I usually refrain from using personal stories for blog posts, however I don’t think I can pass up mentioning this. Recently I joined an intercultural communications class, because I really enjoy the professor who teaches it. One assignment we have is to attend a cultural event that falls outside of our typical experience. Because it’s February I picked a Black Heritage event, which just so happened to be the Jazz and Poetry Festival.
Although I initially sat in the back of the room, I moved to a table closer to the stage before the concert started, so I could take notes easier. The event began with the host introducing herself, some banter between crowd members, and then the first entertainer took the stage. After about an hour of some great music and spoken word performances the host announced there were only two songs left, and she would be singing the second to last of these, “The Way” by Jill Scott.
Now, I need to mention the fact that during this entire concert I was one of only a few white people there, and I also had this bizarre feeling that something weird was going to happen. It was pretty much a guarantee someone would point me out as being one of the only white guys, I’d trip in front of everyone, or I’d somehow embarrass myself in another creative way. I had no idea what to expect; I just had to wait and see.
Well, during that second to last song the host came down and handed the microphone off to a singer who had sat in front of me. After he finished singing the chorus the host proceeded to walk towards me. She stood nearly on top of me as she sang “is it the way you love me baby?” I acted flustered towards her advances as she serenaded me, but then she handed me the mic. My first thought was “Okay, I am way too white for this”, so I told her “I’ll leave it up the professionals”. She handed me the microphone back. I then proceeded to not leave it up to the professionals.
I sang the chorus under her lead a few times, and it was pretty much what you’d think: embarrassing and really white. I got a good response front the crowd, but Lord knows my calm had been damaged. Later the host thanked me for going along with her, and another gentleman told me I did a good job. It was pretty much the craziest thing that has ever happened to me at a Black Heritage Jazz Concert. Of course the second craziest thing would be that somewhere the video of said duo is out there on someone’s camera, just waiting to be turned into either promotional material for breaking down cross-culture barriers, or to be held over my head for the rest of my life.
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