. Any questions?” I see a hand in the back.

“There is no way to remember all fifteen of these songs by Thursday, and my Mama said I need to go shopping for back-to-school clothes this weekend too,” squeaks little Willie McFadder.

I pause for a moment to let little Willie McFadder’s question marinade on the brain cells of those who face the same dilemma. It’s amazing how dumb a freshman can look. I guess it comes with the

One Week Gig

territory. Be you fresh meat in high school, college, or even the military, it’s all the same. I’m going to take my time with this one, because if there’s one thing I hate when dealing with young musicians, it’s repeating what I say over and over again. I tilt my head to the side and try to maintain a sense of control.

“Son, I want you to listen, and listen good. Can you hear me?” Willie McFadder answers me in a voice so soft that if I had closed my eyes I could have mistaken him for my high school prom date.

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, Willie, you don’t have to remember all the songs. You don’t even have to practice if you don’t want to. But if you plan on being on that field marching with the Mighty Bull Dog Band two weeks from now, you will have my music memorized by tomorrow and be on the field stretching and ready for me to call your number on Saturday morning. Now, remember, you don’t have to. The only thing you have to do in this life is stay black and die. Now, if you decide not to follow in the customs of the Marching Bull Dog Band, that’s fine too. I’ll just see you sitting in the bleachers near the band, with your Mama and Daddy, with your new school clothes on, thinking, ‘Was that shopping spree really worth it?’”

The rest of the class burst out laughing. I guess I kind of embarrassed him a little bit. But that’s how you have to be with these kids these days, especially these young black boys.

My musicians are top notch, but no one is more important than anyone else when it comes to the priorities and commitment of the team. I see I’m going to have to squeeze that last lil’, teeny bit of punk out of Willie before I lose him to being a life long Mama’s boy.

I dismissed the class as the bell rang at the end of seventh hour. Well, that’s one more day under my belt. All of my old head band students kept coming by, poking their heads into the office to let me know they’re hyped about the marching band season. It’s amazing how fast some of these students mature. I have to do a double take most of the time because the boys have gone out and grown muscles, beards and moustaches. The girls─some of them look like they have been eating super grow, because they have the bodies of grown ladies. To the untrained eye, these kids are young men and women. But believe me, they are far from that. All you have

Introduction to Conflict

to do is sit down and talk to most of them for an hour, and those brand new butts, breasts, muscles, moustaches and chest hair will all fade away.

My partners who don’t teach in the school system ask me how I do it. You know─teach and never be tempted. I tell them, “You all are only looking at these kids from a distance. I know them through and through.” The girls walk around with all that body and don’t even know how dangerous they are. They’re like babies with loaded machine guns. Dangerous! The boys are equally as dangerous because their Johnson gets hard every time their heart beats. Besides, I like fish on Friday, FAMU football and the Marching “100” on Saturday, and collard greens on Sunday, and you can’t guarantee me any of those things in prison. So I can’t put myself in any situation that will put me there. The only things I like young are chicken, money, and babies.

Well, time to be getting out of here. I’m thinking I might swing by The Spot to see what’s going with my peeps. That’s a shame. I should be going straight home, but…you got to know how it is sometimes.

Look at me. I’m just rambling on about myself and I forgot to introduce you to my wife, Terri Black-Sweet. We’ve been together since our days in college. When I met her, I knew there was something special about her. I spotted her walking across the campus decked out in those jet black Sergio Valente’ designer jeans, a form fitting polo shirt and those sexy flat black shoes.

You all just don’t know what a sexy woman in some low-heeled shoes would do for a brother back then. My view was that anybody could be sexy in high-heeled shoes. High-heeled shoes were specifically designed to create that illusion. The trick was to see if a sister could make me look twice while she was wearing low-heeled shoes, or even sneakers and jeans. I guess real fine sisters in low-heeled shoes were in line with the philosophy I developed in high school while conducting research on boy/girl relationships working undercover at Mickey D’s. If you go to a Mickey D’s, Burger King, or a White Castle, and the sister standing behind the counter in the fast food polyester or one-size-fits-all uniform appeared to be fine, that meant she was real fine. I deduced that it took some real serious curves to poke through those baggy one-size-fits-all uniforms.

