CHAPTER 1
Developing the Song
Mr. Wilson began by sharing the story about a little boy he knew very well. To him, it was a real story that he had to tell many times over. It wasn't like one of those stories that parents or teachers had to make up to teach a type of lesson or moral. He knew it very well, and he began like any other time ...
The little boy, Damion, was born in the city of Kingston, on a tiny island called Jamaica, many years ago. The city of Kingston had many tall buildings with many windows that were packed together like little Lego blocks in a box or on the carpets of little kids' living room floors. It had many streets – small and large – between buildings and along walkways. Some were dark and gloomy and others were bright and looked well-maintained because the trees were cut and they were always clean. Most of them were numbered and, when that was not enough, the city gave some of them names after some important people who lived a long time ago. A few of those important people ruled the city back in the days when segregation was legal and prejudices seemed normal. People had to know their places, where they were from by way of looking in the mirror at their faces, their skin, and their family. Kids were not allowed to do certain things and they had so many questions. Damion's mom had gone through the final stages of such experiences as a child and her parents told her about the times before she came. The city had emerged from that type of reality and people had only to work hard for what they wanted and believed in in order to be remembered.
That was the story Damion's mother told him when he asked her about the buildings and the streets. The city was beautiful to him, especially at Christmas time or in the evening when night was approaching. He and his mom would take the stairs all the way up to the last floor of the City Hall building, just to see the lights turning on and the last ray of the sun as it passed over the city and buildings. Damion loved it. He told his mom how beautiful it was and how he wanted to stay there forever. They only could make the trip once a week on a Friday afternoon because, for one, it wasn't easy climbing those stairs, and two, his mom worked very hard until late. She would get home late and tired almost every evening, except for Fridays because she got off early.
The rooftop time was their moment together, and his mom would tell him several stories about her life and friends, and how she was longing to travel the world. Some were happy and others brought tears to his mom's eyes. Once, when they were enjoying the sunset on the roof, his mom told him why she moved from her little town to the city. She had to leave, at first, because she had to go to college; and then, she got a job and started working in the city. Overtime, she didn't bother to return, not even to visit her own parents. Damion asked her why; but she would say "it's difficult to talk about, but one of these days I'll tell you."
Sometimes he would ask about his dad. He didn't see him around. He was never there, never present. His mom told him that he had a father, but he was living in another town. She did mention a name of a town but Damion was more interested in the reasons why he was not there rather than the name of a town. For some unknown reason, that wasn't important at the time. It probably had to do with the capacity of his little brain. He could only focus on the immediate, what was significant to him and the rest was for a later time. And when his mom told him that she had a complicated life, he just understood right away, or for a little moment, and didn't bother to question it. The word 'complicated' was easy to just get off the surface, because he refused to dig into it and make things 'more complicated' for himself and his mom. That was probably what his mom thought when she looked at an eleven year old boy (he thought to himself). She told him, nonetheless, she had the complicated life when she came to the city to go to school.
Damion didn't understand the word "complicated" in terms of family and relationships. His mom got frustrated and sometimes lost for words when he pressed the issue because he needed to fill the gaps in his own story. Damion's story had begun to take shape in his mind, and he often wondered about where he came from. He saw his mom and he had been around her since he became conscious of himself; but he had never seen his father. So, the questions of his beginning became obvious to him to mention; at least for a while on his way from school or while climbing the stars to the rooftop on a Friday evening.
Over time, Damion suppressed the thought of asking about his dad. The obvious questions like, why was he not there? Or when was he coming home? went deep down in a recessive place, inside of him. Damion couldn't describe that place but he knew it existed because certain types of emotions would surface from there. The idea of wanting to know more about his origins would also surface from that place. The obvious question about family would come out most times. So, he knew very well that one day he would have to deal with that unknown place of questions. His mother told him he looked just like his dad though, and that was what he kept with him thinking about the image of a father every time he looked in the mirror or walked across the living room in his little suits, or ever so often his mom would call him "little man". He was like chocolate-brown in complexion. Not too dark looking but with a speck of caramel. Color wasn't a factor to him and he was too young to associate any difficulties with it. Nonetheless, he owned that about him because it was a mix between his mom, which was a physical reminder that he belonged, and his father he did not see around. It made him feel comfortable with himself.
