| Skin on skin
For an hour, no one in our circle of ten spoke. Kokomon's hands kept moving, weaving in and out of different rhythms, leading us in the weekly Mindful Drumming session. Sometimes our fingers beat the skin of the handmade drums at a feverish pace; sometimes our palms just brushed the surfaces. We were a motley bunch--Latino construction workers seated alongside white and Asian American professionals, gay men jamming with straight women--but we were all keeping time together. This was my first taste of the AHC's programming. Much of the power of the center's curriculum comes from the experience of the activities since, as one participant explained, they don't aim at the head so much as the gut. So I wanted to make sure I'd taken part in at least one activity. I was hesitant at first--mostly because I hadn't ever participated in a drumming circle. But it turned out to be surprisingly easy--or perhaps surprisingly welcoming. There was a clarity to my thoughts as my hands drummed away. The action seemed to work out any nervousness or fatigue. I worried that my drumming sounded different from everyone else's, but I came to appreciate that this was as it should be. Every set of hands produced a different sound; but we could be one orchestra, sharing one score. I noticed how individual each one of our hands were, yet they were made out of the same gristle and bone and had the same purpose. Hands make and remake constantly, in this way telling others that we exist. Wherever we had come from, whatever our story was, in this room, this evening, there was the fact of skin on skin. I admit I had been skeptical about how much could be accomplished by sitting around a room beating on animal hide. But then I saw for myself the powerful effect that participating in a common activity and creating something collectively could have on people. After the drumming had ended, we sat in our circle and talked. People very openly shared how their weeks had gone. No one rolled their eyes, but listened with sincerity and patience. An hour of nonverbal expression had suddenly made the mouth and language seem like miraculous things. Nothing shifted cataclysmically that night, but it seemed very possible that, if people kept coming, longtime frustrations could be vented, priorities reoriented, and habits changed. It seemed very possible that the Clotteys' vision could come true. I felt much calmer leaving their house than when I had walked in. And stepping outside, I noticed the streets were also calm. A feeling of warmth and goodwill was palpable in the air. In the distance, cars whizzed by on the freeways. Had their drivers stopped for a second to look toward West Oakland, they'd have seen that one street corner, 33rd and West, shone particularly bright. React > Building a better Oakland, one popsicle stick at a time Skin on skin |