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Terri met the criteria. She was a country girl, all the way from Butt-Naked, GA, by way of Miami, FL. She was sweet and somewhat shy, I guess, or at least she pretended to be. Man, her conversation was so inviting, the rhythm of her walk so hypnotic, the curve of her hips like that of a ten ounce, not a sixteen ounce, Coca-Cola bottle, and her mind was sharper than a dressed-up preacher on pastor’s appreciation day. Now that’s what I liked. She was smart. Oh, so smart. I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to say that all of her physical attributes didn’t draw a soul brother to her sweet nectar. I concede that. It was her sharp mind that kept me right in the middle of the game. No joke! I place high stock on the intelligence of a woman.

Have you ever tried to talk to a...how should I say it? “Dumb Dora”. Man, it is painful. I’ve had my share of airheads, but I did try to avoid them at all cost. Talking to one is like working a part-time job after a full day’s work. I was kickin’ it with this honey back in my college days who was so dumb, I told her I was on the male birth control pill and she believed it. Well, it’s not like women corner the market on stupid. All of us have suffered from bouts of the “Please spit on me and tell me it’s raining syndrome.” I must admit to being stupid and taken a time or two myself. I chased a girl who had been around more than a Michael Jackson album on a turntable in the early 80s.

Terri was nothing like that. She was an education major, with a broadcast communications minor. I used to listen to her voice on the campus radio in my apartment just before going to practice every day. You talking ‘bout a sweet voice! Man, I was so in love with her that when she talked it seemed as if honey was flowing from the speakers of my stereo. I used to have to wait a few minutes, to get myself together (if you know what I mean) before running over to the practice field. I’m not going to lie to you, her voice alone would arouse me to the point of light-headedness.

My boys and I were hanging out with her one and only best girlfriend Kenya Dixon. Kenya was her Siamese twin. When you saw one of them, it meant that the other one was no more than five feet away. They were so tight, I thought that I would have to hit Kenya when I finally got the chance to seal the deal with Terri. You know, just to keep the peace. Kenya was and still is as fine as frog hair,

Introduction to Conflict

split four ways, on a wet and windy day. She’s as good a girlfriend as a woman should want, and any smart man would want his lady to hang around with. Like any woman, drama was potentially in her DNA─The question was how much, and was the amount small enough for you to be able to stomach it? Now, that’s saying a lot, because you know how women can be. She didn’t keep up a lot of gossip, and I don’t think she ever overreacted when she used to see me talking to other ladies on the yard. Ken is cool people. I’ve told Terri she’d better be glad I shot at her before I got to really know Kenya or she’d be looking for love as we speak (I just threw that last statement in there because you know, no brother in his right mind would say no craziness like that to a real live black woman and get away with it.) Sad but true. That’s that madness you hear those crazy men say to those desperate women on the TV show, Divorce Court. Now you know us sane black men draw the line at madness like that (I hope.). The love I had for Terri intensified at such a rapid pace, I almost couldn’t keep up with it. I mean, I still used to look around and admire other ladies, but I knew that Terri was the one for me. She was a good influence on me.

Terri and my homeboy Billy “Thumper” Jones, were my dynamic duo. They joined forces and saved the day for me. Together, they applied the positive pressure I needed to help me focus and graduate from good old FAMU on time.

My sights were set on becoming a recording artist and Terri was going to be a teacher. We were going to have two babies to round out our family. I wanted a boy and a girl. After a year of bouncing around from gig to gig, my mother and Terri started pressuring me to get a real job. Well, all I know is music, and I happened to be very good with children. So, I accepted the job as director of bands at Freedman High School, home of the Marching Bull Dogs. I made a promise to myself that I was only going to be at this gig for two years at the most. Performing was where I belonged, and nothing was going to stop me from making my dreams come true.

Terri and I got married, and the journey began. Everything was cool between us; we spent time together as much as we could. We took trips and came back to homecoming so we could see old friends, and we both thought it was important not to forget the place where what we have all began. Well, my two-year plan turned into

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four years…and four years into six years, and here we are at the tenth homecoming football game since our college graduation. To tell you the truth, it kind of embarrasses me to go back and look into the faces of my friends. I guess I talked so much trash to everybody about who I was going to be and what I was going to be doing. Look at me, still teaching ten years later. I lied. …Or did I? My hair is thinning and I’ve put on a few pounds, but I still got it. I can still blow my horns better than anybody with lips. But, something has changed. Time has run away from me, or have I run away from my task by wasting time?