Damion and his mother had everything, or so he thought, because he wasn't in need of anything that was necessary. He had a meal on the table every night in the little house he shared with his mom, his aunt and a man he was told to call his uncle. This uncle was his aunt's husband who he knew for as long as he could remember – not that he was living very long; but they were always living together. His aunt didn't really work that much and her husband used to stay out late at nights. Damion didn't have time to ask them about their day or where they work. He cared more about getting his class projects done and homework assignments. He wasn't brilliant by no means, but he worked very hard on his school work.
At the time, Damion was eleven years old and life, as he knew it, had not started yet. He had to be reminded to do so many little things. Like making his bed in the mornings, or taking out the garbage on a Tuesday for garbage pickup. Though simple, he had to be reminded and that's when his mom raised her voice. He would try to change for a few days so that she would let him watch his favorite show on Saturday mornings. Even though it was only 30 minutes long, it was a great show of science experiments and the earth as the most awesome planet. It made Damion feel and think like a scientist, and he loved it. He saw himself as being the center of everything – his mother's life, the little house, the world. He was young and free with not a care in the world but to eat, drink, sleep, and use the bathroom.
There were other things Damion owned as part of his responsibilities. He had gone to school most days of his life and had taken on so many important roles in the school. No one had to force him to participate in activities while he was there. He had his friends, his little old buddies travelling and growing with him form kindergarten. He knew them by name; not all of them because some had left as the years went by, but there were others who stayed for the long haul. Damion could tell of something special in every grade since his first day of school. And, since he had only been to one school all his little life, he would repeat the name of the school many times when sharing stories. They were very interesting stories, if you were his age. At ten, he was doing pretty well building a sizeable audience among his classmates. At lunchtime, they laughed loudly and most genuinely bring life to the caferteria. His mom wasn't his age, but she loved to hear him talk. She could listen for hours as Damion entertained her about his day.
Damion's voice was very thin.
Very thin.
When he spoke, he sounded like a little bird singing its favorite tune; or the finest string on his guitar.
He was very entertaining without ever knowing it. And the beauty of it is that no one was telling him. They loved him. All people in his world. His little world.
A part from inadvertent entertainment, Damion had other responsibilities.
"Damion is a natural leader".
That's the comment that his fourth grade teacher engraved in a page of the school's yearbook the previous year. Damion loved it so much that he cut it out and placed it on the wall of his living room closet to the front door of his house. He wanted it to remind himself of who he was and who he should be each day as he walked out of the house for school. His mom didn't want any paper pasting on the wall of the living room, but when she saw the words, she told him he could leave it up there.
"You're a natural leader, Damion. You only need to wake up early and prepare for school without me having to wake you up" His mom usually reminded him when he wanted to do nothing else but sleep in.
In his school, Damion had a job as class monitor and he was a part of the peer-mentoring team. He loved the class-monitor job because he could have his fill of talking. He loved talking and the students would do what he was telling them. It wasn't a lot of work; just to hand out supplies and materials during class and going to the office when there was a need for it. In the mornings, he also gave directions to students while standing in the hall of the school. Damion used to behave like a police officer or a traffic director in the hall. He was good at his job.
He was not disruptive or disrespectful like a few of his classmates who would talk back to the teacher or would use some inappropriate words to describe each other. They even used those words to describe their teacher. Of course, he would get in trouble, and that was not good for him. It would cause him a total breakdown.
Lucky enough, this didn't happen often; but when it did, there were sirens going off in his head, hundreds of them! Like this one time, his mom came home and he was playing his guitar and singing all evening after forgetting to do the dishes, which were not many; and to get the little bag of garbage from the bin under the sink in the kitchen, tie it and bring to the big, blue garbage bin in the narrow passage next to their house. Who could possibly forget that? He almost had a fit when his mom opened the front door. He sprang to his feet like a leopard going after it prey as he headed towards the kitchen. The strings from the guitar had the last vibrations of the tune from his fingers and the room had the disappearing residuals of his tiny voice. He convinced himself that his mom had not heard anything, that he was always in the kitchen completing his tasks.
