Racism and Prejudice Social Problems Solved with Compassion, Charity, Kindness, and Art
“It’s the perfect mix,” she said and sang, and I harmonized according to her desires. The fact that her voice sounded like a screaming animal didn’t seem to deter her a bit; she simply continued to yowl. I yowled along with her, a cat joining a dog in chorus.
When we finished, I tactfully inserted my concerns into the conversation, “Don’t you think it’s a little. . .Oh, I don’t know,” I paused, pretending to search for the words I had already pondered, “Maybe it’s so advanced that today’s people wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“It’s 1968!” Rachel cried.
“Of course, I know that, but – “
“Free love, Amy. I love music, and I’m expressing my emotions through the notes. How can anyone criticize that?”
How could I explain it to her? Rachel’s music was like beatnik poetry. It was a flood of emotion with no talent to express it. Once again I attempted to offer my harsh opinion, dressed in the subtle guise of friendly advice, “Well, maybe if you just made your message a bit more clear – “
Rachel, notorious for interrupting when caught in the flow of a river of passion, pushed my comment aside, “Anyone too dense to understand isn’t meant to. The vibe of the music says it all, you just have to understand the language of the heart.”
It was rather insulting. Just because I didn’t bathe in the Nile of all raging passion didn’t mean I was a stone. I swallowed and vomited words, “Rachel, not even a hippie could appreciate it. It’s like the scream of a woman in labor!”
“Then it’s the cry someone makes when they bring life into the world,” she stated and turned away. Apparently my opinion meant nil. So I sighed and ate the foul taste left in my mouth. She’d learn the hard way that people reject what they don’t like; her emotions, as beautiful and sincere as they may be, would never be heard if they sounded like her music.
A few weeks later that foul taste rose again when I discovered Rachel’s signature on a list of people that were to perform in the yearly talent show in our town: “On April 2, 1968 Rachel Montgomery shows off her talent as a musician and a vocalist in the First Baptist College of Mississippi auditorium. She dedicates this performance to the true believers of the magic of music,” read the pamphlet that rested upon each chair of the theater.
I sighed and sank into my seat, preparing myself, for I knew I would share her humiliation. Life had other plans, though. A sudden commotion brought me to my feet. It seemed that a mixed couple had attempted to enter to enjoy the program. A group of protesting audience members were angrily blocking the doors, threatening the couple and their child with irate calls of, “This is a church. Perversion is not permitted,” and, worse, “Burn in hell, you twisted little demon!” The little boy was crying as the parents, dejected, comforted him and turned to go.
The woman sitting next to me learned closer and muttered, “Some nerve they have, bringing their unholy union into this church.” She then closed her eyes and began to pray.
The crowd buzzed for long minutes until, finally, the curtain rose. After a number of interesting acts, which completely terminated Rachel’s chance of seeming good by comparison, my apprehension was beginning to grow. I felt the dread choke me – I wish it had blinded and deafened me as well – as the name “Rachel Montgomery” was announced over the speaker, followed by the description of her act. If it had stopped at the description, her act may have seemed good.
But it didn’t, and she began to sing her twisted melody. Harmonizing with her was some dolt she had picked up a few days before. Of course, they sounded terrible together. The audience appeared pleasantly unscornful until a feisty teenage boy stood up and shouted a humiliating phrase. Rachel’s face pinkened, but she bravely continued her song. Somewhere, in the corner of my eye, I saw three multicolored faces peering in the church’s window. It was the family from before. They were frowning – for Rachel’s shame or for their own, I wondered.
All at once the crowd rose again, with such enraged intensity that I thought they had seen the family taking a peek at the show. For a moment, I hoped. Maybe the riot would push the memory of Rachel’s performance from their minds. No, that wasn’t the central ideal of their mob this time. This time they were rising to mock Rachel. I saw the faint trace of tears on her face, glistening in the stage lights. I tried to understand what it must feel like to be so completely rejected by people you believed would understand your love.
Rachel finished her song and left the stage, retaining her dignity until made it backstage where she met me and finally allowed herself to cry. I couldn’t comprehend her agony. I could only hold her.
“You told me. . .I should have listened,” she said when at last she spoke.
“Shh,” I murmured. What else could I say?
“I’m too stupid to realize my own stupidity. It really was an awful song,” she stopped and stared straight ahead, perhaps watching the corpse of her dreams dangle in the air before her. “How can I ever touch anyone?”
“You finished it at least. It was really brave.” I had no other consolation to offer. Sensing this, she stood. “Why don’t we go home?” I stood beside her and took her hand to lead her.
“Yes,” she softly said.
As we exited the tall, wooden doors I heard a familiar tune playing faintly on the wind. At first I shook my head, trying to shatter the memory of that haunting song. Still, the music whined. It was then that I realized it wasn’t my memory at all, but an actual person humming those twisted notes. I turned towards the sound. In the distance I saw a little mixed boy, humming Rachel’s melody.
