Soul, Baby
(or, how Rocamora helped save my ass on a Monday night)
by Talia Paul

"Monday is black night," said Myron. "strictly R&B. But we're gonna try out new things." "Like a white chick folk singer?" I retort. "Yeah," he grins, then adds "Just bring some of your people, y'know..."

I arrive at bar F2, a classy venue above Farfalla's restaurant on LaBrea. Marvin Gaye spills softly out of the house speakers. As I set up the stage, the tables begin to fill with the regular R&B crowd. I unzip my gig bag and blow the sleep out of my harmonica. I hear clinking glasses and laughter, the sounds of a room hungry for the blues.

I have, in my otherwise country/folk repertoire, two blues songs. The four gangsta-rappers at the second table wear identical dark shades and expression, the one that'd be in your high school psychology textbook next to the word "nonplussed". I tune my guitar, I force my face to smile.

If I die, it will be of shame.

"Who does she think she is, singin' the blues?"

I want to evaporate. The separation I feel is intense, canyon-like. The more I try to be "cool", the more the shame deepens. I was raised to be "color-blind", yet I am conscious of being the token white person in the room. In our home, derogatory words were forbidden. In my efforts to be politically correct, I have even censored my thoughts. Being PC has made me too careful, the feeling of separation intensifies.

Being true to what I know I should feel, denying the prejudices that need to be acknowledged in order to be healed. The same prejudices get turned inward. These are the places, the blind spots, where I cannot love myself. There are traces of judgement, of fear, that keep me out of the loop. A single grain of prejudice will fester in the dark. I blush to my roots. The truth is, I don't love myself unconditionally all the time, and I am not colorblind. I am ashamed and I don't belong.

I want to belong. What I don't realize yet is that I am keeping myself out of the circle of love.

Come back to this moment. It's just like any other show. As I read the room, I see classy urbanites feelin' good, looking good, looking for some funky R&B. I decide to start with something upbeat. Unfortuntely, I involuntarily launch into a dark song about midwestern farmers during a drought.

I am caught in a debilitating vise of shame. I finish the song to a scattering of polite applause, and the conversations resume.

I may die here.

I am going to have to let myself be present; to face the unknown. The way out of this shame is through. Through the love. I recall my friend Shamala's words, "Let the love circulate around in you first." If I can only relax my body and peek around the edge of shame to see what might be here in this room, without the imposition of my story. To "...let awareness peek around the corner of pattern to see what this moment is really about" (Mary Rocamora), one of the invaluable tools I've received from my years at the Rocamora school. I try to peek. No, I'll die.

This is very painful, this clenching down and trying to hide while in the spotlight. I probably will die, but before I do, I am going to tell the truth as I know it. I am going to unfold myself before them, "... for where I am folded, there I am a lie..." (rainer maria rilke)

I've got a brand-new blues song, and I'm scared to death to try it out here. In this crowd, I feel blues-challenged. (Naturally, everyone else in the room must have perfect rhythm and God-given SOUL!) Will they laugh me off the stage? The room is smoky and hot. Etta James, help me now. The vibe is sexy. I feel about as sexy as a single-cell amoeba.

I take a deep breath and begin the blues. The conversation slows, then stops. A moment of silence in the audience. This is it. I am slain.

Then I hear a soft "mm-hmm," a gentle clap, joined by others. A voice shouts "You GO!" as arms are raised, swaying. Glasses are held in mid-air, smiles broaden. Currents of love sweep and crackle around the room like an electrical storm. In an instant, the entire room coalesces, and I relax. It is the feeling of separation ended. They have seen my weakest center, and they are pouring love back to me. No longer am I a clenched muscle of self, now I am porous, led by the music. As Mary says, "Living the love."

The room is jivin' with rhythm. Separation diminishes, then vanishes. I sing freely. With such an intense family of support, I venture further and further out into the unknown. Unreachable notes bend down to my tongue, I lose my self. The room reverberates with clapping, whooping, and singing. We are, together, creating the blues.

Later I sit down at the gangsta-rapper table. The baddest most menacing one quietly pulls off his shades. "You got SOUL, baby!"

He cracks a shy smile, revealing his gold, and leans in, "Hey, I've written a movie which I hope will inspire young people to stay off drugs. Do you know of any good places to have a premiere?"

~~~~~~

Talia Paul is a singer/songwriter, and graduate of the Personal Journey course.