"She didn't hear anything. She didn't ...
I was always in here. Always standing right here, by the sink ...
I didn't forget. I would never forget ...
I am responsible. I am responsible ..."
Damion went on and on in his mind. He tried so hard sometimes that he actually believed he did nothing wrong.
The chores were little tasks that mothers usually left for their young responsible kids. In moments like this one, Damion's mom would walk in using a quiet voice – like the one she always used when he forgot to do something. She was not too strict though; and he realized what she was doing. She wanted him to take responsibility for his actions by just talking to him in a calm, searching, parental voice; a voice that caused him to think of himself as the next man in the house.
Damion thought his mom was weird because she would use words like "little man" and "little trooper" when she was talking to him. He noticed she didn't really use his "real name" a lot. Not even when she was in public – in the car-rider line at school, at the grocery store, or beckoning him to stay by her side while at the mall looking at his favorite bikes through the window of the "Little Kids Rock" kids' store. She never used his name.
"Come on little man! Keep up! Mommy is depending on you"! His mom announced.
It seemed like they were most times in a hurry to get to wherever they were going. Damion didn't like that. He wanted to stay, especially at the "Little Kids Rock" store. That was his little sanctuary. His mom, however, didn't want him to get comfortable there because it was hard to get him out and to get him home. She didn't want him to settle in and started liking his environment too much. It was even harder to get him to follow her slavishly to complete what she wanted to do.
"I am your only son, mom; your only one. I want you to come with me in 'Little Kids Rock', please!" Damion begged.
Nevertheless, his mom wouldn't even give in to his little innocent voice. Sometimes he even begged harder, like a persistent bee,
"Pleeaaassseeeeeeeeeeeee"!
"Come on, little man; we have much to get done! Let's go"!
The idea of Damion being a "little man" was not far from his mind. For him, he was a busy little person with his own life and responsibilities; his many tasks that he was completing each day – from school assignments and projects to playing piano, guitar and walking his dog, Tracker. Tracker earned the name because he was very good at tracking and catching objects and returning them to people. He was a good catcher and an excellent companion to Damion. Damion and Tracker would just talk like two grown people who were best friends to and from the park each afternoon when it wasn't raining. While in deep conversation, Damion would respond to his own questions as if he could hear what Tracker was thinking but could voice it, so he had to do it for him. Tracker had this weird look, at times, maybe trying to get Damion to stop taking over the entire conversation.
But, "what does a dog know about talking and keeping up with conversations?" Damion thought. "Maybe he should just listen".
So, he had to keep on going.
Damion treated his toys the same way, as if they were people. He talked to them and played with them. It was normal for him, in his world.
The park was about a half a mile from his house, but the many buildings and streets made it look closer. When it rained, Damion and Tracker would stay home and play catch in the little living room.
Damion's mom didn't like them playing catch in the house, but she said very little about it. All she would mutter was, "Watch out for my vases, they're really expensive." The vases were in the four corners of the room, tucked away from the tumbling of Tracker's body and the wrangling of his jaws trying to catch and return the ball to his master – Master Damion. They were both too excited to be thinking about vases, but when his mom mentioned them, all he could think about were the vases. The reality is they were not too expensive. In fact, Damion was there, in person, at the Dollar Store on the corner of their street, about three blocks from their house when his mom bought them.
His mom may have been really weird then, he thought, because she must have remembered him being there when she bought the vases. She must have been joking when she said "Watch out for my vases, they're really expensive;" but there was no smile on her face; not even her seldom sarcastic grin when she tried to be somewhat cool with him. She wasn't serious either. She just gave him a point for responsible action and just walked away. She wanted to teach him responsibility; to give him something to take care of, even while he was playing and Tracker couldn't do that.
Life was good at school and at home, though he never saw a dad, grandparents or too much of an extended family. His world was small and beautiful, and he loved it. This was what he would tell his mom before or after she kissed him goodnight each night. He never thought that anything could change; that his life and world could change; and so it did. The change was inevitable.
